The Last Out

The cat scratched at the bedroom door again, a persistent reminder that Grace was gone. Mark lay in the master bed alone for the first time in seventeen years, his iphone illuminating the ceiling with work emails he should have ignored hours ago. The glow of the screen was the only light left in their suburban house, the same house where they'd brought home their newborn daughter, where Grace had planted peonies along the walkway, where they'd hosted Memorial Day barbecues and Christmas Eves.

He should have seen it coming. Grace had been swimming away from him for years—emotionally, if not physically. Last summer, at her sister's lake house, she'd spent entire afternoons in the water while he sat on the dock with his phone, checking stock prices and baseball scores. She'd surface from the lake, hair slicked back, water beading on her skin, and look at him with such profound disappointment that he'd pretended not to notice.

The baseball game played softly from his phone—the World Series, Game 7. Their daughter, now fifteen, was at her first boyfriend's house tonight. Mark had texted her four times. No response.

"You never really look at anything anymore," Grace had told him last week, as she packed her suitcase. "You just scroll through pictures of other people's lives while yours happens without you."

She was right. He remembered their honeymoon in Montana, how they'd watched a black bear amble through the parking lot of their cabin, how Grace had grabbed his hand with such excitement, her eyes wide with wonder. He'd been irritated that the bear might delay their dinner reservation. That was Grace—always finding the magic. And him—always worried about the schedule.

The cat meowed again, and Mark finally got up, letting the animal slip through the door. It jumped onto Grace's empty side of the bed and curled into a ball, purring with maddening contentment. On his phone, the baseball game entered the bottom of the ninth inning. Two outs, full count.

He thought about calling Grace, but what would he say? That he was sorry? That he finally understood what she'd been trying to tell him all those years? That he'd looked up from his phone long enough to realize she was gone?

The baseball announcer screamed something about a perfect pitch, a strikeout, the final out. The cat stretched, indifferent to history being made. Mark set his phone on the nightstand and watched the screen go dark, finally alone with the silence he'd earned.