Atheists Who Kneel and Pray

by Tarryn Fisher

  “Why did you speak to her after the show? It should be me you speak to first, I’m your wife.”

  “You posed for a picture with a group of girls and allowed them to press themselves too close…”

  “When I told you I was sad, you hugged me instead of discussing the problem.”

  “You went for a beer with the guys when I wanted you to come home.”

  “You made love to me with your eyes closed, who were you thinking of?”

  “You don’t care if I orgasm, you only care about yourself.”

  “You wish I were more like your mother, soft and supportive.”

  “You love your art more than you love me.”

  A barrage. I rose higher and higher. If he didn’t look at me the right way after a show, I’d be hurt. If he looked at me too much, I’d feel smothered. Be with your fans. Don’t be with your fans. You don’t love me enough. You love me too much. I rose.

  I knew that the problem was me, and yet I couldn’t control my feelings. David drove me mad, or my love for him did. And then I saw the photo of Petra and David at Ferdinand’s house, sitting so close together it looked like their knees were touching. David came to the bar later, the guilt written all over his face. He tried to explain, but he couldn’t climb the walls I’d erected. He hadn’t even known they were being built. That’s not quite fair, I know that now. It took two more weeks. During which time I drove myself mad. It was a mistake, falling in love with him, staying when I knew I needed to leave and go home.

  There was a note written in my own hand. All I could find was a pen with red ink. It was in the kitchen drawer and the end of it was chewed on. I didn’t want my letter to him to look angry or aggressive, I wasn’t either of those things. But, there was only a red pen. So I wrote it as gently as I could if only to quell the red ink.

  I’m not who you think I am, I told him. I can’t be who you need me to be. I have to go. Forgive me.

  It was weak to leave a note. He deserved words, a fight, closure. But, I was afraid he’d convince me to stay. And even if I stayed for a time, it was inevitable that I’d eventually leave. I was too insecure to allow David to love me. I didn’t trust him, despite what I said. What I was feeling would never go away. Words can only temporarily soothe a discord in psychology. I did not expect him to give up his music for me, just as much as I did not expect me to give up my insecurities for him. So, I resolved to take my leave and leave him be. And as I walked away, I said it over and over—

  Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

  The restaurant where I’m meeting David isn’t what I pictured. Why had I imaged something quaint and romantic? A brick building with a rose trellis, wooden floors, and plush plum colored seating. That’s how reunions are supposed to go down, isn’t it? The way they did in the movies. But, this isn’t really a reunion. I’m trying to romanticize it to help myself along, a crutch of sorts. It’s a warmer day than I expected too, and I can feel a line of sweat roll down my back as I walk toward the front doors. When I step inside, the first thing I notice is the minimalistic design. I shiver. The stark whites, modern light fixtures, and boxy tables and chairs. There is nothing warm here, and it occurs to me that David chose this place specifically as my interrogation room. An elegant, middle-aged woman greets me, a menu in her hand. Her long gazelle-like body is draped in a black kimono.

  “Welcome,” she says.

  “Hello. I’m meeting—“

  “David,” she finishes for me.

  “Yes. How did you—?”

  “This way,” she says.

  She turns before I can reply and I understand that I’m expected to follow. My stomach is knotted as we walk through the mostly empty dining room. I can’t see past her shoulders, though I suspect David is there, watching her as she approaches. Is he equally as nervous? Angry? At any moment I’m going to see him and I’ll be able to read it on his face. I could always read everything on his face. My heart is beating so wildly it hurts.

  When she steps aside to show me the table, David isn’t there. I stare at the empty seats and feel sharp disappointment.

  “He called ahead,” the hostess says. “He will be here shortly.”

