Lighting Candles in the Snow

by Karen Jones Gowen

  He stirred it, breathing it in. “This smells delicious. What a cook you are, Karoline.”

  I brought over the basket of French bread. Butter, garlic, bread, pasta—a meal to inspire love-making. Or not.

  “Oh, yes, the candles,” I said, as I brought a plate with a five stubby candles arranged in a circle. I lit them and turned off the kitchen light. “There! Better than any restaurant.”

  Jeremy smiled at me over the sweet little candles in the center of the table. “This is nice,” he said in a gentle tone. “Your spinach pasta thingy is one of my favorites.”

  The irony of this dinner was not lost on me. I wondered if Jeremy was aware of it, too. I believed he was, because of how he looked at me with a kind of guilty appreciation. Like I had somehow magically, with my extraordinary culinary skills, turned back the clock to that evening of our anniversary and erased what had gone before and after.

  Well, I was no savior. Jeremy would have to save himself from his demons.

  He would soon be out the door and forever out of my life. I’d be nice to him until after we had the ice cream. Someday I might be able to forgive him. As he gazed at me across the candlelight, I wondered if he would ask me to.

  Jeremy ate a lot. He noticed that I wasn’t, unusual for me since I’ve always been a girl with a healthy appetite.

  “What’s wrong, Karoline? You barely touched your food.” He reached for another slice of bread and spread it thickly with butter.

  “I’m not very hungry. I’m enjoying watching you eat, though.”

  It was nice to have someone to share dinner with. Usually I grabbed something and ate in front of the TV at night. I glanced at the clock. Seven on a Wednesday. Criminal Minds was about to start.

  “I feel bad eating all your food,” Jeremy said.

  Your food. It used to be our food. My food, my apartment, my single, lonely otherness from Jeremy.

  He glanced up with an expression of concern. No one is more observant than a writer. You can’t let out a quiet little sigh without a writer ex-husband noticing.

  “There is something wrong.” He set down his fork. “I’m sorry, Karoline. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t be here. It’s painful for you.”

  He pushed back his chair and made a move to get up.

  This was my opportunity to agree, to say, “No, you shouldn’t be here. I think you should go. Please leave. Please go and never return.”

  Seeing Jeremy sitting across the little table from me, enjoying the meal I had prepared just for him made me happy. I couldn’t bear the thought of him walking out, supposedly to save me pain.

  What kind of life is it anyway if the sole purpose becomes saving oneself pain? Then why get married, why have children, why do anything? Why even walk outside your door, because you might get hurt? Just sit alone in your house day after day with nothing but the TV for company, to save yourself pain.

  I shook my head. “No, Jeremy, you coming over isn’t painful. What hurts more is you not being here. Don’t leave. I swear, if you do, I will die of grief. My heart will break in a million pieces. Melodramatic yes, but honestly how I feel.”

  There went plan number two.

  “Don’t walk out to spare me some kind of imagined sorrow.”

  His face softened and I was afraid I might cry. He remained silent, watching me, letting me talk.

  “This evening isn’t something I’m enduring to make us both feel better about, about, what happened the other day.”

  He reached across the table and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks.

  “Sorry, Jeremy. I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s silly.” So much for strong Mountain Woman—I felt more like a child crying for her lost toy. “Only don’t leave. Please.”

  “It’s not silly,” Jeremy said, touching my hand. “There’s a lot happening between us right now, a lot of emotion. I don’t want to hurt you again, Karoline. I have wanted this for so long, you and me together. I can’t believe you would want me. Not after what I put you through. I was a jerk, worse than a jerk. I have problems, things I never told you, things I never wanted to talk about. I kept everything inside, and I guess you could say it made me sick.”

  I thought of what his mom had told me. Evil has a way of causing sickness in others, in innocent people that it touches.

  He fiddled with his knife and fork, finally setting them at cross angles on his plate.

  I watched him and waited. He had something more to say, and I wondered what.

  “I told you I was getting counseling?” he said, like it was a question.

