It is November. I’m returning home from San Antonio after the annual National Council of Teachers of English conference and the following Assembly on Adolescent Literature workshop, where I spoke on the subject of Intellectual Freedom in teen fiction. Since the conference included a weekend and Mike had choir duties, I went on my own.
My plane lands in Sacramento late Tuesday night, and I make my way down to baggage claim, where Mike usually meets me and helps carry things to the car. When he isn’t there, I assume he’s decided to pick me up at the curb rather than bother to park. I get my bag from the carousel and schlep that, along with my oversized purse and computer bag with presentation materials, out front where I watch every gold Honda come around the curve, hoping it is ours. After 20 minutes or so I call Mike’s cell phone but as is often the case, it isn’t turned on. I call our home phone. Mike answers, sleepily.
“Are you in bed?” I ask.
“Yes. I was tired.”
“I’m waiting for you at the airport.”
“I thought you were getting in tomorrow night.”
“No, hon. I’m here now.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
“I’m at the curb, outside Southwest baggage claim doors.”
It is indicative of my growing acceptance that Mike can’t keep dates straight that I didn’t bother to point out to him that my itinerary had been front and center on the refrigerator, with another printed copy on his desk, and also in his email file, and that I’d called him from the airport just that morning, before I left San Antonio. It was also indicative of my changed expectations that I’m not angry, just very, very sad.
Mike arrives about a half hour later and puts my bags in the trunk without a word. On the way home he complains of how tired he is. I try to give him a few highlights of the conference, but he can only turn the “conversation” back to being tired. Once home he deposits my suitcase in the utility room and goes upstairs, again without a word. A very different welcoming than those of just a few years ago, when, after carrying my bags upstairs, he would pour champagne, set out brie and crackers, maybe a few bunches of grapes, and we would talk long into the night of what had gone on with him in my absence, and of the details of my experiences away.
Although I seldom watched TV, I did that night, knowing I was too stirred up for sleep to come soon. Sunny curled up beside me on the couch, with her head resting on my thigh. I found an old Carol Burnett show and was soon laughing at the antics of Tim Conway. After an hour or so, Sunny and I went upstairs to bed. Within moments, Mike snuggled close against my back. “Love you big time,” he muttered sleepily. It was sweet, but it didn’t mean as much as it once had.