We always felt we got off easy if all he did was yell. When my oldest sister became a teenager, she developed a rebellious streak. Instead of willingly taking his abuse, she sneered and mocked him, calling him her deadbeat father to his face. My dad, who expected unflagging obedience from his children, did not respond well to confrontation. In one instance, I recall my father and sister arguing, about what I can’t remember. Whatever the subject of contention, the situation quickly escalated. It happened right in front of me. He dragged her by the hair into the dining room, holding her down, both arms under his knees so she couldn’t get up, and punched her in the face, breaking her nose. My mom took her to the emergency room that night. She told the doctor my sister got into a fight at school.
Out of the three of us, my oldest sister got the brunt of my father’s anger. She was considered the problem child. Arguing with my parents was practically a daily occurrence that resulted in her running away from home once or twice per month. But no one had to shoulder the burden of my father’s rage like my mom. In the early morning hours, long after we were sent to bed, we would wake to the sound of my dad screaming violently at my mom after he returned from the bar. My mom cried out into the night “Charles, No!” My sisters and I would lay awake in bed, terrified that our mother would leave and that we would be left alone with him.
Then the holiday season came around. It was normally the least wonderful time of the year. Every Christmas activity was reduced to a chore. My dad growled instructions for hanging Christmas lights and laying tinsel. We were forced to take part in all the festivities. Our relatives provided the one reprieve from his watchful eye; they frequently visited during the holidays. Our dad was so busy playing father of the year, he didn’t have time to pay attention to us.
My mother shamelessly played along. As far as anyone knew, my parents were a happy couple in a healthy marriage with well-adjusted children. They put on a good show. In reality, the only happy moments I had from my childhood were ones where my dad wasn’t there. Despite our dysfunction, my mom refused to divorce him. She would rather take the abuse over the alternative — being alone. My dad could yell at her, call her names, hit her, terrorize her children, and the only time I ever saw her fall apart was when she separated from him for a week. She became sullen and withdrawn — utterly useless as either a parent or human being. The divorce was called off by the week’s end.
I was in my early twenties when my mom finally grew a backbone and divorced my dad. I thought, now that my mom was free, we could finally do away with all of the horrific behavior of the past, that cast a shadow over our lives, and be happy. What I didn’t expect was, with my dad out of the picture, my mom’s true colors would show. She was miserable. Without him to occupy her time, she was able to focus her accusatory and manipulative nature on me. It was quite a surprise when she spoke to me as though she was the victim at the hands of my abuse. I couldn’t believe she would dare make such an accusation of me when I forgave her for all that I had endured from her and my father.
If that wasn’t enough of an insult, my mom remarried only one year later. The guy she chose was just as much of a controlling jerk as my father, only, unlike my dad, who had somewhat of a vested interest in the well-being of his offspring, my mom’s new husband made it clear he didn’t care at all for her daughters. That’s when it hit me that my mom had character flaws that were disturbingly similar to Corrine Dollanganger, the cold-hearted mother from Flowers in the Attic. She’d go to the end of the earth to hold on to her man, even if it meant sacrificing the safety and happiness of her children. Her issues were never overly complicated. She was selfish, plain and simple.
I stopped speaking to her shortly after she announced her engagement. She sent out an email inviting me to her wedding. Suffice it to say I didn’t attend. Soon afterward, I stopped speaking to my sisters. I didn’t want to deal with the toxic issues that inevitably resulted from remaining connected to my mom, through them. It’s been six years since I’ve contacted any of my family members. It might be six years more before I try.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s seven o’clock. Time sure flies on these trips down memory lane. It occurs to me that ruminating too long about the past is a dangerous diversion that can have unintended consequences. The shadows of the past have a way of encroaching on the mind until they crowd it entirely, placing one squarely at their mercy. It’s far safer to stay in the present. That’s how I like to live my life, looking forward, never behind.
Blake should be off work by now. I wonder why he hasn’t called. I check my phone to see if he left a text. Nothing. Determined to retain my equanimity I assure myself that Blake isn’t purposefully neglecting me. Yes, seven o’clock is a tad later than he usually works, but the client is in Hong Kong. It’s probably morning for them. It is curious that Blake didn’t call me earlier today. Perhaps he was busy finishing his bid, or whatever he was working on.
Rather than allow my thoughts to become mired in all the possible reasons Blake hasn’t called or texted, I decide to call him. “Come on, pick up, pick up,” I say, hoping I can will Blake to answer his phone with my words. No luck, it goes to voicemail.
I want to trust Blake and think only the best of his intentions. I ought to respect the fact that he’s at work, and wait for him to call when he’s free. I don’t want him to consider me a nuisance. And while that’s good, solid advice I’m giving myself, something in my gut leaves me deaf to its wisdom.
