
I lie sandwiched between my young children, attempting to sleep, yet waiting.

The other day, my counselor spoke to me about the importance of being a soft place for my husband to land. “You are both suffering,” she reminded me. Soon, he’ll come through the front door, and I’ll do my best to be soft. 

I toss and turn, each way getting a glimpse of my sleeping babies, who both wanted their fair share of momma snuggles tonight. We often sleep like this when my husband is on a work trip. All three of us feel more at ease knowing the others are close.

The sound of the door slipping open tightens my stomach and closes my heart. I breathe. Soft, I remind myself. I had texted my husband that I’d be asleep when he gets home, but since I’m awake now, and have vowed to set aside pride and to try with every fiber of my being, I get up and go to greet him.

“Welcome back,” I say, when I come into his view. He is sitting at his computer already. More work. He just got home and is already turning his attention to work. I try to put that judgment out of my mind. Soft. “Is there anything I can get you?”

He keeps his eyes on his computer screen.

Just an hour ago, he was in the clouds, leaving the fall colors of Kotzebue behind him. Kotzebue, Alaska: my place of birth. It was his first time visiting the village. The last time I’d been there, I was four. I often find myself wishing to return and connect with the beginnings of my life. A yearning to better understand myself and where I come from. 

Kotzebue is in the rural reaches of Alaska, located above the Arctic Circle. Like most of the state, it’s only accessible by airplane. Visiting takes planning and resources. Intentionality. Care. Which is why when my husband called a couple days ago — his feet standing on the land that held my first breath — to confess he’d been on a date with an old friend, it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. My head spun. Time became disorienting. 

Tonight, with his brusque answer of “No thanks, I’m good,” I float and fumble back to our bed, letting gravity tend to my need for connection. I focus my yearning on the white noise machines of constant relaxed breaths on either side of me, and pray that my 11-year marriage isn’t ending. How could it be? That’s not how our story was supposed to go. 

An unsettling noise arises from outside. A scratch in the record of the lullaby that is my daughters’ breathing. Maybe it was just a whistle of air through my youngest’s nose? Because I don’t hear it anymore. My oldest purrs exhalations at me.

But there it is again.

We live in a duplex that backs up to a row of houses, with a busy street just beyond them. Sometimes we can get traffic sounds or voices from other windows. Usually, though, with the way the hill sits, it’s pretty quiet. I listen more intently.

“HELP!”

My reflexes lurch me into a seated position, and I toss the blankets off, jump to my feet and stalk toward the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. The sound was clear that time. Where is it coming from? I quiet my racing and broken heart as it limps along, and I concentrate.

“HELP!”

Turning away from the plea, I run to the living room to get my husband. In a panic, I beg him to come and see if he can figure out who is crying for help. We hurry back to the bedroom and lift the blinds, exposing our tenderness to the outside world but not each other. I slide the glass door open and listen again. He’ll be able to help, I tell myself. We are both listening and trying. 

When the sound happens again, it’s the same voice, but more obviously, now, the yowl of a feral cat. I sigh relief and embarrassment, and melt toward my husband. “I thought someone was calling for help,” I say, “I was really concerned.” He holds me for the first time in probably a month. Even more startlingly, I let him. “I thought … help. I. There was someone, I thought. They needed help … I figured you could help.”

Before he had departed for Kotzebue, he had blindsided me with the idea of divorce. I knew, then, that we’d have to put forth significant effort to heal whatever was happening between us, but I still had naïve hopes. I didn’t yet know all the details that I would later come to discover. I wasn’t yet finding my body physically sick in response to messages I found on his phone. He hadn’t yet called from my birthplace to speed our relationship toward its death. 

We stand with each other in the dark now. He says goodnight. I catch my breath. He lets go.


Intimate

Where We Land