Love & Sex in a Minefield

by Jean Austin

  I look down. I feel as though I’m being scolded.

  “Just... Don’t do any thing rash.”

  I nod.

  He says, “Go and see Mom.”

  I nod again. I can’t look him in the eye. Dad pulls me close, kissing me softly on the forehead, and then lets me go. He leaves. Nothing he’s dealt with over the last three decades of policing here in Charlotte, North Carolina, has prepared him for his own daughter shooting at one of his golden boys. I’m not sure even he knows what the next move should be. In hindsight, there’s probably a dozen things he should do, but he walks out, leaving the door wide open. Like me, he’s still processing all that’s happened.

  I start shaking again. Being alone is not good. I’m slipping—sliding downhill mentally.

  “Jilly, honey. Would you like to watch Mister Fluffy Bunny?”

  She nods. I turn on the TV, and restart the movie she finished watching barely an hour ago. Jilly sits on the rug with her legs crossed, watching the screen intently.

  I open a bottle of red wine Paul brought for his parents’ wedding anniversary this coming weekend, and pour myself a glass.

  “Well, Emma. There’s nothing boring about today... Here’s to you, kiddo.”

  I raise my glass and drink the wine as though it’s Kool-Aid. I’m a bad mom. No one knows. No one except Paul and Mom and Dad, and to a lesser extent, Paul’s folks, which is actually quite a few people now that I think about it. There’s a reason a full five years separates Jimmy from Jilly, and it’s not what I’ve told my friends. It’s not that we weren’t trying. It’s that I wasn’t coping. There’s a reason Jilly is small for her age, and it’s not genetics. No doubt all this will come out during the court proceedings, and that thought hurts. Paul will use my past against me to make me look bad. He has to. It’s the only way he can come out of this with any dignity. Will he press for custody of the kids? Or will he be content with taking them every other weekend? My heart sinks at the thought of a battle being fought over them.

  I knock back another glass of wine with gusto. The only reason I’m not drinking straight from the bottle is I know from experience the neck is too narrow—the flow of fluid is too slow. Wine from a glass has no such limitation.

  Within a few minutes, the bottle is empty and my head is floating, drifting just above my shoulders. A warm glow settles in my stomach, and my forehead feels fuzzy. The kitchen seems to shift in and out of focus.

  The phone rings and goes through to voice mail. I just don’t care.

  Shortly after we got married, Paul made me go to Alcoholics Anonymous. It was that or he was going to leave me. Even so, I struggled. I’d be dry for a couple of years, and then sink a few bottles in an hour. Pregnant? Breastfeeding? It made no difference, and poor James, and then later Jilly suffered for it, Jilly more so, with stunted growth. I’m such a lousy mother.

  I thought I was over the worst of it. For the past year or so, I’ve been good. I’ve even been able to drink socially again—just one glass. I thought that meant I’d killed the little demon. Paul was so proud, or was he? Was that all just an act? How long has he been screwing Helen? Mentally, I retrace our interactions over the past few months, looking for subtle changes in how we interacted. A woman knows. She may not be able to put her finger on why, but she can see when a man changes, and for me, that was at least three months ago when he suddenly became interested in bowling again. At the same time, our sex life turned bland—like cold French fries with no salt.

  I open a second bottle of wine and shuffle past Jilly.

  “Mommy’s going to pack,” I say, already slurring my words, but I’m happy. Why is there comfort to be found in hiding behind a bottle? Is it the detachment? Perhaps it’s the contradiction. My senses are dulled, but my mood is open—free—uninhibited. If I’d come across Paul and Helen like this, I would have killed them stone cold, and that realization doesn’t bother me.

  “Bastard,” I mumble, climbing the stairs. Is this my happily ever after? Maybe it is. Maybe it’s the only one I’ll ever get.

  They warned me about trigger events. They said I’d have a choice. Yep, and I’ve made my choice. I choose to get drunk. Why the hell not? It’s my life. I’ll do as I please.

  I wander into the bathroom. My reflection condemns me.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask the angry woman in the mirror. I hate myself. I hate what I’ve become. I hate everything that associates me with Paul.

