“What’s up with you?” he says as he drives out of the parking lot, too fast, and into the slip lane.
I stare out the window. Where would I even start in answering a question like that?
“I asked you what’s wrong,” he repeats, his voice firmer this time.
He misses the turnoff to our suburb.
I look at him now. “Where are we going?”
“For a drive. We need to talk.”
We need to talk.Such frightening words, usually. But so truein this case. And here is the opportunity I’m looking for to raise the topic I’ve avoided for far too many years.
He drives toward the freeway. It’s not in the direction of home. I piece together the route we’re taking and it looks like we’re heading out of the city. We can’t go away. I don’t even have a bag packed. I glance into the back seat to see if he’s thrown some clothes together for me, but it’s pristine and empty.
“I agree we need to talk,” I say, “but can’t we go home?”
“I feel like driving.”
It’s always whatever he feels like doing. I’m never included in decisions like this. It’s all so different from when we first got together and he put me center stage and did anything I wanted.
“Are you happy, Oliver?” I venture. I know it’s dangerous, and that’s confirmed when his fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
“What an odd question.”
“I mean arewehappy?”
His foot pushes the accelerator and I grip the sides of my seat. “Areyouhappy, Evie?”
How do you tell your husband you are miserable and it’s his fault and you want out? Any time in the past when we’ve skated close to the topic of how we’re doing, I’ve backed away. I’ve never been able to say these words, because I’ve always been so scared of the ramifications if I did. But suddenly, today, maybe because of the reminder of Drew, I’m more scared ofnotsaying this. More scared of the status quo than of worsening consequences. My life, if I stay with him, is over anyway.
A long silence later, and he’s heading for the Illawarra escarpment. Are we driving to Wollongong? Maybe he’s taking me to Kiama or something. I’m increasingly nervous andcertainly not going to continue this conversation while we’re on this particular road. Macquarie Pass has always made me uneasy. Just a feeling I’ve always had on that mountain, ever since I was a kid. We’d go on coach trips for school excursions and I’d be terrified as the bus clung to the crumbling pavement, the ravine falling away to the side, fear stopping me from taking in the spectacular view of lush forest, sweeping into the valley, toward the ocean.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he says at last. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard now the whites of his knuckles are gleaming.
“Can we talk about this when we get there?” I beg him.
He looks at me, and I wish he’d look back at the road. It’s treacherous.
“It should be a simple yes or no, Evie. You’re either happy or you’re not. I’ve given you everything you ever wanted.”
Does he know me at all?
“All I wanted was to prove myself academically and get a job and make a difference. And I’ve lost that.”
“Because you’re mentally unwell.”
He thinks he’s been loving and generous to let me step back while he took care of things. I thought he was, too, at the time. But wasn’t it just another way to keep me needing him? The more anxious I became, the more he seemed to enjoy taking care of me. My anxiety fed his need to be the one I depended on.
“Remember when we met?” he says. “You adored me.”
“You flooded me with attention. You helped Bree.”
“How?”
“Don’t you remember? You got that horrible website taken down.”
He laughs. “God, Evie, you’ve always been so gullible.”
