can think is fuck. How did that moment just disappear? How could we have got so close, and yet nothing happened? I know it wasn’t just in my imagination; I know he was feeling it too.
How do I get it back?
“I think I’m going to go for a walk. I might go to town,” he says, stepping out of the kitchen. I wait for him to ask me to come too, but he doesn’t, and I realize this moment was probably overwhelming for him. It was overwhelming for me. When Jason is overwhelmed, he needs space, needs time on his own, and the absolute worst thing I could do right now is invite myself along.
Which I wouldn’t do anyway.
Not unless I was completely desperate.
Which I’m not.
“Have fun,” I say, pretending I am not standing here with my entire body on fire, pretending that lust and anticipation and disappointment aren’t fighting a huge battle inside my body, that the disappointment is winning, is so great that I feel a lump in my throat and I am worried I may burst into tears.
Don’t be silly, I tell myself, after I give the girls the popcorn and finish the cleaning up in the kitchen. That moment was real. Jason needs to figure it out. You didn’t imagine it. It’s all good.
And then: If it’s supposed to be, it will be. I have to let go. I can’t force anything to happen, nor can I be upset that it didn’t. If we are supposed to be together, we will be, and if I have learned anything from my time in program, it is that I have to let go and let God; that if it is God’s will, it will happen.
I say a prayer, fold the dish towel and hang it on the hook, then kiss Annie good night and go upstairs to bed.
* * *
I don’t sleep.
I can’t sleep.
An hour goes by, then two. Where is Jason? A walk isn’t two hours. I go downstairs, pretending I need water, then that I am checking on the girls, and still there is no sign of Jason. I open his bedroom door and leave it ajar so I can walk past and check.
No Jason.
Where is he?
I start to worry.
I never used to be a worrier, until I had Annie. That first year I spent all my time terrified something terrible would happen to her. If I left her with a babysitter and the babysitter didn’t pick up her phone, I would have to go back home, to reassure myself that the babysitter wasn’t lying unconscious on the floor of the nursery with no one to look after Annie.
If Jason was later than expected, if a meeting ran on, or he told me he’d be home by seven and it was 8:30, I would phone his cell over and over; each time it went to the machine I would literally be picturing his car smashed up on Baker Street, police and ambulance racing to the scene, where they would find my poor, mangled husband.
It was very bad for a while, my catastrophizing, constantly waiting for the worst thing to happen, and then it seemed to go away. What is the worst thing I can imagine happening now? My daughter being involved in a scooter accident is right up there, yet it happened, I didn’t go to pieces, and we all coped.
Which should give me a measure of relief, but I feel the familiar panic rise up as time ticks slowly on and there is no sign of Jason. Where is he and what has happened?
Eventually, close to midnight, I text him. I keep it light. I don’t want him to know I am panicking about him, reverting to old behavior that used to drive him nuts.
u ok? I type.
There is no response.
Jason? Just wanted to check you’re ok.
No response.
JASON? PLEASE RESPOND
Nothing.
* * *
Fuck.
Sam is out. The girls are asleep on the sofa, piled together like puppies. My adrenaline is pumping and my heart is beating fast. There is absolutely no way I’m going to sleep. Even though I haven’t heard sirens, that’s all I can think about.
I have to go and look for Jason.
I know it’s crazy, but, as he always used to point out, rational thought tended to go out the window once I had got myself into a state of full catastrophizing.
I pull on jeans and a T-shirt, go outside, and stop, cursing. He took the car. Shit. I’ll have to cycle, which I