  She leaves me there with my oversized menu, and I feel childlike in my aloneness. I cross my legs, uncross them. Straighten my hair, wonder if there’s lipstick on my teeth or if my mascara is clumped over my eyelashes—stupid, shallow thoughts. I chose to wear something casual: a pair of dark jeans and a slouchy T-shirt under my leather jacket. What’s the point of not being yourself and giving people the wrong impression? I come as I am. I sip at my water until I spill some of it on myself, then I’m dabbing my white shirt frantically with my napkin, cursing my clumsiness.

  When he steps inside the restaurant, the atmosphere changes. I can feel him before I see him. I set my napkin down and sit up, alert. And then he’s there, moving like water toward me. Everything goes quiet in my head. I have the urge to weep, and then I’m standing to embrace him. I have to reach up on my tiptoes to get my arms around his neck. We don’t let go right away. Anger, resentment, the dire need for answers—is put on hold for…one…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight—seconds. I can feel his warmth and smell the fabric of his shirt—and through that, the spice of his skin. His body is curled around me, his hands heavy on my back as he holds me to himself. I am so lonely in that moment—so aware of the fact that I have never healed or moved on. When he steps back and we’re no longer touching I feel inordinately sad.

  “Hello,” David says softy.

  I study his eyes to know what he’s feeling, but he’s guarded. Who has walls now?

  “Hi.”

  He motions for me to sit down. I do, never taking my eyes off him. He’s different. I suppose that happens after people are apart for a length of time. They become more themselves while you cling to who they used to be.

  His hair is shorter, shaggy—more styled; the smile lines around his eyes are more pronounced. He’s wearing a lot of money: starched light blue shirt with a popped collar, slim jeans that emphasize the length of his legs, and a camel colored jacket. He also hasn’t looked at me once since he sat down, which you could see as quite odd, or quite telling.

  “I’m going to need to order wine for this. A bottle. So you choose either red or white.”

  “Red,” I say, softly.

  My fingers find the straw wrapper from my water and I hold it between my fist for support.

  “Okay.”

  He sets about studying the wine menu while I sit solemnly, my hands clasped in my lap. When our server comes to collect our order, David rattles it off without consulting me. Another way he’s changed, I think. I wouldn’t say less considerate than I would say more self-assured. When we’re alone again he finally looks at me. There are many notable things about David: his good looks, for instance, his deep voice, the John Wayne gait—but the most pronounced thing about him is the expression he’s unable to hide from his eyes. It hurts him to look at me, and suddenly I feel such shame. Shame at who I am, who I was with him. I feel dirty underneath his very clear, very honest eyes.

  “How have you been?” he says. He doesn’t really want to know. He just needs warm-up questions.

  “I’ve been well,” I say, cautiously. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself. It’s wonderful.”

  His lips pull into a straight line and he nods, an attempt at a smile.

  “Why? Why did you go, Yara?”

  “I didn’t imagine it going like this,” I say. My straw wrapper is mangled so I twist and untwist the napkin in my lap. My hands can never be still when I’m upset.

  “How’d you think this was going to go down?” he asks.

  One of his elbows is resting on the table. His posture is casual, flippant, like he doesn’t care to be here, but must. He’s running a thumb across his lips as he stares at me.

  “You meet me here, we have a few drinks, we chat about where our l
ives are now, and then we hug as we part ways and say ‘let’s do this again sometime’?”

  “I—I don’t know, David. I came because you asked me to and I thought I owed you that.”

  “How long has it been since you left?”

  Since you left. Not—since we last saw each other. He’s not wrong to say it that way, but the phrasing still hurts.

  “Years…three years…”

  “Three years, two months, five days,” he says.

  I don’t respond. How can I? I feel like he’s trying to prove that he cares more.

  “Beat me up,” I say. “Say anything you like if it makes you feel better.” I lean back against my seat. “I deserve it.”

  “That’s not why I asked you here,” he says.

  “Why did you?”

  “I’m in love.”

  I feel as if I’m in a snow globe and someone’s shaken me around. Of course he’s been loving other girls, fucking other girls—but to hear it.

  “I want to marry her, but I can’t because I’m still married to you.”

