The Gardener

"I promise, I'll take care of you,"

These are the words that played in my head as my suitcase got loaded into the car. As the box, labeled Lindsay's Things, which was stuffed with a decade worth of research and publications, was haphazardly loaded into the trunk as an afterthought.

"You'll never need to work again."

The promise swirls in my brain as I lay in bed, hours after he has gone to sleep. We've been at our new house for a month now, and each day has ended like this one: him, snoring softly beside me, after a rewarding day at work, and me, tossing and turning, wondering, why hadn't I protested? Why hadn't I yelled? Why had I been so willing to give up my contributions to academia so that his could flourish?

I get out of bed, slip a robe over my shoulders, and pad quietly down the stairs. The house is dark and eerily quiet. Gone are the sounds of the city, the occasional honk of the car horns, the random laughter of two young lovers dancing in the night. Now, we are surrounded by trees and inky black darkness.

"It's in the middle of no where," I whined when he'd shown me the job offer. We were in our clothes from work: him, in a white coat over scrubs, the remnants of blood still present from a surgery. Me, in slacks and a white blouse with a dark stain where a pen had exploded long ago, my hair tied back hurriedly, under-eyes dark from a long day of grading papers. I looked up the university online. "They don't have a linguistics department."

"It'll be a fresh start. You can do whatever you want. You can cook, read. Maybe even garden." There's an undertone to his words: You need to take it easy. If you weren't so stressed, maybe this one would have stuck.

I don't want to garden! I'd almost screamed. But he and I were in a month-long standstill, one in which we were unflinchingly polite to one another, afraid to rock the boat. Our conversations were perfunctory and clinical: "What do you want for dinner?" "Pasta? Or really, whatever you want." "No, whatever you want." "No, no, please..."

Now, I stare out the windows, the sliver of moonlight fighting its way through the onyx night. Jobless, when my career is really all I'd ever been good at. Childless, when I figured that being a mother was something I'd be decent at but never got the chance.

Without thinking about it, I wander outside. The front door clicks shut behind me. I snap my gaze up towards our bedroom window, afraid I've woken my husband, but the light stays off. Relieved, I wander out into the garden. When we moved in, there was a tiny box waiting for me. To my dear wife, the card had said. I ripped it open, my face falling when I saw what was inside. A pair of gardening gloves. A tiny spade.

"You said you wanted to try gardening," he had offered weakly. I stared at him in shock. Did he really believe that I had said that? Or was he trying to convince me? Quickly, I reworked my face into one of gratitude. "I love it," I lied, as I leaned in and kissed him.

I forgo those gifts now. They're packed into the attic, along with the tiny pairs of shoes. The baby blanket. The rattle, its tag still on. Instead, I lean down into the dirt, letting it smear over the kneecaps of my nightgown.

"To your first ever paper being published!" I remember our cups knocking together, both of us so young and naive. He was in medical school, I in my PhD program, and we ate Ramen noodles and drank Prosecco out of styrofoam cups. It felt like the best night of our lives.

I work my hands into the earth. It is slick and smooth, wet from recent rain. I begin to dig. You wanted me to garden? Watch me. Ironically, it is soothing. I let the dirt gather under my nails. Maybe I should've tried this sooner, I think to myself.

"Bye, baby. I'll see you in a month," I kissed his sleeping face. I was off on a month-long research trip, studying the language patterns in a tiny town in Mexico. My smart girl, he muttered in his sleep.

I continue to dig, feeling bolder now. I think about every contribution I've made to my field. The students I helped inspire to be linguists. I think of the discussions I used to hold in class, the ones that challenged not only the students but me, too. I think about my late nights up writing, the takeout containers accumulating as I feverishly struggled to meet a deadline. All of it, with him by my side. So how can I leave him now?

And then, present. I spent the day before cooking, then realizing I didn't know how to cook, and throwing the uneaten food in the trash can. I looked at color swatches for the walls, trying, really trying, I promise, to distinguish between eggshell and ivory. I cleaned, scrubbing the mop into corners of the house that had never been touched before. I sobbed and ordered takeout, then placed it in ceramic bowls to make it look like my own creation. When he came home, he was so visibly relieved that I was okay. That I was settling into my new role as a homemaker perfectly well. That I'd debated killing myself with a butter knife no less than twenty times - well, he didn't need to know.

There's dirt on my face now, in my hair. It's above me, suddenly - how did that happen? I'm in a bed made of moss and wood chips. I feel peaceful now, more connected to nature than I've ever been. The sun begins to rise above the trees, streaking the land in lavender and gold. But it's getting darker now, colder. I am under the ground, the earth covering me in a coffin of my own making. It fills my mouth. I let out a silent scream. And then, I am gone.