  “Yes, you said something about it. That’s really good, Jeremy. Remember, I always tried to get you to go. I felt like you needed to talk to someone, to get professional help.”

  “I realized it too, but I wasn’t ready to accept it. You have to hit bottom, I guess, to be willing to admit certain things and make changes.”

  “And you hit bottom?” I wondered if our divorce had anything to do with it.

  “Let’s go sit in the living room,” he suggested. “We can talk for a while then I’ll help you clean up.”

  “There’s dessert,” I said. “Nothing special, just ice cream.”

  “We’ve got all night. We’ll talk, we’ll eat ice cream, we’ll clean up the kitchen.”

  He took my hand and led me to the living room, to our big comfy sofa that had embraced me during the long months when he had been out of my life.

  Had it been just a week ago that Zac Kline sat there making his moves on me? Good thing I had resisted. To have sex with Zac then turn around and make love to Jeremy would have made me feel like the biggest slut, like I had cheated on my husband.

  We settled ourselves in our favorite cuddling position, with Jeremy leaning into the arm of the sofa, and I with my legs curled under, lying against him, his arm around me. It felt so familiar and happy, I almost started crying again.

  “This is nice,” he said, stroking my hair.

  “Very nice.”

  More than nice. It was wonderful. I could have burst from the joy within, my own Wasatch Mountain High bubbling up and making me light-headed.

  “Anyway, Karoline, I want to tell you about this counselor I’m going to see.”

  I wondered what made him finally give in to the idea of counseling. “How long have you been going?” I asked.

  “It was after our divorce was final. When that notice came, it was a knife cutting right through me and taking out something precious. The memories tortured me, although I pretended like I didn’t care. So what, I told myself. There are plenty of other women out there. I can have a woman whenever I want one.”

  “Oh wow, Jeremy, that’s harsh.”

  “I know, sorry, but I don’t like feeling hurt. I do anything to avoid it, to distract me from the feelings. I moved in with this girl for a while, I don’t know, to salve the wounds and get things back to normal.”

  Get things back to normal. How many times had I told myself that? How many times had Suzie and I agreed that was exactly what I needed?

  Both Jeremy and I had been apart trying to get things back to normal when what felt natural and effortless was us being together. Normal was Jeremy and me cuddling on the sofa, his arm around my shoulders, his soothing voice pouring over me like water on a thirsty land.

  “It wasn’t working with this woman. I stayed away longer and longer, and she kept making demands, asking me what was wrong, didn’t I love her, and that kind of shit. No, dammit, I didn’t love her. I loved you, Karoline, only you. And I had lost you. I had thrown it away by screwing up big time, not just once either, but that night of our anniversary. . . . God, Karoline, what I did that night. . . . I can hardly stand to think of it.”

  I let him go on. Jeremy admitting guilt was huge.

  “So, yeah, I hit bottom, realizing what I had done to the only woman I cared about. You believed in me, Karoline, you had always been there for me, and I treated you like dog shit.”

  Jeremy had never admi
tted any wrong doing before, or taken responsibility. After the Incident, he had shown me lots of attention and treated me like a queen, like everything was fine, but he had never admitted any real guilt. Still, we had been all right for a time, until he began drifting away again, staying out too late, drinking too much, getting into the porn. It had been an unhealthy pattern that had come to its inevitable conclusion.

  “After the divorce, I got to thinking of moments in our marriage when I had acted like I didn’t care, when I accused you of who knows what, to make my own lies more bearable. I was such a bastard, I was a fucking bastard, and I knew it, and it made me sick.” He banged his fist on the arm of the sofa. “I kept seeing your face when I’d come home late, and I’d been with a woman. I’d fucking cheated on you, Karoline, and you looking at me with such innocent trust.”

  I couldn’t say anything. My heart wept remembering those times when he’d come in late, drunk, acting strange and distant. And I had wondered, suspecting but not wanting to know the truth.

  He needed to talk it out, to confess. I would listen because I loved him, but hearing the words was like ripping off skin.

