“See! You can't coddle this kind of bullshit. You have to put your foot down.”
As the battle continued, I quietly left the kitchen and tiptoed into the bathroom. The bacon, which had been tucked tightly in my cheeks, flew directly into the toilet. The perfect solution. He thought he won. Let him.
Sitting in the living room waiting on a jar of piss. What a way to spend the weekend. According to instructions, it took two hours for three little drops of urine squeezed into the jar to render judgment. A quarter after ten. Fifteen minutes to go.
Tim read the sports section, occasionally looking up and giving me that reassuring smile that melted me so often. Unbelievably steady. Calm. What a welcome change from the neurotic and narcissistic types I'd been hooking up with for years. In the four months I had known Tim, I still couldn't fathom why this attractive man with sparkling eyes was still faithful—and still around.
He worked in a factory as a line foreman. I had been high school valedictorian—a National Merit Scholar, the varsity field hockey captain, on the dean's list at Saint Robert's. I had worked as a cocktail waitress. Hustled trays of imported beers to arrogant Yuppies, smiling at the measly tips and hating almost every one of them. Hating myself. Smoking joints in the closed bar as the sun rose while my former classmates hit the showers and commuted to the kinds of jobs I should have. I was twenty-four years old.
I'd been through this pregnancy scare before. But Tim was the first man to sit through the grueling ordeal with me. At least this time I could be certain of who the other party to the scare was. At least this time I was nearly convinced that, if anyone could love me, this man might.
It was 10:30 A.M. Tim put his arm around me as we went to check on the jar. My Ouija board to the future. I couldn't bear to look. Tim did the honors, peering into it. He asked for the instruction pamphlet. Clutching it in his hand, he looked into the jar again.
“What is it?” I asked.
He embraced me. “Positive, Rachel. It's positive.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go ahead and look for yourself,” he said gently.
A brown ring, thick and clear, not subtle at all. A bang-you-over-the-head ring. One that says, “You're pregnant, stupid! Now what are you going to do?”
Abortion had always been the fallback position—mercifully, one I'd never had to consider. Being virtually convinced of God's nonexistence, the prospect shouldn't have bothered me. Yet it did.
Now it was time for Tim to leave. Now was the time for the relationship I considered too good to be true to prove that it was. With the abortion option, there was no excuse to be trapped by a situation like this. Yet I felt as if the world were closing in on me, my life catching up with me, as if justice had been rendered. I'd played roulette with an empty box of Trojans and lost.
“Marry me,” Tim said.
What? Didn't he know he didn't need to be trapped? Didn't he know how easy it would be for him to walk right now, that I would understand?
“If you want an abortion, I'll support you. But I'm not talking about a shotgun wedding. I've never met anyone like you, Rachel. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Trust me on this one. I wouldn't lie to you. Will you marry me?”
I'd taken so many chances in my life. Sex. Drugs. Life had been a series of impulsive gambles. Dangerous moves. Foolish choices. Why not take a chance on this one? Why not marry a man who loved me so obviously even I had begun to believe it?
“Yes.”
Our child passed away in a miscarriage long before its birth. A frenzy of crunching pain, a sea of blood, a small life expelled into the toilet, and sorrow for the life we had already begun to love. Yet the child had created a bond. The wedding went on as planned. The tiny life had fulfilled its purpose. The product of our impulsive recklessness had brought us together in permanence, allowing us to marry for love alone.
Within months I was pregnant again. Jeffrey Aaron Reiland was born in June shortly after we signed the closing papers on our first home. Savoring the newfound joy of nurturing and nursing an infant, I devoted myself to full-time motherhood. Melissa Anne Reiland was born two years later.
It was a period of unparalleled contentedness. A family. A home. A future. The American Dream. Perhaps, I thought, I might just be normal after all.
Alas, no….
Chapter 1
The house was a disaster.
