Del began a very strict diet consisting of only organic foods, making sure to balance her proteins, carbs, and fats with each meal. We took to taking long walks down the beach after work, Del insisting each night that we needed more exercise and that it was great for the baby, me grumbling beneath my breath that I got plenty of exercise casting and hauling in lobster traps all day, but always acquiescing to her suggestions.
There was a cove that we loved to walk to barely a half-mile from our house that bordered state land. It was shaped like a wide U with high croppings of rock rising on either side, flanked by a sickle of beach sand that had grown fine as sugar over the years. To the locals it was well known but not overly visited. Many nights we would climb the small trail leading over the northern mound of rock and sit for an hour or more on the beach, our feet and toes pressed into the sand. The water would be alive with the last day’s light, the waves gentle and lit with golds and reds that reminded me of Del’s flower garden. Our favorite pastime was to expound on what our child would become when grown, each guess becoming more elaborate and unique until we were telling each other complex fantasies that nearly always drew laughter from one of us. We would trek back to the house in the near dark, the surf gathering enough light for us to make our way home, if the moon or stars shone at all. Then, of course, there was the planning of the baby’s room, which I was converting from the former guestroom beside our own. Del would stand in the doorway and watch me work when she felt too tired or sick to help, her stomach seeming to grow each day, the tautness in her shirts more pronounced along with the clothing expenses that came with new maternity wear.
The first sign that anything was wrong was when she quit packing me lunches and snacks on her days off. Normally I rose an hour or more before she did and gathered something reasonable into my lunch bag before brewing a thermos of coffee and heading out the door. But on days she was off from the university she would get up with me, either cooking me something or piecing together a meal from leftovers. I didn’t notice her sleeping in at first, but as the weeks passed it became apparent that some days she wasn’t asleep but made no effort to get up with me. I didn’t question it, as I’d told her many times she didn’t need to wait on me, especially now that she was pregnant. But with each morning that I climbed from bed, her soft form facing away from me, I felt a slight but unquestionable rift that was left unsaid. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get up, it was that she didn’t want to. As I drove to the harbor on these days, I imagined her rising the moment she heard my truck leave the yard, going to the kitchen to make her own low-fat breakfast in the silence of our house. Our lovemaking had also tapered off to almost nothing. I hadn’t attempted any advances in over two weeks and she hadn’t shown any interest or passion whenever we would kiss goodnight or goodbye. Even then I cut the head off the snake of jealousy each time it reared inside me. It was simply a change, one of many I was sure, that came with pregnancy. I’d heard tales from other friends my age about how their wives had become strangers for nearly nine months and then returned to their usual selves once the baby had been born. Either way, I didn’t blame her and even went so far as to chastise myself about noticing something as trivial as food preparation.
It was on the day before my first promising job interview that the rift seemed to widen between us. I’d applied at a law firm in Portland for a partner’s assistant position weeks before and completely written it off. I got the call on the drive home after having cleaned the boat of the sea’s detritus. They wanted to interview me the next day. Could I come in the morning? Of course. The man on the phone said that the firm had been thoroughly impressed by my answers on the application and that they were looking forward to meeting me.