  Our wine arrives. Perfect and terrible timing. We’re locked in a cold stare while it’s opened and poured. David accepts his small taste and nods to the server, never taking his eyes off me. She, in turn, pours me a glass and discreetly disappears. He drains his glass and pours himself another. I wish for something stronger as I lick my lips.

  “Who is she?”

  He’s shaking his head already. “You don’t get to know that. You left.”

  I feel a rise of anger that I’m probably not entitled to. But I came, I met him, and now I also want answers.

  “I do get to know that, because you want me to sign papers. That’s why you’re here.”

  He considers me for a moment and then says, “Tell me why you left, Yara.” Before I can answer or even process his words, he rephrases them. “Tell me why you left me.”

  It’s more painful when he says it that way. It’s also the truth. I didn’t just leave Seattle, or the States, I left him—a person, the human I claimed to love.

  I imagine the look on my face is awful because David almost looks sorry he asked.

  I haven’t taken a deep breath since I saw him, so I do that first, then I say, “I always said I’d leave, remember? I knew you’d be better if I was gone.”

  “Better at what?”

  I shake my head. My hands are trembling. “Better. Just better.”

  “A better man, a better human, or what was it…a better artist?”

  That’s when I know it was her, that ashen haired bitch with her love-drunk eyes. She’s the only one I’d ever said that to other than David.

  “Petra,” I say.

  David doesn’t confirm or deny. He looks on, his face expressionless. He’s rehearsed this, I realize. You don’t just march into a conversation like this one without considering every possible outcome.

  “Was it going on before I left?” I ask.

  He looks momentarily taken aback. “Of course not. She’s—we’ve been together for almost a year now. She came to a show…”

  He’s already told me more than he was planning to.

  “All right,” I say. “So you’re here for a divorce.”

  “Don’t, Yara,” he says. “Don’t say it like that. Where you’re suddenly the victim. I’m just giving you what you’ve wanted since the beginning.”

  “What you want,” I correct him.

  He leans back in his chair. The stem of his wineglass is perched between two of his fingers. I’m afraid he’s going to drop it and get it all over his shirt.

  “We both know that’s not true.” His voice is low, angry.

  “Why didn’t you find me then? Before now.”

  He says nothing. We’re staring again. Our server reappears. She wants to know if we’ve looked at the menu. I can’t look at her for fear I’ll burst into tears.

  “We’ll both have the rib eye,” he says. “Medium rare.”

  It’s what I would have chosen for myself. He knows that, but it was still unnecessary to order for me. He’s showing me that he still knows all those small things about me, like how I like my steak cooked. What he’s doing works, because I feel another pang of deep loneliness.

  Finally he says, “So, you were never in love with me. You just wanted to play God with my emotions.”

  I can see the muscles in his jaw working. He can’t play this game with me. We both struck our deal that night in Seattle. Words were exchanged. He’s acting like he had no part of it.

  “That’s how it started. You know that, David. It was a game, but then all of a sudden I was very much in love with you. Very much. It got to be too much. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

  He nods slowly. “Why didn’t you talk to me about how you felt? You could have told me and I would have understood.”

  “Would you have?” It’s the first time I have to actually think about that. David was so sure about everything back then he rarely checked to make sure I was sure too.

  “Well, it worked, didn’t it? A platinum album. I guess I should thank you for that.”

  “Don’t,” I say. “You were always worth a platinum album—”

  “—Not quite. Not according to you who needed to break my heart for the sake of art. Not worth anything unless I was as jaded as you.”

  My eyes well with the tears I swore to myself I’d not cry.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “I left because I’m a jaded coward and I tried to pretend I was doing you a favor.”

  He’s quiet as he considers what I’ve said, then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, tossing a hundred pound note on the table and standing up.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he says.

  After he’s gone I stay to drink the rest of the wine, but leave the food untouched.

