by B. L. Berry
“Are you fucking out of your mind, Sharna? My God, when did you become such a bitch?” Simon storms back into the bedroom and if looks could kill, this moment right here would be my murder.
His words hit me like blunt force trauma, leaving me paralyzed and painfully aware of the exact state of our marriage.
Or lack thereof.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to try and repair the damage between us when he’s not even willing to communicate. He can’t continue to shut down and walk all over me if we’re ever going to find our way back to each other. I’ve always believed that love is patient, but when he up and leaves me like this, it tries on my patience.
“Fuck this. I can’t deal with you right now, Sharna. I’m going to head into the office and get some work done. Have a great fucking night, sweetheart!” Simon opens the bottom drawer of the armoire and pulls out an old pair of track pants before slamming it shut. Then he pulls his favorite navy NYU shirt up over his head in haste. It’s his go-to comfort outfit. Some people find solace in food or an old movie, But Simon wears the same outfit every time he is sick or annoyed or pissed off and wanting to get away.
It’s how I know when to give him space.
And so I let him leave.
When I hear the front door crash shut, I stare up at the ceiling and I finally allow the tears to fall. All I want is Simon’s kisses to rain down my face, just like the tears do now.
Thirty
The Waiting Room
This is the seventh time we’ve sat down on this couch. The seventh time I’ve struggled to get through to my husband, or rather struggled for my husband to actually communicate with me. The seventh time I feel like he’s holding back, telling me what he thinks I want to hear — what Dr. Bob wants to hear — when all anyone wants is the truth.
I loathe the emotional whiplash I’ve experienced the past few weeks. Some days things between us are good … great, even. And then other days he’s so distant and cold. But ever since I hit him, we’ve not only been strangers to each other, but strangers to ourselves.
Where the hell did that punch come from? I’m not sure I’ll ever know. But damn, it was both satisfying and terrifying. The next morning when he finally arrived back home, I apologized profusely but he wouldn’t hear any of it. He simply stuffed a duffle bag full of clothes and left without saying a word. And that was three days ago. There’s nothing out of the ordinary on our credit card statement, so he’s probably been staying with Andrew or at his brother’s condo.
Earlier this morning, I sent him a text reminding him of our appointment with Dr. Bob today, but he never texted back. I just assumed he would bail. So to say I was surprised to find him sitting there screwing around on his phone in the waiting room when I arrived is an understatement. I was fully prepared to use this time as a one-on-one and simply continue on with concerns I have about Simon’s behavior.
Before we even stepped foot into his office, I apologized again. The only acknowledgment I received was Simon flicking his eyes to me and then back down to his phone again.
I’ve barely had the opportunity to speak today. But for someone who hasn’t spoken a word to me, HE sure as hell has a lot to say right now. I’ve been halfway listening to him spew hurtful, unproductive banter the past half hour without so much as trying to get a word in edgewise.
“Simon, do you feel as if Sharna is trying to make things work?”
The mention of my name pulls me from my drifting thoughts and I look at my husband. Simon simply looks uncomfortably at the floor and then subtly shakes his head no as if to say I’m not worthy of his words.
Is he trying to make himself appear as the victim? He thinks that I’m the one not trying in this marriage? He’s the one that shuts down. He’s the one that just up and leaves rather than actually talk through things.
“No, I don’t,” he whispers.
Dr. Bob looks at me to gauge my reaction to this revelation.
I stand up and move directly in front of Simon, my stomach mere inches away from his face, deliberately reminding him that no matter what happens we are forever tethered by our unborn child. I tower over him and look down at his scowling face trying my damnedest not to slap him across the face.
“You know what, Simon? At the end of the day ... at the end of US — because at this rate, there will be an end — I will at least know that I tried. I’ve tried to communicate. I’ve tried to connect with you. I’ve tried everything from being the perfect wife to you and now marriage counseling. I can sleep knowing that I tried to make us work. And what did you do?” I hate that I’m screaming but the conviction takes me by surprise. I force myself to take a calming breath and I inhale slowly through my nose. “That’s right. Nothing. You just sit there with that smug look upon your face not giving a shit. You did nothing. I hope you can find comfort in that because I know I sure as hell will.”
