Bent not Broken

by Lisa De Jong

  And my soul.

  I want to scream.

  My body is a ticking bomb.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Everything dies inside me.

  Nothing survives.

  The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly.

  It has been three weeks since the incident, since my life completely changed. I don’t care about anything. I don’t care about Ben. I don’t care about work. And I most certainly don’t care what happens to me. My life leads nowhere, so why should I keep trying and trying?

  I’m done.

  I’ve given up. And it feels so fucking good. Living in an emotionless stupor suits me quite well because it helps me forget and not feel. And I want that. I want to not feel.

  Not one thing.

  When the last of the baby items is wrapped in a garbage bag, I move to the top of the stairs and throw it down with the others. I watch as the bag lands in a mountain of shiny black plastic. That’s better.

  Relieved, I walk to the center of the airy, and now empty room and let my eyes roam the bare wooden walls. There’s nothing left. No furniture or boxes filled with memories of my marriage throughout the years, not one bitter memento. I got rid of it all because each picture, each rickety chair, each item resurfaced a pain so deep, so crippling within me that it made it hard to breathe.

  Yep, this is much better.

  As I scan the place, I’m overcome by a desire to twirl. I want to let my body move freely in any direction it wants to take me. Closing my eyes, I tip my head back, and twirl with my arms outstretched, feeling free, unburdened. Faster and faster I’m blindly spinning as tears soak my cheeks. Unhinged by grief, I laugh so hard that it makes my stomach hurt. Or am I sobbing? Maybe a little bit of both.

  “Cathy, stop that right now. You’re going to make yourself sick,” I hear Ben say. His voice ringing with sadness. Why? Isn’t he supposed to be perfect fucking Ben? Never sad and always happy. Always ready to catch me when I fall.

  Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben.

  The space between us grows each day. Can we stop it? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

  “Go away, Ben. Or join me! But don’t tell me what to do,” I manage to say between laughs. “This is so much fun!” Really. He should give it a try.

  “Don’t make me force you to stop.”

  Well, that doesn’t work for me. With my eyes closed, I continue to twirl and ignore his warning. “What are you going to do, huh? Stop me with your big and strong hands?” I taunt him because I really don’t care, “Maybe—”

  I’m cut short when I feel his very strong hands on my forearms, stopping me like he said he would. “Stop it! Stop it!” He yells at me. “Open your eyes, Cathy! Look at yourself. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t continue to watch my wife driving herself to an early grave. You’re killing yourself, Cathy! Open your fucking eyes and look at me!” Swallowing hard, Ben shakes me as the choked words leave his mouth. “Look at me, Cathy. Look at me. Please.”

  And I do.

  His pleading brown eyes are wet with unshed tears. “Well, what do you want? I’m looking at you now. Tell me what do you want from me, Ben?”

  His grip on my arms grows tighter. I’m sure I’ll have bruises by tonight. The pain feels good, though. It makes me feel alive.

  I hear him groan as he lets go of my arms and pulls me close to his body. He wraps his tense arms around me in a constricted embrace. It’s a desperate call for help, and one I don’t care for. I don’t return the hug. My lifeless hands remain on my sides as Ben tips my chin up, making me look at him.

  Clenching his jaw tautly, Ben stares at me for a moment before speaking. “I want you to stop hurting yourself. You’re not eating, you haven’t showered in days, and all you do when you’re not sleeping is clean this attic. There’s nothing else left here to throw away, so please, Cathy…please. Come downstairs with me. Let me bathe you…feed you…whatever you want, baby. Just let me back in. I can’t take seeing you like this and not being able to do anything about it.”

  “Let me be. It will pass…” I whisper.

  “How, Cathy? You won’t speak to anyone. You won’t return Amy’s phone calls, not even your dad’s. Hell, you won’t even speak to me. It’s like you’re here in my arms, but you really aren’t. The real Cathy has already checked out and I’m left only with the shell of my wife. You need help, babe, and it’s okay to ask for it. I’m here.”

