Lust In Translation

1

KENDALL

He has said the phrase I love you four times since the day I first laid eyes on him. We’ve been together for two years and married for one. Our relationship resembles more of a rap sheet than anything traditional and sought after. Sorority girl impregnated by fraternity boy. Small town families don’t force nuptials, yet a woman’s mental fragility encourages a marital union. The baby is stillborn on her due date. Depression implants. Marriage remains. Barely.

I’m not even sure what’s left between us. I look at Adam and I’m not sure I know him. Or if I ever knew him the way soulmates are supposed to know each other. One thing is for certain: we are bound by circumstances that no longer exist. He isn’t a bad man. He isn’t particularly good either. He’s not my man. I recognize this isn’t something a newlywed should be thinking, but my depression forces it to the surface. I pick at all the scabs I know you’re supposed to leave alone. They’ll never heal, or when they do they’ll leave deep scars like a tattoo on my soul. Adam will be a scar. A jagged patch of regret and utter devastation.

Through the dark shadows that haunt my soul, I’m still alive enough to wonder who will call it first? Oftentimes, I think it’s on the tip of his tongue, a dying wish of a man suffering in the silence I’ve bestowed upon him. The word divorce, a salve, never comes, though. Words like therapy, counseling, doctors; those words are vivid and forthright. I won’t be the one to call it. I can’t. I’m the one who convinced him that being together for the baby was a good thing, while Adam wanted to wait and see how it played out. Wanted to give the baby her place, and the marriage its own space.

Pregnancy blinded me. I reached out for anything, clawing at stability. A man who would be there for me—a partner. Another human in my atmosphere so I wouldn’t be alone in the parenthood void I’ve watched my friends disappear into. Marriage was the golden ticket—the end all, be all, to my worries. Except it wasn’t. Adam was right. We should have waited. Maybe I would still be pregnant. Maybe losing our baby girl was punishment for making a selfish, stupid decision. For making the same decision my own mother made all those years ago.

She married my dad right out of high school because she was pregnant with me. I was the reason she was stuck in a loveless marriage like a bug wrapped in fly paper. Her horrible mistake was in vain as I survey my current disaster and wonder if I’ll keep us trapped for the rest of our lives. I can live with misery. I deserve to be where I’m at. Adam might not deserve it.

Adam told me he loved me while he drove us to the courthouse to get our marriage license, on our wedding day, the morning after we woke up on honeymoon, and the night I lost our baby. And not one time since. I can’t do anything right, and he refuses to see that. He tells me it’s my grief or depression speaking when I say mean things. I scream that this is me now, and he still doesn’t get it. How could a man possibly understand?

Anger flares as I watch Adam’s shoulders slide up and down—an attempt at working a kink out. He’s been at his computer for six hours straight. I haven’t been able to work, so he’s been working constantly to keep up with our bills.

A wife should walk up, offer to rub his shoulders, and tell him to take a break. Instead, I say a silent prayer that he stays there for the rest of the night so I don’t have to pretend to like him. I don’t have to watch his face as he tries to make small talk. So I can fall asleep in the guest room before he even leaves his office.

With the permanent unease etched in my stomach, I make my way back to the bedroom, crawl into my unmade bed, and open my laptop to look over the email I’ve been rereading for days. It’s a job offer. One I accepted yesterday. The same job I would have died of excitement to have before. I didn’t apply for it the first time I saw the posting because I was pregnant and the position required long hours. Newly married couples should have time to be together. A mother wants to be close to her baby at all times.

Well, I don’t feel like a wife, and I don’t have a baby. Probably won’t ever want to get pregnant again after the torment I’ve endured with the loss of Noel. Her urn of ashes sits on the dresser that holds clothes never worn, and I stare at it longer than I should. I shake off the memory of the night I lost her, and I click open the email attachment. I let my eyes scan the words for the hundredth time. I applied on a whim because I saw the job advertised again, and in a clear moment, thought it might be good for me. For us, and the financial struggles of a one-income home.