  “I figured you didn’t know anything, and what you don’t know can’t harm you, right? I kept on being the cheating bastard, and figured as long as you didn’t know, it wouldn’t matter. What a goddamn fool I was. You believed in me, and even when you knew, even when you found me with another woman, you stayed. I didn’t understand how someone could do that, could love me enough to stay with me through it all.”

  He shook his head and jumped to his feet, pacing in front of the sofa.

  “I wasn’t good enough for you, Karoline. I wasn’t worthy of you. I wanted you to kick me out, to make me feel better about the shit I’d put you through. I didn’t deserve you. I still don’t deserve you.”

  “Jeremy. It’s okay. I’ll be the judge of what I deserve. But . . . thank you.”

  Thank you for finally accepting responsibility.

  “I found this counselor, a friend told me about him, how he had helped her get through some stuff in her past, and I thought, what the hell? Why not give it a shot? If it didn’t help, I’d stop going.”

  “And did it help?”

  “Yeah, he was exactly the person I needed to see. Dr. Lance has a way of bringing things out that I haven’t faced in, well, ever. Only it’s not just him getting me to drone on about my past, like you think will happen when you go to a therapist, but he helps me see how the bad shit has shaped me. He showed me skills for coping and taking control, despite the dark times that always did me in before.”

  “That sounds really good, Jeremy. I’m glad you found someone who can help you.”

  He sat back down, calmer now. “I go to a twelve-step program three or four times a week along with the therapy. I’ve got sponsors to call for help when I have weak moments.”

  “Alcoholics Anonymous?” I asked.

  That and Gamblers Anonymous were the only twelve-step programs I’d heard about. I grew up in a family of abstainers. I knew nothing of alcoholism, of addictions, of inner torment and self-hatred—until I met Jeremy.

  He paused a long moment. “SAA—Sex Addicts Anonymous. AlAnon, and AA, too. I’m a fucked up mess. I need all three of them.”

  “As long as they help, that’s the main thing,” I said with a weak smile.

  Jeremy going to three different twelve-step programs was quite the revelation. This had to be a different man from the one I’d married, who wouldn’t ask for help, who wouldn’t admit he needed it, and who found unhealthy ways to deal with his addictions.

  “I’m impressed,” I continued, somewhat in awe of this new Jeremy. “You’re doing a courageous thing. It can’t be easy for you. It’s not easy for anyone to admit to any problems or weaknesses. It’s our human nature to figure we have it handled.”

  “I was being destroyed by my past. I had to change my approach, to change my old habits of dealing with stuff. And yeah, I had to admit I needed help, that I couldn’t do it alone.”

  I took in the open expression on his face, his humble tone of voice, the sadness around his eyes. He appeared to be the same on the outside but something inside had changed, transforming Jeremy into a man I could not only love but respect.

  Plans number one and two had fallen through. I cheerfully anticipated plan number three.

  Hot Spinach Pasta

  1 to 2 cups rotini, uncooked, or pasta of your choice

  6 to 8 cups raw spinach leaves, carefully washed

  ¼ cup olive oil

  ¼ cup butter

  2 tablespoons chopped garlic

  ½ cup Parmesan cheese, grated

  Place washed spinach leaves in large serving bowl.

  Heat olive oil in small pan. Add chopped garlic and sauté, stirring constantly until browned. Keep warm while cooking the pasta.

  Cook rotini in boiling water with 2 teaspoons salt until tender. Do not overcook. Drain and rinse with hot water.

  Pour pasta over spinach in bowl. Add olive oil and garlic. Stir and serve immediately, topped with grated Parmesan cheese.

  Serves two—happily, thankfully, joyfully serves two.

  Chapter Twenty-three: Mrs. London’s Story

  I never knew why Hank came back. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe he had a suspicion of what I was up to. It didn’t matter. Knowing the reason behind it wouldn’t have changed anything.

  He pulled into the drive right behind my car as I was putting those big suitcases in the trunk.