The kids had strewn toys all over the floor; disposable diapers overflowed the trash can. Crackers lay smashed on the milk-stained hardwood floor. Overloaded ash trays on every tabletop. Fast-food wrappers littered the house.
God, I should get to this. I'm home for chrissakes. What kind of a mother am I? How in the hell can we afford all this fast food—much less what it must be doing to us? What in the hell am I doing here?
Picking up an armful of clothes, I headed for the steps. Damned drafty old house. Two years after closing, it was still half done with no money to finish it. Gaping holes in the staircase waited for someone to put up the quarter round—or couldn't we afford that either? Eyeing the antique oak ball we'd put on the stair rail, visions of Jimmy Stewart rushed through my mind. I wished I could slam it down. I had news for Jimmy: it was anything but “a wonderful life.” It was a trap.
Finally, the injustice of it all was catching up with me. I was supposed to be someone. Instead, I was broke. Disheveled. A three-year-old and an infant were nursing the life right out of me. They were napping. I was lonely and restless. I headed for the telephone.
“Umm, is Tim there?”
“Please hold, and I'll see if he's still here, Rachel.”
God, how I hated that secretary—the way she spit out my name, the way she'd always keep me on hold forever and toy with me as if Tim might not be there, even though she knew very well that he was. She was a goddamned secretary, no less, who thought she was a CEO. And I envied her. Bitch.
“This is Tim.”
“Hi, Tim….”
Dead silence. What in the hell had I called to say anyway? God, I was pathetic. “Rachel? Are you there?”
“Yes, I'm here.”
“Well, what do you want, hon? I'm kind of busy here. I've got an appointment in a half hour.”
“Oh.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I hate this house, Tim. I just hate it. It's a fucking mess. The kids are napping, but I just don't feel like cleaning it.”
“Then don't clean it. Take a nap yourself. I can help you clean when I get home.”
“When are you coming home?”
“I dunno. I have a whole-life insurance presentation in a half hour, and then I have a call-in on my annuities ad. I thought I'd go over there at about five.”
“Then you won't be home until six or seven.”
“I know, but I haven't gotten a lot done lately.”
“And it's my fault, isn't it?” I interrupted.
“I didn't say it's your fault, honey. It's just that … well, I've got to get some stuff done.” I began to twist the phone cord around my finger, tempted to wrap it around my neck.
“I'm a real pain in the ass, aren't I? You're pissed, aren't you?” Tim tried to keep his patience, but I could still hear him sigh.
“Please, Rachel. I've got to make a living.”
“Like I don't do anything around here? Is that it? Like I'm some kind of stupid housewife who doesn't do a goddamned thing? Is that what you're getting at?” Another sigh.
“Okay. Look, sweetheart. I've got to do this presentation this afternoon because it's too late to cancel. But I'll see if I can reschedule the annuity guy for tomorrow. I'll be home by four o'clock, and I'll help you clean up the house.”
“No, no, no!”
I was beginning to cry.
“What now?”
“God, Tim. I'm such an idiot. Such a baby. I don't do a thing around this house, and here I am, wanting you to help me clean. I must make you sick.”
“You don't make me sick, sweetheart. Okay? You
don't. Look, I'm really sorry, but I've got to go.”
The tears reached full strength. The cry became a moan that turned to piercing screams. Why in the hell can't I control myself? The man has to make a living. He's such a good guy; he doesn't deserve me—no one should have to put up with me!
“Rachel? Rachel? Please calm down. Please! Come on. You're gonna wake up the kids; the neighbors are gonna wonder what in the hell is going on. Rachel?”
“Fuck you! Is that all you care about, what the neighbors think? Fuck you, then. I don't need you home. I don't want you home. Let this fucking house rot; let the fucking kids starve. I don't give a shit. And I don't need your shit!”
“Rachel, listen to me. I'm canceling the whole-life appointment, and I'll be home in a few minutes. Okay?”
“You must really hate me,” I sobbed. “You really hate me, don't you?”
“No, sweetheart,” he sighed audibly. “I don't hate you.”