It’s a government job at Harbour Point SEAL base in Cape Cod. It’s only a few miles from our home in Falmouth. I will be instructing sailors in linguistics—teaching them new languages. They need a full-time permanent linguist on staff. Their current objective is to implement a Spanish program. My language fluency is impressive and the base wants to keep me on board to help with interpreting foreign intelligence as well. With World War III raging, the demand for linguistic professionals is high.

I’m not worried about my credentials. I know I’m qualified. That’s one facet of myself I’m confident in. The rest of my life is shit, but I know I can do this job well. It’s what convinced me to accept the offer in the first place. That, and I finally feel the need to get out. I have to get out of here. Even if it means dealing with a bunch of salty sailors for hours on end.

Closing my laptop, I stare at the urn. I hear Adam’s desk chair creak and I freeze as his steps fall closer to my door. He pauses in the doorway, glances in, views a woman staring at her dead baby, sighs, and then crosses the hall to the bathroom.

I jump when he slams the door behind him. I’ll tell him when he comes out, I promise myself. When Adam exits a few minutes later, I blurt out, I got a job. My voice sounds strange, robotic. He seems taken aback by my tone, too. I rub my neck. Weird. I, ah, haven’t spoken today. My voice sounds strange.

Adam pauses mid-step and backs up, holding both sides of the doorframe. Clearing his throat, he says, That’s great, Kendall. I’m glad you’re ready.

He doesn’t even ask where, or what I’ll be doing. He only focuses on my depression. I bet it’s what the shrink told him to do. Don’t they know I want to be treated normally? I start Monday. Long hours. Thought you’d want to know.

Of course I want to know, Adam snarls. I…I… his words falter.

I rub my fingers against the cool laptop and let my gaze flick back to the safe place that scares him. It’s at the SEAL Base. Harbour Point, I explain. A job teaching foreign languages. The pay is about twenty grand more than I made at the job after my internship, so you’ll be able to drop some of the extra side projects. A business transaction. That’s what this sounds like. My heart pounds against my chest as I feel Adam’s gaze bore into the side of my face.

He doesn’t dare come into my space, but he leans in a bit more. Even if his brain knows that’s not allowed—I’m not ready, his actions seek physical contact—human touch. I’m really happy for you. I don’t mind the side projects. I hope you know that. I’ll keep this schedule for as long as it takes for you to get— Adam says, voice tripping.

Takes for me to get better? I finish his sentence, meeting his fearful gaze. I quirk one brow, challenging him to lie. I’m better. This is me, better. The sooner you understand, the easier this will be.

He retreats, swinging back out of the room. I know. I’m sorry. I should have worded that differently. I don’t mind working a lot. That’s all I wanted to say. I’m happy you got this job. It’s the one you wanted a while back, right?

My stomach lurches. He remembers this fact. He might actually care about me more than I care about him. I’m not even sure what that means at this point. I ball my fists. It is.

Adam strokes the stubble on his chin as I watch him formulate his next sentence. I used to find him attractive. Maybe I still do. Maybe some goddamn perspective away from my mental prison will fix more than just our finances. Maybe it will fix our marriage. He slides one hand into his pocket and rubs his lips together. Doesn’t your stepdad have some friends at that base? he asks.

I smile, and the awkwardness of the movement forces me to grimace a second later. Great, I’ve forgotten how to smile. I wouldn’t exactly call them friends, but yeah, Aidan knows some of the SEALs over there. Old memories rise to the surface, issuing a momentary salve to my heart. Before college, when my Mom found the man made for her. When her happily ever after began with a Navy SEAL down in Bronze Bay, Florida. Maybe my rebirth can happen at a Navy SEAL base here.

Let me know if you need anything, okay? Will you drive to work then? he asks, glancing away. I haven’t done much driving lately.

I nod. I’ll drive.

