Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook

by Twenty Goodreads Authors

  http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1139740-wendy http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?ref=profile&id=679259206

  Letting Go

  Wendy Swore

  Copyright © Wendy Swore 2009 Something was wrong with my wife.

  Tessa had always been prey to seasonal depression, but after

  the holidays this past year, she took it to a new level. I found her sitting on the kitchen floor and weeping; a dribble of water spilling over the top of the sink to form a puddle on the linoleum beside her.

  I turned off the faucet and tried to raise her, but she would not be moved. Eventually, I knelt on the floor beside her until she could compose herself.

  It was hours before we got up.

  The crying went on for weeks. I tried to be supportive—to be there for her to talk to, but she would ignore me. Sometimes she sobbed into the night; other times she stared at nothing, neither seeing nor hearing. I tried to reason with her; if she wouldn’t talk to me, then we should seek professional help, but she wouldn’t listen.

  Nothing I said mattered anymore, but she allowed some physical comfort. I spent many a sleepless night just holding her, or stroking her hair until she fell asleep. Sometimes she would close her eyes and lean into me when I rubbed her shoulders, her melancholy lifting away with my touch—for a few hours at least.

  A month later, I rejoiced at the first signs that she would pull through this thing. Her beautiful, elusive smile surfaced now and again with increasing frequency; a giggle for a funny TV show, a wistful smile for a romantic book. After much encouragement, she even took herself out to the movies once. I could barely contain my glee when she seemed a little happier on her return.

  Eventually she resumed her old schedule, though her talkative nature seemed to have died. I had to read her body language to carry on our one-sided conversations. She would nod softly in agreement, or frown when she thought I was wrong; little things, but at least she started to acknowledge me again. Still, I missed her voice.

  I wondered if maybe she had a stroke or something—a medical reason for how she acted—but she adamantly refused to seek help, and I could not force her.

  Though heartbreaking, life returned to a new kind of normal; one where we lived together, but shared little.

  If I called her name, or got right in her face, she would glance up and look past me, eyes unfocused. Things were easier—she was happier—when I didn’t try to force her. Against my better judgment, I let it go.

  When it felt too hard to bear, I had to remind myself that my vows were for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health… This inexplicable illness she suffered from didn’t let me off the hook just because I missed how things used to be. My loneliness was palpable, crushing me by inches each day.

  I never thought anything could be worse than this depression, but these last few weeks, she began exhibiting anger and dread at the oddest moments. I feared for her sanity.

  Just the other day we were doing the dishes together like normal, which meant that she did most of the washing while I talked to her about getting help. I started to put the dishes away, but I dropped the first one on the floor. It shattered. She yelped and jumped back at the sound. Her hand trembled over her heart against her chest, her eyes wide with fright. They were her grandmother’s dishes, so I knew it was no small thing, but still…she was overreacting.

  “Honey, I am so sorry,” I apologized, and moved to take her into my arms, but when my foot slid over the broken pieces, she backed away and shook her head, her breathing erratic.

  “Relax, baby, it’s okay. See?” I held my hand up in surrender. “I’ll clean it up. You just stay there and I’ll fix this.”

  The rise and fall of her chest steadied.

  “That’s better, now just give me a minute and I’ll clean this right—”

  She turned on her heel and took the broom and dustpan from the closet. Marching back into the kitchen, she stooped over and swept the remains of the plate up.

  “I said I would do it.”

  She ignored me.

  “Please say something.” I brushed her arm. “Please.”

  She shuddered, shrugged my finger off, and vigorously rubbed the remnants of my touch away with her other hand as if I were a disease.

  After everything I put up with, she expected me to not even touch her?

  “Say something!” I demanded.

  Standing, she dumped the glass shards into the garbage and walked away.

  I was shocked. I had never treated her with anything other than respect and compassion even through those months of mental illness, but to be treated as such, like a cur, a leper, shook me to my very core. What would be next? How much more could I endure?

  Later that week, I noticed that she resented the things I did for her. Once she left the bedroom light on when she had gone into the kitchen. I flipped it off, only to have her glare first at the light switch and then in my direction.

  “I thought you were done in there, sorry.” My apology sounded stupid even in my own ears. Why apologize for so trivial a thing?

  And then there was the day that I opened the door for her when her arms were laden with groceries.

  Rather than thank me, she froze, stared at my hand on the door handle, and went around to the back door so as to not use the one door I held for her. It seemed she’d do anything to avoid me, the pariah of her life.

  Watching her put the groceries in the cupboard my offer to help died in my throat since I knew already that it would go unanswered.

  That evening she changed into the full-length white silk nightie that I loved. It made the prettiest little pile when it hit the floor. I sometimes imagined it was like a cloud that fell away to reveal her beautiful body.

  A sliver of hope pricked my heart and I waited to see if she would turn back like she used to; throw her arms around my neck and beg me to forgive the silliness that had taken over our lives. I leaned against the door in anticipation. It creaked.

  She looked up.

  “Hey baby. You look beautiful tonight.” I smiled and crooked my finger at her with a “come hither” motion.

