“I don’t think so,” I said, getting excited in an upset sort of way. “That’s my point.”
“Well you used to like it. You went with me all the time. We went to the races, went to the bars, went to the mall, went out to eat. You’re not living if you’re not doing,” he said, making sure I got his point.
Fine, I thought, now he’s calling me dead. And boring. But this time I didn’t care. I didn’t give a rat’s ass if he thought I was the dullest person on earth. Catering to his idea of a good time wasn’t worth the price: loss of freedom as a person, disrespect, and lost dignity. I had squandered an enormous amount, and bankrupted my self-worth in the process.
“And those magazines you look at . . .” I said, looking at a smut magazine peeking out from under the sofa, “. . . the things you ask me to literally bend over backwards to do for you; I only went along with it to be nice. Something to try. Once,” I said, clearly on a liberating roll. “You knew it made me uncomfortable, but you pushed and pushed and pushed until I caved. And when you walk up to me in the kitchen and jiggle my tits . . . it makes me feel like an object, a thing . . . used.”
“You know I love you. You’re my wife. Aren’t I allowed to touch my wife? How could you feel used?” Glenn asked, taken aback. “I’d do anything for you.”
“No. You’d do anything for me as long as it was something you wanted too. I’ve asked for things. I’ve asked to go to the movies. I’ve asked to sit home and relax on a Friday night. I’ve asked for you to stop unbuttoning my jeans and rubbing my crotch while I’m doing the dishes.” I ignored the tears streaming down my face, moving on to get it all out, purge. “I’ve asked for respect, kindness, and consideration and gotten none. You’ve ignored it all, like it didn’t matter. I can’t do this anymore!” I sank down to the floor, curling up into a ball, and heaved great sobs of relief, not caring where the bricks fell.
Glenn looked at me as though I was going off the deep end, when really I was saving myself from drowning.
“What do you need me to do?” Glenn asked, sounding scared. “I’d pay anything to get you the help you need, get you fixed. You’re in a fantasy world.”
So now he thought I needed my head examined, when in actuality, I was at the peak of my psychological fitness, just coming into my own. My fantasy world consisted of a considerate and loving husband, something I thought could be real. If he thought I was in a fantasy world, I wanted no part of his reality.
Thinking back to my mother, I thanked God that the light shone through for me twenty-five years sooner than it did for her, her damage beyond repair. I had time to save myself without collateral damage to children, hers having caught much shrapnel. I wouldn’t have to walk in her footsteps, down the low road I had been taking. Staying resentful was hard when all she had done was lead me to the same boat she had been in, a sinking ship with no captain. I almost felt sorry for her. I gave her this much, at least she, unlike her mother, realized that babies should be picked up when they cried.
“I don’t need fixing,” I said, smearing my overly puffed eyes with my sleeve. “I need respect. I need you to hear me.” I wondered how much thoughtfulness was worth if I had to ask for it.
“I do hear you. We talk every day.”
“No. I mean when I tell you not to treat me like an object, you stop treating me like an object.”
“I don’t treat you like an object,” Glenn said, insinuating I was telling lies.
“You see. You aren’t hearing me,” I said, sure we were unsalvageable.
“But what about what I need? I thought you liked doing all those things with me. I need excitement. That’s who I am,” he said as if I were asking him to poke out his very eyes.
“I can’t,” I said, weeping under pressure, knowing I couldn’t be who I wasn’t anymore, knowing I couldn’t continue trying to deliver unfulfilled promises. Promises I kidded myself I could keep, fearing that if I didn’t try, Glenn would be gone. But now I didn’t care.
“You could before we got married. So what you’re saying is, that wasn’t you? Is that fair?” He acted like he’d been a bait-and-switch victim.
“No!” I wailed, newly bruised from my own internal mental beating. Why had I been so stupid? Why had I ignored my gut? Why had I not seen the signs? “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” I cried tantraumatic sobs. I wanted to flail myself about and shake the pain free. “That wasn’t me. That wasn’t me,” I cried, harder, giving the last ‘me’ the choppy sound of three syllables. I could feel my face forming red splotches and could only see smeary images through my swollen eyes.
“If that wasn’t you, then why’d you do it?” he asked as if it were the most idiotic thing to be someone you’re not.
A new fit of violent weeping struck before I answered, “Because I wanted you to love me.” The logic of Glenn loving the person he had forced me to become, not being the same as Glenn loving me had not entered my mind until liberation day. Glenn could love and respect me, the real me, the way I was, or not. Take it or leave it. A huge weight lifted from my shoulders.