Almost as an impulse, I call Blake again. When he doesn’t pick up, I call him again, then again. Is my behavior obnoxious? Certainly. Unreasonable? Maybe. Am I deathly close to categorizing myself as a crazy stalker girlfriend? I wouldn’t go that far. The fact is, I didn’t fly all the way out here to be ignored. After six attempts at calling him, I almost give up. If he doesn’t pick up, this time, I’ll stop trying. It’s entirely possible he’s in a meeting and that I’m overreacting. I’m sure later on, when I’m less emotional, I’ll see the error of my ways and apologize to him. Then all will be right with us again. On the last ring, before Blake’s phone forwards me to voice mail, someone finally answers.
“Hello!” a woman says excitedly. In the background, I hear hoots and hollers followed by roaring laughter.
“Hello? I meant to call Blake, do I have the wrong number?” I ask, quickly glancing at my phone to ensure Blake’s contact information is up.
“Yeah, this is Blake’s phone. Do you want me to get him?”
“Um yeah, that would be great,” I answer, barely able to contain my sarcasm.
Who is this woman answering Blake’s phone? Better yet, why would a woman, who is clearly not Blake’s girlfriend, think it’s okay to answer his phone? Where ever Blake is, it sure doesn’t sound like work.
I wait, impatiently tapping the floor with my finger, hoping Blake will interrupt the calamitous stream of thoughts threatening to overpower my rational mind. Any idea I might have had about giving Blake the benefit of the doubt is quickly slipping away.
Ten minutes later, the woman still hasn’t returned with Blake. I eventually hang up. I call again only to have the phone ring until it goes to voice mail. Why didn’t Blake answer? I can’t help but lament that there’s only two days before Thanksgiving and instead of enjoying them with my fiancee, I’m sitting in a hotel room all alone. Am I to spend the first holiday I’m engaged by myself? If this is what married life has in store, I can certainly do without it. I won’t be my mother. I won’t spend my life in a lonely marriage. I leave my phone on the ground, slinking back into bed and curl up next to my computer, taking Buffy off pause. I think I’ve gained enough perspective for today.
10
The Ice Cage
It’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Blake didn’t call me back until two o’clock in the morning. From the sound of his slurred speech, it was clear he had several too many beers and a few shots of whiskey on top of that. He didn’t even acknowledge that I tried to call him the night before
. I hung up on him after he finished crooning the first verse of a country music song. From experience, I know that when Blake reaches a state of inebriation where he lacks, in entirety, any and all self-awareness, he won’t even remember that he called. There was no point in losing my beauty sleep so Blake could sing me his rendition of Treasure of Love, by George Jones. He made a few more attempts to call me, but I turned off my phone. Later this morning, I booked a flight to Seattle. Twelve hours and two layovers later I arrived back at my duplex, prepared to spend yet another Thanksgiving alone.
After taking my time to unpack, do some light cleaning, yoga, and shower, I wasn’t the least bit surprised when I turned on my phone to find it bombarded with 26 text messages and nine voice mail messages from Blake.
Where are you? Call me.
I went to your hotel and they told me you checked out????
I don’t understand why you’re not picking up. If I’ve done something wrong tell me. Don’t ignore me.
Are you mad at me?
I can’t believe the way you’re treating me. We’re supposed to meet my family tomorrow. How could you be so selfish?
Is Blake that oblivious to his blatant disregard for my feelings? My phone rings, it’s Blake. Sighing, I answer the call. There’s no point in putting off the inevitable.
“Hello,” I say flatly.
“Bridget?” Blake, responds. I expected him to sound irritable and am surprised to hear his voice crack with emotion.
“Hi, Blake.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Tacoma, at my duplex.”
“You’re in Tacoma? Are you joking?”
“No.”
“Okay … care to tell me why?”
I let out an ironic laugh before replying. “Do you really need me to tell you?”
“Yeah,” Blake replies, irritation starting to creep into his tone.
“Ok, let’s see, you promised that we would spend Thanksgiving week together then told me you had to work. Then you promised we’d spend Tuesday night together, after finishing your bid, only for you to ignore all of my calls. When someone finally did pick up, it wasn’t you. Why did a woman answer your phone, Blake?”
“Bridget…”
“I’m not finished! Then, after evading my calls all day, you have the nerve to call me at two in the morning, singing country music songs! Are you still wondering why I left?” Blake and I have fought before, but I can’t recall ever speaking to him with such vitriol. It’s as though years of pent up anger and resentment are flooding out into a sea of hostility.
“I was out with a few of the guys from work. We landed a couple of substantial accounts yesterday and decided to go out and celebrate. I got a little carried away with the time, that’s all,” Blake replies, attempting to placate me with his soothing tone. “And the woman that answered my phone was probably Allison. She’s someone I work with. I think I’ve told you about her.”
“Yeah, I think I vaguely recall you mentioning her,” I reply sarcastically. Does Blake think it will appease me to know he spent his night with another woman, who just happens to be beautiful, when he should have been with me? “Why didn’t you pick up your phone at least one of the dozen times I called?”