After hanging up the phone, I sat there, frozen, staring at it. Why did I do this kind of shit? Tim was trying hard to build his own insurance business. I knew how much it took to build a business. After all, my father had worked seventy to eighty hours a week running his business. And my mother wouldn't have dared pull him away from it the way I just yanked Tim home.
My mother. My dependent mother who never did a damned thing with her life. My mother, who spent half her days at the shopping mall and the other half in front of the television set. My mother, who was unable to make the simplest decision without my father. She had been wholly dependent on him. She'd made me sick. And as I sat in the kitchen, the stench of dirty dishes and the overflowing garbage reminded me that even she had been more worthy than me. My God, I thought, I'm ending up to be a dependent little piece of shit. Worse than my mother.
Tim wasn't able to reschedule the whole-life appointment.
The prospect had gone to a competitor. The annuity prospect fell through as well. He'd been in the business now for over six months and was barely able to meet the business expenses, much less the household ones. This meant having to take handouts from my parents—handouts with many strings attached. Strings of I-told-you-so's.
I didn't grow up in poverty. Thanks to my parents, I wasn't destined to know what that was like. I did, however, know the bitter taste of failure. It became increasingly hard not to place that same label on Tim. Why, oh why, with all the men I knew and dated—all the men with degrees—had I chosen a college dropout whose only means of making anything significant of himself was selling insurance? Why couldn't he be more of a man, like my father: practical, steady, and successful?
Then again, what was wrong with me? I had lots of credentials but was sitting at home not doing anything.
I began to press Tim to go out and get a regular salaried job with the same insistence I used to get him to come home and be with me. He was beginning to feel like a failure too. His initial zest for the insurance business, his carefully projected income goals, his dreams of huge college funds and a totally renovated house—all of this waned. And so did his ability to close the sale.
Doubting his own ability to succeed in insurance, he began to search the want ads, send out résumés, go on interviews, and get rejection letters. There wasn't much work that paid the kind of money equaling the handouts. He was getting dejected, as was I.
I didn't make it any easier for him. Somehow he was still patient with my constant phone calls. But he was clearly more irritable. If I couldn't handle his absence when he worked at a place where he set his own hours, how would I handle it with a boss who would force him to be there from nine to five? It was a wretched situation, a catch-22, and I hated myself because so much of it was my fault. Yet I couldn't stop making it worse.
If only I could just disappear. Run away. Far away. If only Tim wasn't in the picture, I could have. Indeed, in past relationships I would have been long gone at the first signs of my own dependency. Then I could appear to be independent, not needing a soul.
But it wasn't just Tim anymore. I loved my kids. Perhaps they tied me down. But I loved them. I loved Tim too, of course. But he could make it without me—in fact, do much better without me. Jeffrey and Melissa, however, needed me more than anyone in my life ever had. No, I was just plain stuck in a life that seemed to spiral further downward at every turn.
It was nearly midnight when we got home from Tim's softball game. It had been a late game followed by some bad directions that led us to drive aimlessly through the West Side for over an hour, doors locked, streets dark, totally lost. We'd blamed each other. The kids were asleep in their car seats. We bickered in hushed tones as we passed block after block of boarded-up brownstones. Juggling irritated toddlers, diaper bags, bat, ball, and glove, we put them to bed and fell asleep ourselves—angry with each other but too exhausted to fight.
I was still in bed when Tim was heading out the door to work. I heard him swearing and complaining that he couldn't find his wallet. I joined him in a search that led us to every room of the house, under every sofa cushion, and through piles of dirty laundry. It had vanished.
“What did you do with it?” he demanded impatiently. “I had two hundred dollars in there.”
“What do you mean, what did I do with it?”
“I handed it to you, damnit. Don't you remember? I took in all the softball stuff and Jeffrey; you took Melissa, the diaper bag, and the wallet.”
He was right.