  The second I saw his truck, I knew I was finished. I expected him to run over, drag me into the house and beat me ’til I was dead. In my mind’s eye, I saw him doing it.

  I stood there with the trunk open, one suitcase inside, the other one setting at my feet. I waited, thinking maybe I’d be safer out here in public view. I would stall for time, keep my voice calm, agree with everything, not get him anymore riled up, and maybe it would be all right.

  It happened too fast. He was out of his truck and into the house before I could put three words together.

  I ran to the front door. Locked. And there were the house keys, in my purse, setting next to Stuart’s car seat.

  I banged on the door and rang the bell over and over. I tried looking through the front window. The blinds were shut as I had left them. No sounds came from within the house. I stopped hitting the front door to catch my breath and figure this out.

  If only he opens the door, I thought, then I’ll tell him I was going away for the weekend, that was why the suitcases. Maybe he’ll believe me. I’ll say I was going to visit my aunt in Logan.

  I was crafting the story in my head when I remembered that Jeremy was in the backyard. I ran around to the fence gate and pushed against it. The drifted snow blocked it from the other side, but I managed to push it open enough to squeeze through.

  “Jeremy, Jeremy!” I shouted for him.

  The beginning of his snowman sat in the middle of the yard, but I didn’t see him. I rushed to the back door. It was locked.

  Hank had locked me out of the house. He was inside with my babies, and I was powerless to protect them. I banged on the back door. Nothing. I ran back around to pound on the front door again. I screamed at him to let me in. It was a waste of breath.

  I couldn’t risk any more time. I ran to the neighbor’s house, an older lady who didn’t like going out in the snow. I knew she would be home. And because she always enjoyed getting company, I knew she would answer the door.

  She let me in on the second knock.

  I explained briefly what had happened. “It’s my husband, Mrs. Evans. There’s trouble. I need to use your phone.”

  “Of course, dear. It’s right there on the table.”

  I dialed zero for the operator, my hands shaking. I was sobbing, barely able to get the words out.

  Mrs. Evans said, “Let me,” and she took the receiver. She gave the operator my home address and added, “Please call the police and tell them to hurry. My neighbor’
s husband is a brutal man, a beast, and he has locked himself in the house with the two children, a baby and a little boy.”

  That did it. Within minutes we heard sirens. I was in despair, afraid they wouldn’t find my children alive.

  A policeman came to Mrs. Evans’ home and stayed with us, forbidding me to leave.

  “Ma’am, let the officers handle this,” he told me. “You will be in danger if you go out there, and you may jeopardize the safety of your children.”

  I was in a black, horrible place. The demons of hell had schemed against me to attack everything I held dear. The screaming devils kept throwing names at me: Gerald. Hank. Jeremy. Stuart. The same names repeated over and over, echoing from some bleak, unknown region that was outside and inside of me at the same time.

  I thought I was going insane.

  Mrs. Evans kept putting cups of herbal tea in my hands, and then taking them away to warm them again, as I sat there cold and silent as a stone.

  She put some music on, Mozart, she said it was, to calm my nerves and to block out the sounds from outside. Sirens. Shouting. Gunshots. And from inside my head came the screaming names: Gerald. Hank. Jeremy. Stuart.

  Later, the police told me that Hank had wanted to die, and he wanted the cops to kill him. They run across that now and then in hostage situations. Hank stepped out on the front porch with a shot gun. As soon as they verified he was alone, they killed him, one bullet straight to the heart, another one to the forehead. He was dead within seconds.

  It turned out Hank’s shot gun wasn’t loaded. That’s how they knew it was his way of committing suicide.

  Another policeman came to get me. “We can’t find the children. Is there a favorite hiding place your son liked, where he might be hiding and maybe protecting the baby?”

  I thought of under the bed. “Yes, but I want to go. I want to find them.”

  Two officers accompanied me. I went straight to Jeremy’s room. He wasn’t under the bed. We opened the closets throughout the house, the cupboard doors in the kitchen and bathroom, any small secret place where a little boy might be hiding with his baby brother.