  “I don’t need saving.”

  “Yes, you do. And I wish I could save you, Cathy. Take the pain away; erase it from your body. I wish I could hurt for you, but I can’t. You have to save yourself. All I can do is love you. Through it all, just love you. But you need to let me back in.”

  “Are you even hurting, Ben? Do you even realize what happened? I fucking lost a fourth baby, Ben. A fourth beautiful baby. What kind of woman am I that I cannot even carry full-term? My body is poisoned. It kills them, Ben.”

  My voice is rising, but I don’t care. I can’t stand Ben’s poise, his perfection…the way he seems to always look at the fucking bright side of things. Life is a fucking joke. And he needs to realize that.

  “You keep saying that we will be okay. That we’ll get through this shit.” Lifting my arms, I push him away until we’re standing in front of each other not touching, a gulf between us. “That there are other options. Well, dear Ben, I’m fucking done with it all. I’m fucking done. I don’t want to try anymore. I don’t want to look at another baby item in this house. I don’t ever want to hear you talk about us having a baby, about the different options available to us. I don’t want to fucking hear it coming from your mouth. I’m done. I’m done. I’m done! Do you understand me? I don’t want it anymore!”

  My body is shaking from anger.

  Or is it despair?

  “It hurts, Ben. Do you understand? No, you can’t understand it! Why am I even asking you? Asking Ben who has answers for everything. You want to know my answer? I’m not woman enough, Ben!” I begin to angrily hit myself, my hands attacking my empty womb as I sob irrational words. I want to feel as much physical pain as possible. “I’m a joke. And that’s the sad truth. So, please, please, please! Stop it! Just fucking stop. Let me grieve however I want. I need to…”

  “Babe, let me try—”

  “STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP TREATING ME AS IF I AM A FUCKING PORCELAIN DOLL! I’M BROKEN, DO YOU HEAR ME! I. AM. BROKEN.”

  He reaches out for me with an entreating hand, but I don’t let him. Shaking my head, I turn on my feet and flee the attic as fast as my feet will allow me. I turn my back on him and maybe on our marriage, but when I said to him that I was done. I meant it.

  I meant every single word.

  And he’s right. Ben is right.

  I’ve checked out.

  ****

  A month later.

  A: Catherine, I need to see you.

  C: Why? I thought you were done with me.

  A: I went into the office to see my father. I ran into Amy. She told me what happened…

  C: So? It’s in the past.

  A: I want to be there for you…

  C: What a joke. And no. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.

  A: Dimples, please. I know you must be hurting. Before shit went down between us, before I got fucking drunk and ruined everything, we were friends. I want to be there for you.

  A: Answer me please.

  A: Are you there?

  A: Don’t shut me out of your life, Cathy.

  C: Fine. But don’t tell anyone. I don’t want anyone to know.

  Later that morning, I call Ben at his office to let him know that I’m going into town to meet Amy for drinks. At first he’s taken aback and surprised. I can’t say that I blame him. I haven’t spoken to anyone in close to two months. But when the
black lie rolls off my tongue, I realize that I would like to see her, to speak to her again. I’ve missed her. But before today, I wasn’t ready to face anyone. I need to heal at my own speed, under my own terms.

  My heart is broken, my dreams and hopes shattered alongside it. Even though the healing process has begun, and I know I will heal eventually, I will never be the same. I will never be the Cathy I used to be.

  She’s gone.

  And in her stead, there’s me.

  The leftover.

  The burnt ruins.

  I’m a woman with so many inner scars that Dorian Gray’s twisted reflection could be mine. But they are my scars. My hellish reminders. They make me who I am, who I’m left to live life with. And I would never change that.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Ben asks.

  “No. It’s okay. I need a girl’s night out. I think it would be good for me.” I wonder why lying comes so naturally to me now. Have I always lied to myself? Maybe.