“I didn’t realize you called. We went to a sports bar to watch A UFC fight. It was loud. People were shouting — I could barely hear myself…”
“Allison didn’t seem to have a problem hearing your phone ring,” I say spitefully. “You still didn’t answer my question. Why did Allison answer your phone? Why would she think it’s appropriate to answer another man’s phone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she thought it was her phone.” Blake says, nervousness creeping into his tone. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to imply.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking a question,” I say defensively.
“You’re not acting like yourself, babe. I don’t know what’s brought on your change of mood, if it’s that time of the month or what.”
“Are you serious?” I yell.
“I don’t know what’s going on. What ever’s wrong, I want to make it better. I need you to tell me why you’re upset.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “You really want me to tell you?”
“Yes, I do,” Blake pleads.
“I got a promotion at work.”
“That’s great, babe. I’m happy for you.”
“That’s not all. The promotion came with a very generous raise. I just … I don’t know how we’re supposed to get married when we both have lives and careers on opposite ends of the country.”
“Is that all? Bridget, baby, you’re over thinking this. This is a problem with infinite solutions. I could get a job in Washington or you could get a job in Texas. We don’t have to rush into marriage. We can take our time until we figure out what will work best. Until then, I don’t see why we can’t continue what we’re doing now. And if you got a raise, that just means you can come out to see me more often.”
I can hear myself groan inwardly. Why does Blake have to try to solve everything? “There are other issues, Blake. Where we live is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Then tell me. If you have concerns I want to hear them.”
I pause for a moment. Am I ready to pass the point of no return and reveal to Blake the mounting fears that hover in perpetuity at the back of my mind? “Distance is not our only obstacle. We have different values, different ideas of what we want out of life. Before you try to tell me I’m wrong, consider this: I don’t want children — ever. I will never change my mind about that. I know you want children. The way you talk about the things you’d like to teach your son one day … no matter what you say, I know that you want to be a father.”
“Bridget, I won’t lie, I like the idea of us having a child together. I know you’d make a great mom and that we’d have beautiful children. But I don’t want children more than I want you. If we have kids one day, great. If we never do, then I’d accept that also. I’ve never wanted you to feel like I’m forcing you into a life that you don’t want.”
“You say that now. But you don’t know how you’ll feel five, or even ten years from now. I’ll never be your perfect Christian wife, Blake. I’ll never be a homemaker like your mother. I’m not going to stay at home and take care of a bunch of kids while you spend your nights at a bar doing God knows what.”
“What! What the hell are you talking about Bridget?”
“I’m talking about your drinking problem!”
“My drinking problem? I have a drinking problem now? I think you’re losing your mind.”
“I think you’re being an asshole,” I fire back. “How can you call me at two in the morning, drunk out of your mind and tell me you don’t have a problem?”
“I was in a celebratory mood. Since when is it a crime to spread the joy?”
“This isn’t exactly your first offense. Though I’m not surprised, you don’t remember. All that alcohol seems to give you memory loss. Do you realize how many times you’ve called me in the early AM hours, spouting nonsense that you conveniently never remember the next day? I’m guessing, no.”
“I think you need to be careful the way you talk to me.”
“Or else what? You’ll ignore my calls and take another trip to the bar with Allison?”
“Wha … What does Allison have to do with this?”
“You’re not a stupid guy Blake. Don’t play dumb. Do you honestly expect me to believe that nothing is going on between you two? All those late nights you’ve worked together, those romantic dinners and not to mention how comfortable she feels answering your phone and not telling you I called.”
“That’s quite an imagination you have. I wouldn’t exactly call Denny’s a romantic dining experience. I would like to know where my loving fiancée is because the woman I’m talking to now sounds batshit crazy.”
Hearing Blake call me crazy only spurs me on. Maybe he’s right. I might have gone batshit
crazy. I certainly feel as though a rage demon has seized control of me. Everything I say has the sole intent of feeding upon my growing animosity towards Blake. “Tell me Blake, when you were celebrating with Allison last night do you happen to recall that two months ago you asked me to be your wife? Did that mean anything to you? How would you feel if I stayed out late with one of my handsome co-workers instead of spending time with you?”
“I asked you to be my wife, not my jailer,” Blake replies bitterly.
“Your jailer? When have I ever been your jailer? We see each other, what, ten times a year and I’m your jailer? Is that what you tell Allison — your possessive, nagging girlfriend holds you back? You must be telling her something for her to behave so familiar towards you.”
“You know Bridget, you’re right. I do enjoy spending time with Allison. You know why? Because when I’m around her everything is simple. I can go out and have a beer without being accused of being a drunk. I can go to a restaurant without having to make sure the menu has vegetarian options and I can watch a damn fight without being told it’s too loud.”
“So, in other words, Allison doesn’t mind when you behave like an inconsiderate buffoon.”
“No, no, listen, Bridget, we’re both heated and we’re saying things we don’t mean. I think we should take a break from each other for a while and come back when we’ve both cooled off.”
“I haven’t said anything I don’t mean, and I doubt you have either,” I reply saltily. “ I think you’re finally being honest about how you feel about us. If I’m such a nuisance, why do you want to marry me? It’s not as though I twisted your arm for a proposal.”
Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1) Page 8