  There’s a bottle of peroxide beneath the sink, and a pair of scissors for cutting Jimmy’s hair. I’m going to regret this. Even in my drunken stupor, I realize this is dumb, but I can’t help myself. I’m revolted by Paul. I want nothing to do with him. I want to be rid of him and everything associated with him. I take to my hair with the scissors. It’s surprising I don’t slit my own throat, but after a few minutes I have a half-decent bob sitting well off my shoulders. It’s a little crooked, but if I tilt my head slightly, it looks even, and I laugh at how ridiculous I appear.

  I’m not finished. Hair. Why is hair so important to me? I think it’s because I’ve spent decades cultivating a look, teasing out the finer details. To cut my hair short feels symbolic—radical change—break with the past. But it’s the peroxide that’ll complete the transformation. I crouch, wetting my hair in the sink, and soaking the strands in a diluted mixture, working the water down to the roots. I could never be blonde like Helen, and I’m not trying to be. There’s something about the base color of my hair that means bleaching only ever reddens it. The effect isn’t as stark as I’d hoped, but the ruddy tinge makes me look different, kinda like the girl from Fifth Element. Different is good. Peroxide drips on my clothing. I rinse and parade before the mirror, rubbing my head vigorously with a towel. My hair sticks out at odd angles. Shoving my fingers into an electrical socket couldn’t have produced a more shocking image.

  “So what do ya think?” I ask the silent, invisible critic in the mirror, before yelling, “I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU FUCKING THINK!”

  My emotions are raw—wild. One moment, I’m defiant. The next, I’m wallowing in self pity. It’s as though I can’t make up my mind whether to be angry or sad.

  I drag a suitcase and sports bag into the hallway and begin emptying clothes into them. There’s no thought given to what I collect, and I’m vaguely aware there’s more t-shirts than shorts or underwear. If it’s clean, it goes in.

  “Why?” I ask the sullen, empty house. “What did I do wrong?”

  Is this my fault? Was there something I did to push Paul away? Or maybe something I didn’t do? We weren’t fighting. Sex was mundane, but that’s life. The rollercoaster ride ended a long time ago. Is that what I did wrong? Did I allow our love life to become a chore? Scrub the toilets, put on the washing, and pleasure the man of the house? I drink some more wine. Paul was king of the castle—did I not honor His Majesty? The bottle’s empty. I should have brought up another with me.

  The kids are packed, although if I was sober their clothing wouldn’t be quite so chaotic. I bump into the doorway while walking into the master bedroom. The sheets are rumpled. The comforter is on the floor. The smell of gunpowder still hangs in the air. I shove a handful of underwear into a bag, along with a pair of jeans, t-shirts and shorts. There’s a wedding photo on the nightstand—my happily ever after, and I let out a solitary, lonely laugh. I always hated that photo. The angle makes me look fat. I turn it face down, and accidentally bump a crystal vase. With clumsy fingers, and still holding an empty bottle in one hand, I grab for the vase as it tumbles through the air. I’m too slow. It crashes to the floor and breaks. Fragments of crystal scatter across the carpet. One minute, so beautiful and precious. The next, shattered and broken beyond repair—my life played out in a microcosm.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I open the dresser and pull out birth certificates, passports, and bank records, dumping them in my bag. There’s the 9mm Beretta I told Frank about.

  The gun is heavy.

  Guns ar
e deceptive. Straight lines. Tight curves. Machined parts. Hard steel. Oil. They’re silent, quiet, begging to explode in violence. I remember the recoil—the deep, shocking motion—the kick—the sudden jarring reality of a bullet racing out of the barrel. The noise. My dad raised me shooting guns, but we’d wear ear protection. Nothing prepared me for the staggering concussion wave resounding from a gun being fired indoors. Even the memory of the shot is intimidating.

  The look in Paul’s eyes. The terror on Helen’s face. For a moment, I held the power of life and death. Even now, that power is in my trembling hand.

  My life is in ruins. I’m worthless—useless—broken. I’ve been discarded by the man I love. Loved. My trust has been betrayed.

  There’s an unspoken continuity to life. One day leads to another. One year blends into the next. Seasons come and go, and we fool ourselves into thinking nothing has changed. Photos betray the lie, and I turn down another wedding photo on the nightstand. Pictures show us as we were—frozen in time. I’m drunk, but I can’t help feel as though I’ve never been more sober in my life.