I’m proud of you. It’s been a lot, Adam says, voice trembling. He chances a glance to the dresser, but then looks down at his feet. For both of us. I’m here for you. I tell you that all the time, I’m hoping one day you’ll take me up on it. I’m here to talk to. Not to answer questions the therapist poses, but to really talk to you about anything. Like we used to before this happened.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Part of me wants him to fold me in his arms. Part of me wants to run. Then there’s the part that’s here with us right now. There’s nothing to talk about. What is there left to say? Unless you have something you’d like to talk about?

It’s written on his face. All the words he wants to say, but won’t. How much longer are you going to sleep in here?

Sex.

That’s what this is about. It’s been months, and he knows I’ve been cleared to have sex. Physically, of course. Mentally, I’m a series of self-destructing land mines. I didn’t know you had a problem with me sleeping in here? You’re working all night these days. I dodge the subject with the ease of a freightliner.

I wouldn’t work all night if you were in our bed. He sighs, and runs both of his hands through his sandy blond hair.

Adam is the stereotypical Cape Cod boy. He grew up here and always knew he would go to Boston College. He also knew he would move back to Cape Cod after he graduated. His accent is thick and his attitude is fierce. A testament to the shit time we’ve gone through, everything about him is mild, dulled by our lives. There’s no fire left. I’ve extinguished it. My heart starts pounding. I don’t want to have sex with you. I’m not ready for that. I can’t.

"Who the hell said anything about fucking? I want you in our bed. Our bed. We are married, remember. You’ve been hiding from life in here for months. Don’t think I don’t realize it. I’m not an idiot. I won’t touch you if that’s the concern, but come sleep in our bed. With me. I’ll stay on my side and you can stay on yours…if you want, until you’re ready. The doctor said small steps. This is a small step. The new job on Monday is a victory. Can’t you see that?" He’s breathing heavy, trying to keep his temper under wraps. A glimmer of a spark lights his eyes. The old Adam.

I grasp onto the flutter of familiarity. Letting the possibility seep in. Adam licks his lips and says, "I’m done with work for the night. Let’s open a bottle of wine, order too much Italian takeout, watch a movie, and then go to sleep together."

I want that, I choke out, even though I’m not sure I want it. That sounds nice.

He sighs and the relief rolls off him in waves. I stand from the bed and resist the urge to look at Noel. I’m sorry, I say for the millionth time since that life-altering night. Grabbing my pillow, I slide past him to the other side of the hallway, to his room. I try not to let the weirdness of being in here show as I place the pillow on my old side of the unmade bed. Adam comes over, nervously, and pulls the covers up trying to tidy it.

I would have made it, he says, sniffling. I, uh, was in a rush and I’ve been in here by myself for so long. Didn’t see the need in making it.

I shake my head as I inhale the scent of his sheets. It’s different. Not my bed. Don’t worry about it. I’ll wash everything in the morning. Okay? I did it once tonight, I can do it again. Meeting his brown eyes, I smile at him. The huge smile that breaks across his face is all-encompassing. Guilt rises again. More this time. It’s almost unbearable. I smooth the covers on my way into the living room. Adam is exuberant in his energy and mood as he pulls up the menu online and begins rattling off our old favorites.

The exchange in the bedroom resembles something a man would say to a woman the first time she sees his place. It’s awkwardly painful. It drives the horrible facts home.

We aren’t the same people anymore.

I’m not sure we’ll ever be the same people.

That sounds fine, I reply.

I’m fine. Everything is fine.

2

KENDALL

I slept in Adam’s bed all weekend. I woke up Monday morning and his hand was high on my thigh, fingers grazing my panties under my t-shirt. I was warm, tucked into his spoon and before I opened my eyes, I wanted his touch. Craved more. Desired his fingers all over and inside of my neglected body—like he used to do. When my eyes fluttered open, my insecurities arrived, and I threw Adam’s arm off me in a hulking, jerky movement. He apologized profusely, but I could see the disappointment in the way he held his body away from me. A coiled man, seeking release from the only person who can provide it. I can’t do it. I told him it was okay, that it wasn’t a big deal, but that was just another lie piled on top of our crumbling marriage shanty.