  After some silence, he continues, “I think it would be good for you. I’m glad you’re speaking to her again. Maybe you could try giving your dad a call…”

  “No. One step at a time. This is good. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I need to run some errands. I’ll leave dinner ready for you since I won’t be here by the time you get home.”

  “Cathy, don’t hang up just yet. I need to say something. I’m happy you’re getting out. I really am. Maybe this means—”

  “Ben. It doesn’t mean anything. All I’m doing is going to meet a friend for drinks and maybe dinner.”

  Which I am…kind of.

  “Okay, babe. I’m just glad. Have fun and say hello to Amy for me.”

  I hang up without saying good-bye. I won’t be made to feel guilty for this. I won’t.

  Besides, why should I? If I’m in ruins, I wouldn’t even know how to describe the state of our marriage.

  I hate when Ben reaches for me at night.

  I want to throw up every time he makes love to me.

  I’ve grown to hate looking at his beautiful face and everything that makes him so perfect.

  I hate the fucking joke that our marriage has become.

  And I hate myself because I seem to have lost all care for everything.

  ****

  Valentino Red. Bright red lips.

  A body fitting dress that shows off my petite figure.

  Blonde curls falling down my back.

  Champagne flute in hand.

  Tangy bubbles on my tongue tickling my throat.

  I wait for him.

  Sitting on a stool next to the bar, I scan the room looking for Arsen as the loud dance music pounds in my ears. He’s running late, or maybe I’m just early. Either way, it doesn’t matter because I’m out of the house, out of my self-imposed jail.

  Calm.

  I know I should feel nervous, but I don’t feel one thing.

  I’m just cold.

  “Excuse me, I noticed that you’re alone. Would you let me buy you another drink?” a dark haired man asks. Upon close examination, I note that he’s very handsome and he looks like Ben, though he appears to be a bit older than my husband.

  “Thank you but no. I’m waiting for a friend. And he should be here at any moment.” I turn in my seat, completely dismissing him.

  “You don’t have to be such a cold bitch, you know.” The man leans down to whisper viciously in my ear.

  “You have less than a minute to apologize to her and back the fuck off, dude.” Ah. A ferocious chill snakes down my spine as I hear his sweet, sweet voice.

  Arsen.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy mutter something to Arsen, maybe an apology, but I don’t really care. All I want, all I need at this moment, is standing in front of me. And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel so lost anymore. Not so cold.

  I watch Arsen and the way his eyes shine like blue fire when they land on me, a burning fire that gradually melts the chronic sheet of ice covering my body. With one look, Arsen provides the warmth I didn’t know I needed until this very moment.

  “Oh, Dimples.”

  That’s all it takes. With those two words, I come undone. Not caring that we’re in the middle of a busy bar with loads of people watching us, I throw myself at him, bury my face in his chest, and let myself cry.

  Oh, how I missed his smell.

  How I missed him.

  With me wrapped in the security of his arms, Arsen throws some bills on the bar and guides us to a corner booth, away from all the people watching us closely. He sits down first and then pulls me on top of his lap, never letting go of me. He begins to rock us both in a soothing motion as he tries to console me. One of his hands is on the back of my neck; my hair tightly wrapped in his fist as the other one gently caresses my back. Up and down. His touch is not sexual…it’s soothing. Arsen, a friend gone wrong, is comforting me. His are the first arms I am able to find solace in.

  “I-I’m…so…soorryy.”

  My words get mixed between tears.

  “It’s okay beautiful. It’s okay. I’m here. We’ll talk later.”

  After a while, when I’m all cried out, I begin my tale of sorrow, my trip down memory lane. Recounting how my life has been since the last day I saw him makes it feel as if a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest. It allows me to breathe painlessly again. With Arsen, I can finally grieve and not pretend that everything is all right. With Arsen, I can let my emotions take over me and not be ashamed by them.

  With Arsen, I can be me.

  Sniffling, I take the napkin that Arsen handed me before and wipe my eyes and nose. “I must look like a mess.”