  She frowned and turned away, slipping under the covers and rolling onto her side.

  Disappointment flooded in. Nothing had changed, but it felt worse because I hoped for a miracle. It seemed to me that hope itself must be made of glass; when it shattered, the shards cut far deeper than the original wound. I felt such profound pain at her rejection that my legs no longer had strength to stand.

  I staggered to the bed and sat heavily, my head already in my hands. The moment I sat down, my wife flew out of bed, her pretty voice hysterical.

  “Go away! What do you want with me? Leave me alone! Go away, please, go away!” She sank against the wall shivering and crying. “Leave me alone. Please, please, please…”

  My mouth fell open. It was too much to ask. I had endured one version of extreme dysfunction after another for nearly a year…and now this.

  I stormed from the room into the kitchen. Leave her alone? You bet. Fine. I’d do just that. Nothing I did made it better anyway.

  Roaring in frustration, I slammed the cupboard door hard enough that all the others popped open and a picture frame fell off the shelf beside it to the floor. I was going insane along with her. Could any vow survive this?

  I slid my back down the wall and sat on the floor.

  “Why?” I pleaded. “Why is this happening? It’s got to end.”

  I choked on my tears and hid my face in my arms. “I can’t take it anymore. I want my wife back.”

  Tentative footsteps echoed down the hallway and my wife emerged, still clothed in her pretty negligee. Even after all this, she moved me; a vision of heaven on Earth.

  “Honey,” I whispered, “this is killing me—killing us. You have to talk to someone. We can’t go on like this.”

  Her eyes scanned the room, taking in all the open doors and freezing on the picture frame. Hesitantly, she retrieved it and backed against t
he wall beside me.

  “Oh, Ryan.” She whispered, her fingers touching the photo. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I shot to my feet beside her.

  “You can beat this, Tessa, but you’ve got to talk to a professional. I don’t think we can do it alone. It’s just not going away.”

  I glanced at the photo of our third anniversary, and watched her clever fingers trace circles around us.

  She still loved me, I was sure of it. We just had to break through the barriers between us. Slowly, I put my arms around her, my lips against the hollow of her throat.

  “There is no shame in talking to a professional, a counselor, not if it helps get our lives back. Please. You have to do it…for us.”

  The clasp of her necklace had slipped to the side and I pulled it back center for her. “Make a wish. Isn’t that what you always said when you fixed that?”

  Her finger stilled on the photo and gooseflesh rose upon her arms. For the first time in forever, she turned and looked directly into my eyes, but I could not hold her gaze. That same lost look returned and her pretty blue eyes slid on past my face, staring at nothing across the room. She walked back to the bedroom, the white silk billowing behind her.

  I walked the hallway that night while she made phone calls, occasionally going out on the patio to calm my nerves with the fresh air while she called first one counselor and then another, looking for the perfect fit.

  It was so nice to hear her voice; I just let it wash over me, the words blending with one another as she took the first steps toward getting the help she needed. In spite of my previous disappointments, I hoped for a cure.

  We both felt the stress of that night. I spent it pacing, occasionally checking in on Tessa. She spent most of the night sitting up in bed, her pillows gathered around her. Her eyes darted in my direction whenever I approached, but neither of us spoke again.

  When the doorbell rang the next day, I was dead on my feet from worry. Would it work? Would I get her back?

  Tessa took a steadying breath before opening the door. The woman on the step looked nothing like any counselor I’d ever seen. Her eyes had a luminous quality behind large glasses, and her dangly earrings brushed her shoulders when she moved. She looked more suited to the set of a 70’s show than a real counselor.

  All those phone calls and this is what she comes up with? I would have to get her references later.

  “Thanks for coming. It’s Celia, isn’t it? Won’t you come in?” Tessa stood aside and held the door.

  Celia stepped inside, her eyes flickering toward me before resting on Tessa. “Is there a room where you feel more comfortable?”

  “The couches are in here,” I suggested, but Tessa ignored me and led the way to the table.

  “How about here?” she offered.

  “Fine.” Celia draped her wrap over the chair and settled down opposite my wife. “I know it can’t be easy taking this step.”

  I nodded. “It has taken her a year to get this far.”

  “I felt like I had no other choice. I couldn’t go on this way.” Tessa’s hands rested on the table, her fingers twisting around each other. “Do you think you can help?”

  “We can try. I want you to relax. Think back to when things first started changing for you. Was there any trigger or event that preceded the feelings?”

  I gently put my hands on Tessa’s shoulders and rubbed in circles, the way she liked it. She shrugged my fingers off and rubbed one hand over her neck. For the sake of our company I tried to hide how much that little movement wounded me.

  “I can’t think…maybe a year ago? After the holidays, and all that happened, I was pretty out of it for a while.”

  “What kind of energy are you feeling today?”

  “I don’t know. At first I think I felt excitement, and anticipation…but now it’s more muddled. Sad? Disappointed? I can’t tell.”

  “Let’s begin and see what we find then. Give me your hands.” Reaching across the table, she grasped Tessa’s hands firmly.

