Passion, Vows & Babies_Truth of a Dream

by Shari J. Ryan

  “I'm only thirty-one,” I argue. “I have plenty of time.”

  “I don’t want you to wait as long as I did, Emma. I feel like an old hen around you and I don’t like it. Plus, whether you like it or not, your clock is ticking, and you’re with the wrong man,” she feels the need to add in.

  “Do you really think I should get involved with a cashier at a fast food restaurant? I’m a career woman with some long-term goals, and memorizing the value meal numbers isn't one of them.”

  This is how lunch goes whenever I meet her during the week. I love Mom to death, and I enjoy spending the time with her, but we don't see eye-to-eye on my love life, my career, my lifestyle, or diet. As a matter of fact, sometimes I kind of feel like I'm on a different planet than she's on. “Mom, don't worry about me so much, okay? I'll figure things out.”

  “I'm always going to worry about you, Emma. You're my daughter. You're not happy, and it's obvious.”

  “I am happy,” I lie, forcing a smile to try and end the conversation, but no one knows me better than she does. I'm like an open book to her.

  “You're not living life to its fullest,” she argues.

  “Mom, Dad left you fifteen years ago, and you've been living alone ever since. How is that happiness? Are you living life to its fullest?”

  “You are my happiness, Emma.”

  Sometimes the guilt is overwhelming, and I think she knows it.

  The moment I slip back into my car, my phone buzzes in my bag, and I silently curse. Between work calls, Mom's calls, and Mike's calls, which have increased to an irritatingly excessive level as of late, I rarely have a moment to breathe. I pull out my phone and see Mike’s name on the display. I do not want to talk to him right now, but the calls will continue until I pick up, so I exhale heavily and answer.

  “Hi,” I say cordially, as I pull out of the parking lot.

  “Do you have a minute?” he asks, then clears his throat. That’s what he does when he’s nervous about something.

  “Sure,” I tell him, though I don't want to hear what he plans to say. Sorry doesn't work for me anymore, and I'm worn out from the endless arguments.

  “Em, I'm sorry for what I said last night,” he begins, sounding nearly robotic, or like he’s on auto-repeat. I’ve heard the same spiel a million times now.

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “What's going on with us?” he asks? The remorse in his voice deliberate, verging on the line of fake. Things are never about us, they’re about him.

  “I don't think this is an issue between us, Mike.”

  “Why is it always me?” As usual, he immediately initiates an argument. What else could I possibly want to do at two in the afternoon during my lunch break?

  “I wasn't the one who came home in a drunken rage last night,” I remind him.

  He grunts indignantly and says, “I wasn't drunk.”

  “I could smell the whiskey from across the room, Mike. Why do you lie about it? I've been very understanding of you going out several nights a week with your friends, even when you come home smelling like weed and perfume. I keep telling myself that you're just a little immature and you'll grow up eventually, but we’re in our thirties and I’m getting tired of waiting.” My life consists of hopping from one Starbucks to another while seeking work-day scenery changes, meeting Mom for lunch, and checking on Grams, while I dread going home each night to the small, desolate house I share with Mike. “On top of that, the house is always a disaster with your socks tossed in every corner, dirty underwear and towels in the entryway of the hall bathroom, and empty pizza boxes stacked up on top of the full trash can—all strategically placed so I have something to clean when I get home at night.” How can I see myself living like that forever?

  “So, what, we’re breaking up for the fourth time this month?” he asks as if it doesn’t faze him. It doesn’t mean anything to Mike because I haven’t been able to keep my word when I tell him we’re done. The worst part is, he’s told me so many times before that I don't have the “balls” to leave him, reminding me I have nowhere to go and that being a freelance designer doesn’t offer me a dependable salary.

  “I don't know if I can be with you,” I tell him honestly. I don't love him like I thought I once did, and despite having to admit that Mom might be right, this isn't the life I want.

  My current state of calmness is unusual for how I typically come off during one of our arguments, because I'm passionate about what I believe in, so I become overheated easily, but now, I feel nothing. “Fine, then move out. I don't care,” he tells me.

  That should have hurt me, but I still feel nothing. I don't know what to say, but I know this is the closest I've come to walking away from Mike. I just need to keep going without looking back this time. “I'll come get my stuff tonight,” I tell him.

  “Whatever,” he says. “You'll be back tomorrow, telling me how much you love and need me. We've been through this crap a million times, Emma.”

  I pull into Grams's driveway knowing that I need to end this conversation with Mike before I go inside. Her feelings on Mike mimic Mom’s thoughts. “Are you going to be home tonight?” I ask him with a tone of finality to rush this along.

  “I had plans to go out with the guys. Devin is leaving for a month sabbatical tomorrow, so we're having drinks.”

  “Okay then, I'll probably be gone by the time you get home.”

  “Right,” he snickers. “You'll be asleep in my bed. This drama is unnecessary, Emma, so just stop. I have to get back to work now that I've wasted my entire lunch break listening to your empty threats.”

  You’re the one who called me; I want to tell him. “Okay,” I calmly say again. “Have a good day?” I hang up the phone and wish I could erase Mike from my life as easily as I could delete him from my phone contacts. Whatever the case, I need to remove that man from my thoughts for a bit so I can put on a smile for Grams. She can always tell something is wrong by the way I blink.

  I let myself into her house, finding her leaning against an end table in her living room. “Grams, what's wrong?” I ask.

  She appears startled as she jumps and clutches at the collar of her blouse. “Emma,” she huffs. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  I look past her, toward the microwave. “It's two fifteen on the dot,” I say. It's the same time I come by most days. Mom checks in on her in the morning before she goes to work, I usually check on her midday, and Aunt Annie checks on her just before dinner time. Thankfully, we all live in a close vicinity.

  “Oh, right, right…sorry,” she says.

  “It's okay,” I tell her as I gently place my hand on her shoulder and guide her into the family room. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” she says, the word vibrating against the hollow of her throat.

  “Are you in pain? What's going on?” I ask, immediately filled with concern, but I already know about the palpitations she was getting earlier.

  “I think I'm going to die today,” she says, sounding helpless.

  “No, you're not,” I say as I help her take a seat.

  Grams sits carefully, sinking into the plushness of her worn heather gray recliner. “I'm ninety-two, Emma. It's seventy-four years longer than I expected to live.”

  I take a seat on the arm of the chair and rest my head on her frail shoulder. “Why are you talking like this?” I ask.

  With an exhausted sigh and a slight shake of her head, she replies, “I don't know.” Her hand drops to her lap, and her eyes go wide as if she's staring through a wall across the room, or staring at a ghost. “It's just the truth. I shouldn't be here.” I'm very confused by what she’s saying, and I wish Grams would explain herself a bit more. “My heart aches. My hands are shaky and my voice always quakes, but I know I’m not ready for the end.”

  I spring to my feet. “I'll call 9-1-1, then your doctor. Did you take a baby aspirin this morning?”

  “No,” she snaps before tugging at my arm so I'll sit back down. “It hurts insid
e. I’m scared.”

  “I don't understand what you're talking about?” She doesn't speak this way. She’s strong and brave, never afraid.

  “It has been more than seventy-four years,” she says again.

  “Since what?” I ask.

  “It isn't important,” she says as she presses her head into the indentation she has made on her chair over the years. Her eyelids close, and she places her soft hand on mine. “Emma, you will always be my sweetheart. You know that, right?”

  “Grams,” I shout, startled. I press my hands into her shoulders and shake her. “Grams!”

  No, no, no! I run to grab my phone, trembling as I dial 9-1-1, and the world freezes in time as I wait what seems like an eternity before my call is connected.

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