In one brisk motion, I snatch my purse off of the couch and head out into the waiting room, slamming Dr. Hall’s door shut behind me. I’m surprised that the anger feels so good. Even though I instantly regret flying off the handle like that.
I’m not even in the waiting room for five seconds before the door opens up behind me, and I turn to it expecting to see Dr. Bob. But instead, I’m taken aback by my husband’s figure towering in the doorway.
“You know what, Sharna? I’ve always wanted to let the past stay in the past. But that’s impossible when you continue to carry it into our present. And when you do that, it makes it really fucking hard to have a future with you.”
The power behind the door when it slams causes me to jump.
Typical Simon … always wanting the last word.
But deep down I know he’s right. I don’t make it easy on him. But why should I? He’s the one who fucked up beyond belief.
And I fucked up in taking him back.
The waiting room is eerily quiet and I bite my nails to the quick as I watch the door, willing it to open again. But Simon doesn’t come back for me. The door remains closed. Just like Simon the past few months. A metaphor for my marriage.
Seconds turn into minutes. And minutes turn into an hour. And I’m half tempted to barge back into the session that I so abruptly stormed from. But I don’t. I can only hope that maybe, just maybe he’s opening up. Having some kind of breakthrough or epiphany with Dr. Bob that allow us to work toward what we used to be and restore the love we once shared. You can’t just lose the other half of yourself, can you?
And that’s when it hits me.
It feels like he talks to everybody but me about what weighs heavily on his mind. I’m his wife. I should be the first person he talks to about his problems. Perhaps I’m the problem? What if I’m the reason he can’t open up anymore? The magnitude of resentment he harbors is more than he can bear and so he simply stops functioning in my presence?
Just as I’m debating if I should leave, the door opens again. Simon steps out with bloodshot eyes, followed by Dr. Bob. My husband passes by me without so much as a glance my direction. One day he’s going to stop and notice me … and I mean really notice me. And by then it’ll be too late.
Dr. Bob takes a seat next to me in the waiting room and takes a deep breath. I look at him expectantly even though I know he can’t tell me what they just spent the past hour plus talking about. Whatever it was, I’m sure I’ve been painted the villain, the abusive spouse giving him a black eye. And I’m sure he’s given Dr. Bob more of an earful with me being pregnant. It’s totally ridiculous considering Simon is the one doing all the mind-fuckery.
“Give him time, Sharna. We’ve only begun to peel the layers back. There is a lot going on in his head. He’s trying to figure out how to cope with these foreign emotions. He simply doesn’t know how to deal with things and it’s manifesting itself in some unpleasant ways.”
“But he resents me. I know he does.” I feel the pain of that resentment every day. And I fear that it’s his resentment toward me that delivered the final blow in o
ur marriage, the lethal injection to my heart.
“Perhaps. But that’s the thing about resentment, it’s his burden to deal with, not yours. You can’t dictate how he reacts to your actions, just like he can’t control yours. This is something he has chosen to hold onto for the time being. But you can find ways to help him let it go. So give him some time and focus on improving yourself.”
Improving myself? You have got to be kidding me! I don’t agree with his logic, but I won’t voice my opinion. It would be lost on this man anyway.
“Yeah … sure.” I reach down to the floor and grab my purse and turn to Dr. Bob one final time. “Thank you. For everything.”
And then I leave, knowing I won’t step foot in this office again. Because I understand that once someone has sided with Simon, my voice is eternally silenced.
Thirty-One
Whispers in the Night
My eyes flutter open and I look at the clock on my nightstand. It’s nearly three in the morning and I’m freezing. I tug the comforter over my body and try to settle back in for sleep.
