This Is Where I Leave You

would have given him his space, and then he’d have come back and we’d have bonded again, maybe over his first-ever beer - and who am I kidding, did I really believe he and his friends weren’t scoring beer already from someone’s older brother? But he was a smart kid with a good head on his shoulders and sometimes kids were going to act out, test their boundaries, but I trusted him to make the right decisions, and he knew he could always come to me, and ...Damn. I’m off, just like that.
    My point is that it would be too easy to say that losing the baby is where we went off the rails. People love to do that, to point to some single phenomenon, assign it all the blame, and wipe the slate clean, like when overeaters sue McDonald’s for making them fat pigs. But the truThis always a lot fuzzier, hiding in soft focus on the periphery. When it comes down to it, you’ve either got the sort of marriage that will withstand trauma, or you don’t. Jen and I had still loved each other, maybe not with the same hormonal ferocity that we did back when we’d first started dating, but no one really stays that way, do they? We still enjoyed each other’s company, had enough in common, found each other suitably attractive. We were content enough on a daily basis. But there was no denying that certain colors had faded and levels had fallen, like when a plane loses one engine but still has another three to carry it across the ocean.
    It took a long time for us to finally conceive. Jen had an asymmetrical 144uterus that only the most nimble of sperm could navigate, but we persevered. When Jen finally got an uncontestable blue line on her home pregnancy test, we did a little dance in the bathroom doorway, Jen waving the pee stick above her head like a lighter at a concert. And for a little while there, it was like new life had been breathed into us. We would stay up late into the night, talking about neighborhoods, and schools, and names, and how we wouldn’t let it change us, while deep down hoping to hell that it would, that this would be the thing that filled the hole left by all the other unnamable things we had somehow lost along the way. We started having sex more frequently, hotter, nastier sex than we’d had in some time, especially in the later months, as the growing mound of her belly compelled us to seek out new positions -
    sideways from behind, one hand wrapped greedily around Jen’s pornographically engorged breasts, the other sliding down below the wide orb of her distended belly, where she would squeeze it tightly between her thighs and grind against it. I had become increasingly uncomfortable having missionary sex with her, convinced that with every smack of our bellies I could actually feel the baby.
    “I can’t feel the baby,” Jen said. She had called me at the station, where I was simultaneously screening callers for Wade and looking at pictures of Jessica Biel online.
    “What do you mean?”
    “He always kicks when I’m in the shower. Today he didn’t.”
    “Maybe he’s sleeping.”
    “I don’t feel right. Something’s wrong.” She was in her eighth month, and for the last few weeks her hormones were the inmates running the asylum. I had learned the hard way that it was best to pretty much agree with everything she said.
    “Have you had any coffee? Maybe he just needs a little caffeine?”
    “Just meet me at the doctor. I’m leaving now.”
    I sighed and closed out Jessica Biel, but not before I saw the silent judgment in her eyes.
    I was late getting to the hospital. Late because there were no damn parking spots and how the hell do you build a major hospital and not think to include a single substantial parking lot? So I was a half hour late, on the one day in recorded history that Jen’s doctor’s office decided to run on time. Usually you stewed for an hour in the waiting room, reading parenting magazines and trading quick sympathetic looks with the other expectant fathers, wordlessly affirming that when you weren’t sitting quietly whipped at the ob-gyn, you were out getting drunk at football games and hunting buffalo in a loincloth. But on that day, by the time I’d come in and identified myself and been led back to the examination room by the theatrically gay receptionist, Jen was already in tears, wiping the blue conducting goop from the sonogram off her belly. And as the room started to spin and my lungs started to contract, the doctor explained that our baby had been