  The gun shakes in my fingers. The safety’s on. My thumb slides the lever over, revealing a red dot. Death awaits.

  Is there any reason to go on? Like the vase, my life is beyond repair. What would happen if I used this gun one last time? For me, the pain would be over. Just one final act, to squeeze my finger, to pull on a metal trigger. Would I feel anything? No. That’s the point. I wouldn’t feel anything ever again, but those I leave behind? Tears fall from my eyes, running down my cheeks. I wouldn’t want Jilly to find me. No child should have to endure that, and then to grow up without a mom is a fate too tragic to bear. I can’t do that to Jimmy and Jilly.

  I drop the gun back in the drawer. It’s overly loud as it hits the bare wood—mimicking the action of being fired as if to frighten me with its raw power.

  I’m never coming back in this room again. Ever. There’s too much hurt. Too much pain.

  A voice calls out from downstairs. “Em?”

  “Mom,” I yell, running for the hallway. My brain is more coordinated than my legs, at least I think it is as I bounce off the walls and fight to avoid tripping on the stairs. “Oh, Mom. Mom.”

  My mother stands there, examining a bullet hole in the doorframe.

  “Mom,” I cry, almost knocking her off her feet as I throw my arms around her. Mom staggers backwards, although from the look on her face, it’s as much from the reek of alcohol on my breath and my crazy hair as it is from me tackling her.

  “Emma,” she says, and that one word seems to cut right through my soul. Parents have gravitas. A single word is enough to praise or condemn. The look in her eyes, along with the pain in her voice, leaves me feeling weak.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry—for everything.”

  “Hey,” she says as I blubber incoherently.

  “Paul and Helen. Jilly was there. I was going to work. Jilly was sick. Did the right thing. I did the right thing, Mom. I gave her some medicine and put her to bed. And there they were. In bed. In our bed.”

  “Easy,” she says, and she runs her hands over my cropped, scruffy, bleached red hair. “Oh, Emma.”

  My lips quiver.

  “What am I going to do?” For the first time today, I’m thinking about tomorrow. Physically, I’ve packed a couple of bags with the intention of getting out of the city, but tomorrow seems so far away. With Mom, tomorrow feels real. There’s going to be another day—a new day. Life will start again. “I don’t know what I should do?”

  “We,” she says. “What we should do. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

  I nod.

  “We need to get you out of here,” Mom says, and I instinctively understand what she means. Too many triggers. I’d drink myself silly if I stayed. And the gun won’t leave. It’ll call to me again, I know it will. Mom looks up at the half-closed suitcase on the landing at the top of the stairs.

  “Get Jilly in the car. I’ll get your stuff.”

  “Thanks Mom.”

  Chapter 03: Mom

  I’m not sure how long I slept as I have no recollection of falling asleep. Yesterday, Mom picked me up shortly before noon, and we pulled Jimmy out of school after lunch. It’s ten in the morning when I wake up in my old bed at the back of my parents’ house. My bedroom is pretty much as I left it a decade ago. Posters of rock stars adorn the walls, although they’re faded.

  Jimmy and Jilly are playing in the lounge. I can hear Jilly laughing. I want to go out to see my children, but I feel like shit. My head is pounding.

  My mom is a wonderful grandma. Somehow, she’s turned this into an adventure for the kids. She’s kept Jimmy home from school, which is good. He doesn’t need to be there. With the break starting on Friday, there are lots of kids leaving early to go on vacation, so he won’t be missed.

  Jilly adores Grandma. The kids sound happy, and for me, that presents a strange dilemma. I can’t leech off my parents—not for physical protection, finances, or even emotional support. It’s unfair to them, and reinforces everything that’s wrong with me. I need to be strong. I need to be better than I am. Drinking two bottles of wine was not only stupid, it was selfish. Staying here would be easy, but that too would be selfish. I’d never learn. I need to be the woman I know I can and should be. Mom and Dad have nothing but love for the three of us, only for me their kindness would be a crutch. I have to find myself. I have to discover who I really am.

  Dad uses my old room to house his computer. A screensaver ripples across the monitor, dancing as it rolls through the colors of the rainbow. I move the mouse and the computer wakes.