Our king size bed is far too large. I hate that there’s so much distance between us. Physical. Emotional.
I hate it all.
My body has lost its memory of him. I long for his touch. The way I would fit perfectly wrapped up in him when we were tangled between the sheets. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being my husband and started being my roommate. And a pretty shitty roommate, at that. I can’t pinpoint exactly how it happened. Or when. But it did. Things were going great. Until they weren’t. And perhaps he never thought things were great between us in the first place?
Am I that disillusioned?
It’s been a little over a week since our last visit with Dr. Bob. I’ve taken his advice and tried to give him time, but time moves by so painstakingly slow these days. I feel like he’s warming up to me a little more each day, but it’s nowhere close to where we need to be. Where I want to be.
I’ve also tried to focus on myself, improving me as he called it. But the more I focus on me and my actions, the more I hate myself and the more I want the past eight years of my life back. So I try not to think about my actions very often. Pregnancy really has me all neurotic.
Simon coughs softly, as if he’s clearing his throat, and I still my body. I didn’t realize he was awake.
It’s uncomfortably quiet.
And then it isn’t quiet at all.
“Sharna? I’m sorry,” he whispers, almost inaudibly. “I am so, so sorry, babe. I’ve been a shitty person lately, and you don’t deserve that. Or maybe you do and that’s why we deserve each other? I dunno.” He scoffs at his own comment in amusement. “But I do know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”
I want to roll over and ask him what exactly he’s apologizing for because between the two of us our list of sins and indiscretions is too long to count. But he’s talking, and that’s something new. So instead, I shut my eyes tightly and feign sleep, hoping he’ll continue to confess whatever plagues his mind. Even if he can only speak what’s in his heart when he thinks I’m asleep, I’ll take it. After all, it’s in the dark where you bare your soul in its purest, more honest form.
“I shouldn’t have blown off our anniversary. I shouldn’t have been such an asshole. It’s just that I’m petrified of this baby and I’m scared shitless that I’m gonna be a shitty dad. But I know that in the end, things will be okay. I’m going to try harder. I really am, because this child deserves it. We deserve it.”
Simon scoots closer to my body but doesn’t touch me. My heart both splinters and repairs itself when he whispers, “I love you,” just like he used to before I’d fall asleep.
Thirty-Two
The Single Candle
I’ve never been one for birthdays, especially my own. Don’t get me wrong, I like to have it recognized by a small, select group of people. Namely my parents, Logan, a couple of close girlfriends and, of course, Simon. But the big fanfare and party? That is definitely not my style.
Logan called me a little after midnight, like he always does. He sang the birthday song and told me he hopes all of my birthday wishes come true. He’s been doing the same charade ever since I went off to college when I was eighteen and he hasn’t missed a birthday since. We talked for a few minutes before I fell back asleep. Earlier today, I met up with my girls for a late lunch. And my parents sent me a stunning bouquet of lilies. Thirty-two of them, one for each year I’ve graced this earth. And then there’s Simon … well, apparently Simon is saving his gift for later this evening.
When I walk into our home, I turn on the light and toss my keys onto the console table. I’ve done everything I could to keep my mind busy today. Yoga. Shopping. Cleaning. With each passing year, I feel like I’m reminded of all the things I am not.
I have a wasted degree. I’ve never once stepped foot in a classroom to teach. Though in hindsight, it always felt like too noble a profession for someone like me. When we got married, he told me I didn’t need to work. That he’d take care of me. And I liked being perched on his arm. But this year, things are going to be different. Our whole life is changing.
Because at the ripe age of thirty-two, I will finally become a mother. That void and longing I have ached for, for so long, will finally come to fruition. So while I am not a teacher changing the world one child at a time, this year is proof that dreams do, in fact, come true.
In the past, some tiny part of me was always filled with self-loathing, knowing that I wasn’t a mother yet. But all of that is about to change in a few short months. Before I know it, it’ll be late night feedings and poopy diapers and sleepless nights to the point of delirium.
