Cry Like A Girl

Chapter 2

There are those who watch YouTube videos for sheer entertainment, and then there are those who gobble up the tutorials that teach beginners simple tasks such as how to fillet fish, or make Christmas wreaths out of egg cartons, or rewire a lamp. If Susan had watched one video on how to set the perfect table, she'd watched twenty. She had learned how to fold cloth napkins into swans, and how to garnish a serving platter a food photographer would envy. She had learned how to use candles and lighting to create ambiance and mood. She had even learned the correct type, number, and placement of utensils used for an elegant and formal place setting. Yet somehow, the table in front of her looked nothing like the ones she'd seen in the videos. Sure, it was neat and appealing, but lacked the sophistication she had worked so hard to capture.

Looking down the length of the trestle table, at the meal that took the better part of the day to prepare, frustration set in. Anniversary dinners were supposed to be extraordinary, something she'd never made before, something with a gourmet flair. This year she attempted to outdo herself. She even managed to have fun with it. Pretending to be Paula Deen, she spoke each step of the preparation in front of an imaginary camera, using an imperfect southern accent as she tried to recreate a lamb roast she and Henry had eaten at a Glatfelter dinner a few months back. Henry had raved about it for almost a week afterward and she decided it would make the perfect dinner for their special day. But as she took in the homemade paper frills adorning the crown roast, she had no choice but to concede defeat. In her attempt at perfection, she had fussed with the frills so much that they had become grease-soaked and as limp as the salad. The dinner candles she'd lit minutes before Henry's expected arrival were now little more than nubs of varying lengths jutting from blobs of misshapen wax.

"Nothing like an anniversary dinner for one to make you feel like a total loser," she said aloud.

For the third time in just as many minutes, she glanced at the clock over the door. She then made another mindless trip around the table, running her fingertips over the lace tablecloth, readjusting the chairs by a smidgen, and realigning flatware at each setting. She considered removing the discolored frills, but decided against it. Even stained and drooping, a lamb roast wasn't a lamb roast without them.

If she stared at her failure any longer, she would surely burst into tears.

"Where could he be?" she asked, knowing there was no one to answer her question.

It was after eight, calling his office was futile. A call to his office would go straight to voicemail. If she had to reach Henry after business hours, her only option was his cell phone, which got spotty service in limited areas of the all-steel buildings.

Knowing the odds of reaching him were against her, she dialed anyway. Surprised to hear his voice even before the first ring, she said hello. When she realized it was his voicemail greeting, she waited for the beep and tried to hide her concern as she inquired into his whereabouts. She ended the call feeling more frustrated than she had before she dialed.

In the bathroom, she flipped the light switch up and her eyes went directly to the pregnancy test lying on the vanity. Another monthly reminder she'd bury along with her disappointment. It was bad enough she had to carry the disappointment with her from one month into the next, but why burden Henry with it. Since her periods were never what other women considered normal, she never actually knew when she was late. In her case, pregnancy testing wasn't a realistic necessity as much as it was wishful thinking.

After disposing of it, she washed her hands, fussed with her hair, and reapplied her lipstick before returning to the darkened living room.

This wasn't like Henry. Sure, he'd been working longer hours lately, but those evenings always began with a phone call. She never gave him a hard time about the additional hours, even when she felt his job was beginning to take away too many of the hours that once belonged to her. Henry often told her how much her support meant to him and she reveled in such compliments. There was something comforting in the knowledge that her husband not only loved her, but also appreciated her. In her mind, they were two very different things and one without the other wasn't enough.