I’m still trying not to think about Adam’s hand between my legs, how it made me feel, or Noel’s urn as I carry a small, cardboard box into an office building adjacent to the main building on Harbour Point Base where the SEALs work. It’s early in the morning, but people are bustling around. Men in uniforms jog between buildings, and civilian support staff, like me, are beginning their day with coffee and emails. I check in at the main desk and hand them the piece of paper I printed out from the email attachment. It was also what gave me permission to drive on base without a military identification card. The man in uniform behind the desk nods his head, stamps the paper, directs me to my office, and where to go to obtain my credential badges I’ll need to access all the different areas in the buildings.

I drop off my box in the empty room he specified, and continue on my way. The hallways smell like a combination of new carpet and disinfectant cleaners. I’m reminded just how new this base is, and what that means. The war is still raging. On American soil. Sure, the news doesn’t talk about it nonstop like they used to, but new bases wouldn’t be opening if the threat was diminished. There are now special force bases surrounding the United States along the perimeter. Goosebumps prickle my arms at the thought.

I check in at another desk and let the woman know I’m here to get my credential badges. I slide her a few pieces of identification to prove I am who I say I am, and she asks that I take a seat and wait to be called back, even though I am the only person waiting in the office.

A woman, whom I recognize from my interview, pokes her head into the room, Kendall Simmons? she says, raising one brow when her eyes find me.

The one and only, I reply, standing from the uncomfortable chair. Hello, Ms. Peterson, I reply, trying to smile. It’s so nice to see you again.

Margaret, please. Call me Margaret, she says. Margaret Peterson is my boss. She is the person responsible for giving me a job, and little does she know, a second chance at life. Today is day one of my reset. You can come get your ID card and keys later. They take forever first thing in the morning. Come to your office, settle in a bit. How do you take your coffee?

I glance at the woman behind the desk to see if she’s offended by Margaret’s rude, slow comment, but her eyes are on the monitor and she’s tapping at her keys like no one has said anything at all. Cream and sugar, I say. Thank you again for giving me this chance. I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder. I hope I put my box down in the correct office, it was huge.

Margaret reassures me I did, and we chit chat while she shows me around the break room and fixes two cups of coffee. A few people meander in and out. Some are wearing the standard issue uniform, and others are dressed business casual. It’s a good mix. She notices me looking around. The SEALs typically stay in the other building unless they’re here for classes or need to take care of something in the administrative arena, she says, handing me a steaming cup. Bringing it to my lips, I blow gently before trying a sip.

When does my first class begin? I ask, surveying my surroundings. We walk across the hall to the dark office where I left my things. She throws on the switches and illuminates a large room with a conference table in the middle and a small wooden desk off to the side.

This is you. I wish I could say you had a month to get your first lessons together, but unfortunately, we took too long filling your position and they’re expecting lessons at the beginning of next week. I can help you if you need it, Margaret says.

I swallow hard. I wanted the challenge, craved something to take my mind off of my own life. This is it. Reaching down, I pick up the box I left by the door with the few personal items I brought from home, and set it on my new desk. I can handle it. No worries, Margaret. Spanish is an easy one. I’ll be able to whip up a month’s worth of material this week. How much do they know now, if anything?

Margaret perches on the conference table, drinking her coffee. Assume they know nothing. It will vary day to day which SEALs will be available for language training. They’ll all sort of work along at their own pace. Some will be proficient in no time and some will make you want to open a vein and shave your head with a dull blade. Their personalities are, ah, somewhat challenging, she says, coughing. I’m sure you can handle it. It’s why I chose you for the job. She eyes me over the rim of the cup. I have a feeling you’ll hold their attention better than the last person did.

I know for a fact the person who held the position before me