  For days after I’ve seen David at the restaurant I can do nothing but cry and wander around my flat touching the boxes that were taped shut and stacked near the doorways of each room. I feel restless, unsettled. I haven’t told Ethan that I’m still married to David, and I know that’s a conversation we should have already had. I keep expecting David to show up at my door with the papers he wants me to sign. I send Ethan’s calls to voicemail until he leaves messages saying he’s worried about me. I text, tell him I’m under the weather and I’ll call soon. I don’t want him to hear my voice. He’d know right away that something is wrong and I’m not ready to tell him that I’ve seen David. I make more excuses—a sore throat, exhaustion, packing—but finally after a week, he shows up at my door wearing a look of deep concern.

  “David. You’ve seen him then?” he says once I step aside to let him in.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  Ethan looks distraught for a second, like I’d confirmed his worst fear.

  “His band is here, there are posters all over the city. They’re talking about it on the radio and at work.”

  I turn away so he can’t see my face and put the kettle on. David used to make fun of me, he said the Brits thought they could solve everything with a cup of tea. And we can.

  “Yes, I saw him.” I move toward the canister of sugar and squeeze my eyes shut, willing Ethan away. It doesn’t work like that, Yara. You have to deal with things head-on.

  “Did you fuck him?”

  I spin around, disgusted. “Are you fucking with me? That’s the first thing you ask?”

  “It’s important,” he says firmly. “I want to know where your heart is.”

  “Well, it’s not in my pussy,” I shoot back.

  Ethan looks immediately sorry, but it’s too late.

  “Listen, Yara, cut me a break here. Your rock star ex-boyfriend comes into town, the one who wrote a song for you that plays all over the radio, and I’m not supposed to be concerned?”

  He knew more than I gave him credit for.

  “No. I did not fuck him. And he wrote that song to humiliate me. It isn’t exactly a love song, Ethan.”

&nb
sp; “It is a goddamn love song. He wants you back—that’s why he wrote the thing.”

  I laugh. I can’t help myself. I’d never thought of “Atheists Who Kneel and Pray” as a love song. I guess it was a song about love.

  “He doesn’t want me back, trust me.”

  “Why not? How can you know that?”

  “Because I left him six weeks after our wedding, Ethan. I never spoke to him again.”

  Ethan stares at me, his mouth slightly ajar.

  “I’ve not told anyone that until now,” I say softly.

  “You married him? I thought you didn’t believe in marriage.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too. That’s why I ran.”

  “I don’t know what bothers me more, that you did that to someone, or that you never told me you did that to someone.”

  The kettle whistles and I hide my tears by turning away to switch the burner off.

  “Listen, it happened, and it’s the truth. I’m sorry for all of it, but I’m the one who has to live with the things I’ve done, not you.”

  He looks like I’ve slapped him across the face. “Is that the way you see it? Like I factor in very little?”

  The image of pedaling backward on a bike flashes through my mind. I can backpedal but I’m tired. I don’t want to defend myself to make Ethan feel better. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

  “Think what you like,” I say. “But if you’re even questioning me, we shouldn’t be together.”

  Ethan leaves and then it is just me. I wonder if it will ever be any different. I don’t think about my mother often, but when I do, her memory is always accompanied by feelings of loneliness. She left me alone in our tiny flat when she went to work. She worked nights at the front desk of a hotel. I’m not sure how old I was when she first started leaving me alone, but I remember feeling tiny. I couldn’t reach the cupboard with the biscuits. I’d have to drag a chair to the kitchen and climb on the counter. What would have happened if I slipped and fell? My mother would have come home to a very small, dead child. No one would have even come to my funeral because there was no one we knew. My mother was from a small village in North England. When she got pregnant with me she left the village. As far as I know, she’s gone back and lives there now, but I haven’t spoken to her in years. When I asked her once if I had grandparents she’d said, “It doesn’t matter.” And that was valid, I suppose, because I technically don’t have a mother either, and it doesn’t matter. People live without things and they thrive.