  The corners of my mouth turned down. What kind of a touchy-feely counselor was this? Did I really want her slogging around in my wife’s head? But before I could give voice to my concern, Celia’s eyes rolled back into her head. Her frame shook and a soft moan sounded from her throat.

  “She’s having a seizure!”

  I tried to lift their hands apart, but she had a steel-trap grip on Tessa’s fingers. I couldn’t make her let go. I glanced at Tessa. Her mouth was set in a grim line, a touch of fear in her eyes.

  “Let go! We need to lay her on the ground before she hurts herself.”

  Instead of answering, she closed her eyes too, her brows furrowed in concentration.

  “Damn it all! Why won’t you listen to me?”

  Taking Tessa’s face in my hands I forced her to turn toward me. “Answer me! Why won’t you listen?”

  “You’re asking the wrong questions.” The Celia’s voice had taken on an ethereal quality.

  “What?” I let go of Tessa and stared at the counselor. “What did you say?”

  Celia’s lids fluttered opened, but the black depths of her dilated eyes bored into me.

  “Ryan?” Tessa hesitated. “Is that you?”

  Tessa’s glazed eyes shocked me into taking a step back. “Tessa? Are you okay?”

  Her intense stare followed my movements, her bottom lip trembling. “I don’t understand.” A sob escaped her. “Why is this happening?”

  “He doesn’t know.” Celia explained.

  “Know what?” I backed away from them both, a sick feeling in my gut. “What is going on? Stop staring at me like that!”

  Their horrible gazes were unwavering.

  “Stop it!” I yelled.

  “Oh, Ryan.” Tessa cried. “I love you so much.”

  Was the room shaking?

  “Ryan, you need to let go.” Celia’s voice rang with power and authority.

  It was getting hard to breathe.

  “What’s happening?” I gasped.

  The floor fell away from under my feet and I grasped at the chair in front of me, both of us rising.

  “You can’t take care of her anymore, Ryan.” Celia’s words landed against my chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath from my lungs.

  “Tessa!” I screamed, the windows shattering from my cry.

  Tessa’s tear-filled eyes watched my agony.

  “Why are you doing this?” I begged, my distorted voice echoing throughout the room.

  Celia’s hideous eyes focused on mine.

  “Because you’re dead.”

  Foundation

  Wendy Swore

  Copyright © Wendy Swore 2009 “Where are the potato chips I bought yesterday?” Ben slammed the cupboard door and stormed into the

  family room, his eyes narrowing as they focused on an empty chip bag on the floor surrounded by toys. He kicked the toys out of the way and swept the bag up in his hand, to crumple it in his fist.

  “Is it too much to ask for a little help with the cleaning?” Spying the DVD he bought last week, he snatched it off the floor and cursed at its smudged finish.

  “None of you take care of anything! I might as well pour my money down the toilet as buy anything new around here.”

  He paused to hear the barbed reply that his wife would throw in defense of the children and their carelessness…but none came. The house was empty.

  A muffled squeal of laughter led him out to the back yard.

  Trina, his wife of twelve years, sat on the porch step watching the children play and bicker as siblings do.

  He stood in front of her with his arms crossed.

  “The house is trashed.” He accused.

  “I know.”

  “My DVD is ruined.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The twins ran past, their braids dripping wet from the sprinklers. He turned to yell at them, but she interjected before he finished drawing breath.

  “I told them they cou
ld get wet.”

  “They’re making a mud hole in the lawn…and the mower is getting wet,” he complained.

  “The grass will grow back and water won’t hurt the mower. Your clippers are broken, but that was an accident.”

  “This is unacceptable. You say you’re busy all day but when I come home, nothing’s changed. Basically, your performance is sub-par.”

  He kicked a doll off the sidewalk.

  “I’m tired of it. I can’t stand it. You need to step it up a notch.”

  Lifting his chin, he stood over her, his mind simmering with righteous indignation.

  “I’m tired of it too,” her eyes still focused on the children, she replied. “I’d tell you what I did all day, but you wouldn’t care or value it anyway, so what’s the point?”

  “I value you. I just think…”

  “That I’m lazy? Sub-par? Not trying hard enough? What is it today, Ben? Tell me how inadequate I am. How I suck as a mother and wife.”

  “Hey, I never said that. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “Respect and love are the foundations of a good marriage. Do you think we have that?” She darted a glance at his eyes before looking away. “I used to think we did, but not anymore...”

  “When did this become about our marriage?” he asked.

  “It has always been about our marriage. I thought having children would bind us closer, but it hasn’t. Instead you push and push until I’ve got nothing left. I’m not even sure you love us anymore.”

  “Love us? What are you talking about?”

  “How can you claim to love the children, when every little mess infuriates you? How can you claim to love me when nothing I do is good enough? Your anger is like a disease that rots this family from the inside out.”

  “Don’t blow this up into something it’s not. Things aren’t as bad as you’re making them out to be,” he tried to reason.

  She pointed to a dead tree in the pasture next to their yard. “That used to be my favorite apple tree, but it has been dead for years. It waits for the next windstorms to make it fall. Some disease or insect wormed away at the inside until there was nothing left. It just gave up.”