  Billings. Aunt Louise.

  I bring up a browser and search for flights to Billings, Montana. Depending on connections, it’s anywhere from seven to twelve hours via Denver, Salt Lake City, or Detroit and Minneapolis. The only affordable flights have two layovers. That’ll be fun—sooooo much fun. And it doesn’t solve the problem of dependency—it simply shifts it from my mom to her sister. Mom will call every night, and not just to talk to me. She’ll micromanage Aunt Louise.

  Our passports are sitting on the dresser. Mom must have found them in my bag. Billings is a no-go, but the letter B sticks in my mind. My father’s family is originally from Bosnia in Eastern Europe, although no one’s been there in a generation. As Bs are buzzing in my blurry, hungover brain, I open AirBnB on the computer, and out of idle curiosity, type in Bosnia. To my surprise, there’s an abundance of places for rent. What started out as yet another dumb Emma idea is looking decidedly attractive. Most of the places are quaint. Lush green forests. Refurnished stone buildings with steep tiled roofs. Renovated interiors. Antique furniture. It’s like something out of a fairytale. It doesn’t take long before I can see myself there, escaping to the quiet of the European countryside.

  A quick search for flights reveals there’s only one layover in Munich. Surprisingly, the total flight time is only a couple of hours more than out to Billings, but international price gouging means it’s roughly the same cost, while one layover instead of two has definite appeal. I dig a little deeper. The best flights are with Lufthansa. As it’s the off-season, the leg to Munich includes a complimentary business class upgrade when three or more passengers book together. I’ve never flown in luxury before. I guess North Carolina to Germany is a quiet route and they’re trying to drum up business. The idea of being pampered appeals to me.

  Am I delusional thinking about running off to Europe? Hell, yes. Or am I? Maybe. Maybe not. Would I even know if I was? Isn’t that the point about being deluded? You’re oblivious, but here I am rationally considering the concept. Am I overreacting? I think so. The problem is, I have no baseline for what’s normal in a situation like this. What am I supposed to think and feel in response to Paul’s infidelity? Disgust? Yes. Disappointment? Repulsion? Anger? Yes. Yes. Yes. But I have no outlet. There’s nothing I can do to undo the carnage that has befallen my life. I feel as though I have to do somethin
g. My Dad would say, ‘Don’t make decisions while you’re overly emotional,’ but I’m not a machine—emotions are all any of us really have in life. I’ve got to get away. I don’t want to be Paul’s emotional punching bag. Europe’s a little extreme, I’ll concede that, but I feel compelled to do something radical—something that allows me to take charge of my life. I’m not going to lie down and curl up into a fetal position, begging for mercy from my husband.

  The prospect of going off-grid, or more precisely out-of-country, is very appealing. I need time and space to collect myself. Not so much to figure out what to do next as to find out who I really am. For too long, my life has been defined by others—by my job, my husband, my kids, and not by me. As much as I loathe and despise Paul, he’s done me a favor. He’s given me the freedom to uncover who I really am. There’s nothing wrong with having a husband and kids, but not at the expense of my own sense of identity, and maybe that’s been my problem all along. I’ve let other people claim me as their own. I’ve allowed them to impose their will on me. I have to reclaim my independence.

  Before I have time to second guess myself, my credit card is out and I’m booking tickets for the flight and accommodation in a small village two hours from Sarajevo. Three weeks. Can I reinvent myself in three weeks? I think I can. All rationalizations aside, I’m not running from Paul so much as running to find myself. I can’t sit around here in the US waiting for my world to change. I need to be that change.

  I clear the browser history and walk out into the living room, wondering if I should call my boss and explain—explain what? That I took potshots at my husband while he was banging his partner? Fuck Phil and his super soft, overpriced, spongy mattresses. I don’t own him a groveling apology for my private life disintegrating in public. I quit. To hell with social pretenses. He’s probably heard about this on the local news anyway. I’ll send him an email, resigning. I’ll be polite, but I don’t need the embarrassment of seeing him in person, or talking with him on the phone. My life isn’t open to critique by him or anyone else. Why should I subject myself to his snide comments and the subtle change of tone that so often passes judgment on others.