“Simon?” I call out as I turn on more lights throughout the house. “Simon? Are you here?”
Silence.
I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. We’re strained. Distant. Love has turned to loathing. But a small sliver inside hoped that he would have recognized me on my birthday.
I stop in the kitchen for some water before kicking off my shoes. I down the glass in three sips and head toward the bedroom to slip into something more comfortable. I’m two steps inside the door before I see him.
Simon is perched on our bed, his face lit up by the delicate golden glow of a single birthday candle. He’s wearing the outfit I bought him for his birthday earlier this year — a pair of dark army green pants fitted to perfection and a black Brooks Brothers button-down. I hate how he rolls his sleeves up. He’s holding a cupcake with a soft smile upon his face and a bright glittering in his eyes. The whole scene is one eighties anthem away from being worthy of a John Hughes closing credits scene.
“Happy birthday, baby.” Simon reminds me so much of Jake Ryan right now, it’s uncanny.
My cheeks break out into a goofy grin and I close the space between us, blowing out the candle. We both watch the smoke trail up to the ceiling in a delicate dance.
Simon wraps me up in a massive hug.
“I thought you forgot,” I whisper into his chest.
Simon kisses the top of my head. “Never.”
I inhale deeply, appreciating the scent of his cologne — it’s always been my favorite. The perfect blend of leather and soap.
Simon clears his throat, pulls away from me and gestures across the room. A woman cloaked in white stands silently in the shadows of our bedroom, waiting for some kind of introduction.
“Sharna, this is Brenda.” I cross the room to shake her hand.
“Hi …?” It comes out more of a question than a greeting.
“Hello.” The woman responds lightly. I look back to Simon, eyebrows raised.
“Brenda is the cofounder of SpaWorks. She is all yours for the next two hours.” My eyes grow wide and then I see the massage table behind her. SpaWorks has been garnering an abundance of publicity ever since the rave review in The Chicagoist.
“Seriously?”
“I know things have been really stressful lately, so I hope this can help you
— and the baby — relax.” He’s uneasy at the mere mention of the word ‘baby,’ but I can tell he’s making an effort.
Simon’s thoughtfulness catches me off guard and Brenda hands me a a white terrycloth robe, gesturing me to the bathroom to change. It’s amazing how tiny acts of kindness mean the world.
“Thank you.” And I really mean it. I am both humbled and appreciative of this gesture, even though it was the last thing I anticipated.
“Happy birthday, Sharna. I love you.” And I can tell he means it.
Brenda walks toward the bedroom door, seemingly uncomfortable. “I’ll just step outside for a few moments and give you a moment to get settled in.”
When the door closes, you could hear a pin drop. Neither of us move. But we don’t meet each other’s gaze either. It’s almost troublesome.
“I guess I’ll leave you be. I’ll just take this back to the kitchen.” Simon gestures to the cupcake in his hands and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Enjoy. I’ll be back in a little while.”
I turn my back to him and head to the bathroom to get ready for what will, no doubt, be the best massage I’ve had in my life.
“Oh, and I have one more thing for you for your birthday, but it won’t be ready for another week or so.” I knit my eyebrows together. I’m dying to pry it out of him. I want to hear him tell me that he’s doing something extra special with the necklace, or presenting me with tickets to Paris to experience our honeymoon all over again. But I can’t shake the memory of that sapphire necklace from my mind. It was perfect beyond measure and I hate that I can’t allude to it — I can’t let him know I’ve been poking around his things. I know he’ll give it to me when he’s ready.
As I change out of my clothes, I ponder the walking contradiction that is my husband. One moment he wants me, the next he can’t stand me. One instant he showers me in love and the next, loathing. He toggles from thoughtfulness to carelessness with my emotions like he’s waging an internal war against himself and our marriage. I just can’t read him anymore. And it has become emotionally draining on me.