“Well, what the fuck did you expect?” I yelled defensively. “You dragged us to that stupid game way too late and got us lost on the goddamned West Side. Then you expect me to bring all this shit in.”
“Give me a break, Rachel. There was two hundred fucking dollars in there. I can't believe, as much as you bitch about money, that you act like it's nothing.”
The tears came back. Then the moan. Then the screaming wail. I'd really blown it. But Tim, on this early summer morning, would have none of it. He slammed down his fist, picked up his briefcase, and headed out the front door. He'd never walked out on me when I was crying. I'd crossed the line and driven him out the door. I'd lost him. Forever.
As it turns out, I didn't “lose” Tim. He returned at dinnertime as usual—still a little irritated but feeling slightly guilty that he had walked out on me. Shortly after dinner, a neighbor returned the wallet. The two hundred dollars, credit cards, and pictures were still there. The Good Samaritan even apologized for taking so long. Although he'd seen the wallet on top of our car that morning, he had been running late for work and had to wait until evening to return it.
Tim was relieved. I should have been relieved. But now that the missing money was no longer an issue, I started to seethe about how he had walked out on me.
“Well,” Tim said with a smile as he took a long drag on his cigarette, “I guess there's still some honest people around. Imagine, going to the trouble to return it and apologizing for not giving it to us sooner.”
“Yeah,” I sniffed. “At least he apologized.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you walked out on me this morning, you sonofabitch! You blamed me for everything even though it was mostly your fault.”
“My fault?” Tim looked stunned.
“Yes, your fault. You dragged us out to that game, didn't you? We didn't want to go.”
“You wanted to go to that game.” His patience was fading again.
Twice in a day, I thought, panicked. He's pissed again. I'm going to drive him away. Why was I so dependent on him? Why can't I walk out on him?
The moan began again. This time, I didn't make it to the screaming part.
“No, not again, Rachel. Don't do this again. I can't take anymore of it!”
That cinched it. He hated me. He'd leave me, broke, with these two little kids and the piece of shit house. No, no! He couldn't leave me. I wouldn't give the sonofabitch the satisfaction.
The tears halted immediately, and I felt a rush of energy. Barefoot, in gym shorts, without so m
uch as grabbing the car keys, I ran out the door and down the alley. I could hear Tim pleading with me to come back and frantically apologizing for losing his patience. I felt power rising within me. I didn't look back and kept on going.
I didn't have a destination in mind, but as I kept jogging down the streets of the city, I realized I was heading to the West Side. If I were lucky, I'd make it to the projects. If I were even luckier, the God I didn't really believe existed would have mercy on me and let me become just another crime statistic. Suicide roulette. I ran for miles, barefoot and westward through the glass-strewn sidewalks of declining neighborhoods.
I called Tim. Twice. He answered the phone, relieved to hear from me. He pled with me to come home, apologizing for anything he could think of. He begged me to tell him where I was so he could come and pick me up. Instead I told him I was going to die and that he would be better off without me. I hung up without giving him a clue as to where I was.
I didn't quite make it to the projects. I'd run about five miles, which burned off some of my excess energy and a lot of my anger. It was dusk—about two hours since I'd left the house—and I started to feel afraid. But I wasn't about to call and tell him where I was. That would mean admitting my stupidity. I sat on a park bench and suddenly spied our red Dodge. Tim pulled up, the kids looking out the windows from their car seats.
I climbed in, and he drove home without one word of admonishment. He was too tired and scared, afraid, I guessed, that I'd go running out the door again and the next time I wouldn't be so lucky.
For the next few weeks I was a tornado, raging out of control, fury swelling, destroying everything in my path. The run became a nightly routine. Tim was concerned about my safety in the darkness of the neighborhood, but he didn't try to stop me from the ritual. Perhaps he was afraid that if he were to resist me, I wouldn't stay within our neighborhood but would instead begin heading westward again. The moans were more frequent now, and Tim stopped making night appointments for fear of what could happen in his absence.
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