  “Nah. You look like the cutest raccoon I’ve ever seen.” I watch as he lifts his hand and slowly brings it to caress my cheek. Closing my eyes, I get lost in the sensation of his warm palm against my skin, and his light touch makes my body tingle. When I gaze at him again, his eyes are hooded with want, and he watches me while his thumb gently strokes my skin. I notice his breathing begins to accelerate as we continue eyeing each other. The loud background music has changed to hip-hop, but it’s the silence between us that makes me instantly aware of his hands on my body.

  Sluggishly, I get off his lap and move to sit next to him. The distance between us provides me with a chance to clear my mind and slow down the crazy beating of my heart.

  “So, basically, I’ve given up. I don’t want to ever try again, Arsen. It hurts to just think about it. I don’t know if it’s because th-the miscarriage is still too fresh in my memory. I really don’t know. I mean, try to put yourself in my shoes. Wishing, hoping, and praying for that one thing that you want and need the most to be finally yours just to have destiny, or life, or karma, or whatever the hell you want to call it, snatch it out of your hands over and over again. I can’t go through it again. I just can’t.”

  His eyes pierce me.

  “I know exactly how that feels. More than you know.” Letting his words hang in the air for a moment, I get the feeling that he’s trying to tell me something. “But listen to me, and listen carefully…I’ve been there. You know about Jessica.” He grips my thigh, “I’m not going to go into details, but there was a time when I wanted to give up on life. Shit went down that made me who I am and I can’t, I won’t, ever change that. Fuck, just thinking about it still hurts, but along the way to finding myself again, I discovered an innate truth.”

  “Yes?” I whisper.

  “Life without love, without chasing your dreams, is nothing. It means nothing. It’s a sad fucking empty shell, Catherine. It’s so easy to drown in darkness, to let it smother you, swallow you whole, to be blinded by it. But you gotta fight. You gotta fucking fight.”

  “That’s so easy for you to say. I hate it when people tell me that things will get better…that one day it won’t hurt so much…to not give up and fight! Well, show me how. Show me a way to—”

  “Stop. I don’t know what I’m doing either, Catherine.” He tak
es my hand in his. “Life is full of surprises and challenges at every turn, but I won’t let them stop me. I’m trying to improvise as I go. It’s the only way to survive. You need to look the fucking sick joke that is life straight in the eye and tell it to bring its fucking A game because you shouldn’t go down without a fight.” He kisses my hand and turns his tall frame towards me as he encases me with his body.

  “I won’t let you give up. You gotta fight. So cry all you need, get drunk to forget, but don’t let the shittiness of life get to you. You’re better than that. And maybe you should speak to Ben. Open up to him.” The words are forced out of his mouth.

  “No. I don’t want to speak to him. He always tells me the same thing. That it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay, but it won’t be. It never is.”

  “Dimples, I’m telling you pretty much the same fucking thing. And Ben is right. You need to let him help you. Together, the two of you could probably overcome all this fucking bullshit,” he says.“No. You’re not trying to reassure me with false promises.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him before he says anything else I don’t want to hear. “No, Arsen. Thank you, but leave it at that. I don’t want to talk about him, or the poor state that my marriage is in.”

  The bar is getting busier by the hour. I’m wondering how long we’ve been here when I notice that we are still holding hands. I’m staring at them when I feel him move closer to me, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “He’s a good guy, Dimples. I’m sure he means well. And maybe you shouldn’t be here with me when you can be with him.”

  Annoyed, I push his hand away. The truth can always be a damn bother. “Yes. But I don’t want to. I want to be here. If you want to leave, leave. I don’t care. I like you, Arsen, but I’m not going to take relationship advice from a man whore who can’t open up or settle down long enough with the same woman because he’s scared shitless. Sorry.”

  He pins me with furious eyes as he crosses his arms. “You know what? Fuck you. I’m trying to help you. And FYI, I don’t give a fuck about your marriage and—”

  “Yes. Go ahead! Say it! I dare you. Say that you don’t give a fuck about me. And why should you? I don’t even like myself.”