Life

A short story

Photo licensed from Unsplash

“I’m thirty six years old. It’s too late for me to go to college,” Jasper said.

Amelia released a long, shrill sigh of disappointment, like a sad, deflating balloon. They’d had this conversation before, and if Jasper had followed her advice when she first suggested he pursue an education, they wouldn’t be living hand-to-mouth, paying half their income for rent, shelling out cash for unexpected car repairs, eating bland instant noodles almost every night, and fretting over unrelenting, surprise tax bills.

They especially needed money now that triplets were on the way, a costly addition to their lives that would require her to take weeks off from her job as a physician, maybe longer. As a newly-minted doctor, her salary was not only less than Jasper’s paltry house painter income, but she owed a fortune in student loans.

Money problems never end, Amelia thought. 

Their air conditioner spewed hot air as often as cool, and if they couldn’t replace it before the triplets came—Amelia didn’t even want to think about it. 

And there was the $10,000 they paid last year from a lawsuit for stealing a stapler from a store. But neither Amelia nor Jasper stole anything. They weren’t thieves. 

We’ll never get control of money.

“What about trade school?” Amelia asked, though her edged tone made it seem more like a demand than a question. “It would only be a year, not four, and you would receive a higher salary as a plumber or train engineer.” She patted her belly. “We’re going to need the money, babe. There’s no ignoring that reality.”

“I’ve tried, I’ve tried. I’ve applied to plumber, train engineer, computer repair, and even chef schools, but every time my application vanishes. I’m doing everything right, but I can’t get into a trade school.” He shook his head and wiped his teary eyes with his hand. “I can’t.”

Amelia crossed her arms in front of her belly and huffed. “You’re not working hard enough at it. That’s your problem, Jasper. You’re a quitter.”

“I am not.”

“Then why can’t you get into trade school? They accept everyone. A squirrel could get into trade school.”

Jasper stomped on their kitchen’s linoleum floor, anger cascading through the room like ocean waves kicked up by a furious hurricane, vibrating the knives in the rack, silverware in the plastic trays, and plates on the shelves, a discordant cacophony everywhere. “Follow me,” he commanded.

Jasper led Amelia into their living room, a small space that contained a two-person couch, cracked glass coffee table, two standing lamps, bureau of heirloom china from both their families—though neither ever talked about their parents or grandparents—five-level bookcase with books with faded spines that rendered the titles indecipherable, and a slant front desk atop a threadbare coral-blue rug. Jasper lowered the desk’s top and retrieved a piece of paper from one of the cubbies. He waved the paper in front of Amelia. “An application for WorldTyping School. Now watch.”

With a fine-point black-ink Bic pen, Jasper filled in the boxes: name, address, phone number, family information, a two-hundred-word essay about why he wanted to become a professional typist, another two-hundred-word essay about his familiarity with typing equipment, and finally a box for his credit card number for the fifty-dollar application fee.

“Okay, all done,” Jasper said thirty minutes later. He capped the Bic with a pop, slid the pen back into its cubby, and centered the application on the desk. 

“Yeah, so?” Amelia, who had not moved, folded her arms tighter across her chest. 

Five seconds later, the single-page application disappeared from the desk. It didn’t fly away from an errant breeze in their drafty apartment, and their dog, a schnauzer named Miffy, hadn’t snatched it off the desk. It simply vanished.

“I’m not in control of my own life!” Jasper fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his cheeks. He inhaled shallow, rapid breaths, his face caulk white.

“I see,” Amelia said, her arms flopping. 

Never one to admit wrong, Amelia took Jasper’s hand and rested it on her belly to change the subject. 

Jasper was happy to change the subject, too. The disappearing applications creeped him out. He would—and could—put it out of his mind.

Although Amelia’s belly was warm, an icy chill shuddered him. Goosebumps erupted all over his arms and neck when he realized he hadn’t known she was pregnant until today. Though not an expert in pregnancy sizes, she was…far into it. Eight months, maybe nine. Had they talked about baby names? 

Will they be boys, girls, or a combination? We should talk about baby names. 

The cold enveloping Jasper turned frostbitten when he couldn’t remember having had sex with Amelia in the past year. 

Whose babies are these? What if they aren’t mine?! I’m not in control; I’m never in control.

Nine-year-old Amelia rolled the dice across the game board, eyeing the black dots as the dice sides appeared and disappeared. When they stopped on double fours, Amelia shrieked at her brother, Tom, “I get another turn!” and moved her piece, a small plastic woman she named “Amelia,” eight spaces forward. “A new car! Amelia gets a car!” 

Amelia’s heart skipped a beat when she saw she had missed the “Finish Baby Room - Pay $5,000” square by one. 

Tom growled deep tones of annoyance like he did when his parents claimed half his Halloween candy. 

But I carried the candy bag all over the neighborhood! 

“Taxes,” his father demanded. “Candy taxes,” he said as he plucked the Snickers, Kit Kats, and Reeses from Tom’s bag.

Tom curled his index finger against his thumb, tightening the muscle. He flicked his finger, propelling his piece, a plastic man he didn’t bother to name—Tom was twelve and beyond naming game pieces, though Amelia called it “Jasper”—across the dining room table and onto the floor.

“That wasn’t nice,” Amelia said. 

“It’s a stupid game,” Tom huffed. “But it’s over now.” Tom shook the board, toppling everything on it.

“What happened?” Jasper asked as he lifted himself off the floor. Jasper took Amelia’s hand and slowly hoisted her, careful not to touch any precariously fallen furniture, upheaved flooring, or shattered glass shards. He inspected Amelia: No cuts, nothing looked broken; no bruises, either.  

“An earthquake? In New York City?” Amelia asked.

“I think so.”

“What now?”

“We rebuild what we can, and what we can’t fix, we start anew. And maybe we have a baby, my love.”

“I’d like that.”

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If you enjoyed Life, I think you’ll also like my story, The Blanket War.