This Is Where I Leave You

be a father, I’m going to be a father, I’m going to be a father ... I should be happy, should be thrilled, should be seeing the miracle in all of this, the silver lining, should be passing out cigars, should be hugging and kissing and thinking of names, but instead, thanks to my whore of a wife, the moment is marred by complication and despair and that’s not fair to my child and it’s not fair to me, and as soon as the kid is old enough, I’m going to sit him down and explain to him that none of this was my fault, that she did it to both of us. And while I’m thinking all of that, another part of my brain is simultaneously thinking that Jen looks so damn beautiful right now, and she wore that little blue dress, and she knows how she looks in that dress, and I can’t believe that she’s not mine to touch anymore, because all I want to do is lift that dress up over her hips, slide into her, and stay in there until things change back, until we can once again be the family we were supposed to be.
    And even as I’m thinking about her taste and her smell and her skin, I’m trying to figure Jen out, trying to glean if maybe she thinks this baby is a reason to rethink things, to maybe get rid of Wade and ask me to come back, and she’s maybe here trying to get a read on me, to see how receptive I might be to that proposition. We lost something vital in our marriage after we lost the baby, after it became known that the odds of another pregnancy were long, and now here we are, expecting, but the damage cannot be undone. Wade cannot be unfucked, and neither, it seems, can we.
    That is a quick distillation of the myriad random thoughts flashing through my mind, but all I say is, “I wish this had happened before ...before you and Wade.” Which I think is a pretty fair summation. Without moving a muscle, Jen starts to silently cry, like those statues of the Virgin Mary that are always turning up in South American villages. “I know,” she says, her voice low and trembling. “I do too.”
    I look at Jen. Jen looks at me. It’s an electric moment, and later on I will wonder if that moment was a last chance blown by two people too tied up in their uncertainty and resentment to seize it. But as it happens, Tracy has picked this moment to step out into the yard, in leggings and a tank top, with a yoga mat slung over her shoulder. Her hair is back in a youthful ponytail, and maybe I’m reading into this, but it seems to me that, after seeing Phillip’s ex-girlfriends last night, she is trying to look particularly youthful. “Hey, guys,” she calls to us, all carefree and breezy, walking over to extend her hand to Jen. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Tracy.”
    “Jen,” Jen says, shaking her hand.
    “Don’t mind me,” Tracy says, scoping out a flat patch of yard and tossing down her mat. Then she bends over and starts to stretch.
    “And who, exactly, is that?” Jen says.
    “That’s Tracy.”
    “So she says. Quite the firm grip, too.”
    “She’s with Phillip.”
    “Oh. I won’t get too attached, then.”
    “Don’t do that.”
    “What?”
    “Make fun of my family like you’re still a part of it.”
    Jen looks stung. It’s a good look for her. “Fair enough.”
    We stand there watching Tracy’s rising ass as she descends into her Downward-Facing Dog, out of things to say. We are going to be parents. I’m going to be a father. I wonder if Wade will be in the delivery room, holding her hand while I sit off to the side like a spectator, waiting for my child to emerge from the spread legs that got us into this mess in the first place.
    Phillip comes ambling out a moment later, in gym shorts and a tank top. “Namaste,” he says to us with a wink and a little bow.
    “Hey, Phillip,” Jen says.
    “Jen.” Phillip considers her as he unrolls his yoga mat next to Tracy’s.
    “I always suspected there might be something of the heartless slut in you.”
    “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
    Phillip nods and goes into a loose approximation of Tracy’s pose.
    “True that. But know this, my profoundly disappointing sister-in-law. Your looks may be a matter of public record, but let’s face it, your hottest years are behind you. As soon as we wrap this shiva, I am going to personally see to it that my brother here gets laid on a nightly basis by women ten years younger than you, ripe young honeys who will make him eternally grateful that you trashed your marriage.”
    Before Jen