“You pressed me so hard to do things I didn’t want to do, go places I didn’t want to go, be who I didn’t want to be.”
“You could have said no.”
“I did say no.”
“No like you mean it,” Glenn, in his mind, clarified.
“I wouldn’t have said no if I didn’t mean it. Why would I say something I didn’t mean?” I asked, frustration piling on top of pain.
“I wanted you to stand up for yourself. Speak your mind. You have a beautiful mind,” he said. “You never speak up.”
How could he say I had a beautiful mind when all he did was poke at it? “You wanted to hear what I had to say by being a thorn in my side?” I asked, incredulously. “Why didn’t you just ask . . . and listen?”
“I tried. You never said anything.”
“You never heard anything,” I shot back. “You wanted an in-your-face bitch. Well, I’m not an in-your-face bitch.”
“No I didn’t. I wanted you.” A hint of pleading tinged Glenn’s voice.
“You wanted who you wanted me to be.” My voice was sad and cold. “And you know what the worst part is? The worst part is that I let you bully me into that person, someone I’m not.” I spoke up, “You’re right, I didn’t stand up for myself. I wasn’t that bitch I should have been, telling you to go to hell when you didn’t listen to what I did say. And I did say things, oh I said things alright. I told you I wished for rain every night before the races. I told you I didn’t want to blow you in the car. I told you I didn’t like beer. I told you we were short on cash when you bought that new TV anyway. I told you a million things and you only picked up on the ones convenient for you. No. You didn’t want the real me,” I said forcefully.
My tears dried, and with staid face, I went where we both needed to go. “It was both our faults.”
“I’ll go to counseling if you want . . . with you,” Glenn said, having nothing left to say. “I don’t want to be divorced twice.” His melancholy voice trailed off.
I thought counseling would, at best, postpone the inevitable, but heeding Father’s request, I agreed. Years of resentment ran deep, festering into an incurable infection. Pressured, I thought, railroaded, and prodded—to get me to stand up for myself? How idiotic is that?
Reeling in his own pain, Glenn wouldn’t cut me loose. He wouldn’t let it be as easy as that. The tables were turned and now he was the one not wanting to be done, dumped, rejected. Clinging on desperately, he made his own unmanageable promises, promises I believed.
The full moon lit our way up the stairs. Still overwrought, sharing a bed with Glenn was the last thing I wanted. But acting in good faith, I did not suggest otherwise. Glenn tapped my shoulder. He slid to my side of the bed to say goodnight, then kissed me hard. He kept kissing me hard until we made . . . up. It was disgustingly passionate with poisonous, wild abandon; a flailing about to get rid of the pain, a primal balm for dour wounds. It
wasn’t the everything’s all better kind of making up, but an agreement to keep on keeping on. We implicitly agreed to a self-arranged, arranged marriage—he to a woman he didn’t really know and me to a man I didn’t really like.
Glenn lay next to me then said, “Camryn, I’m not perfect. I’m not even close to perfect.” I looked at him through the night air, glad it was dark. “I married you because you are everything I want to be . . . kind, grounded. You keep me straight, on the right track. I admire you so much.”
I lay, quietly disturbed that he married me to be his own personal role model, sticking me up on a pedestal, rather than being one himself.
“I never thought I would get married again, but I married you because of who you are. Did you know I used to smoke?”
I looked at him in horrified disbelief.
“I quit . . . because of you. I knew you didn’t like smoking and I didn’t want to lose you.”
I still had nothing to say, but felt a little something softening inside. Did he want me for me or me for what I could do for him?
Glenn went on, “I want kids. I want your kids. I want to brag about my children. I wouldn’t have any of this . . . a home, a family, my job . . . hell, I wouldn’t have a degree if it weren’t for you.” The urgency in Glenn’s voice told me in no uncertain terms how badly he did not want to let go. “When we first met, I didn’t want anyone, but there was something about you . . . and you held on. I had a huge wall built up around me, but you knocked it down. And I thank God you did; if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have a life.” Slowly, Glenn said, “You saved my life.”
His portrayal of me as some kind of lifesaving miracle worker caused new tears to trickle down my face. If it was as wonderful as all that, why had he treated me that way, abused me that way? I didn’t feel like a messiah, but rather a fool.
Emotionally spent, I kissed Glenn goodnight, a small peck because I didn’t want his touch, didn’t trust it. As I lay facing away from Glenn, drifting off to sleep, I thought about what he said—why he had married me, how I had saved his life, and why I had married him. The answers didn’t come easily, and the first ones were ugly—you married him because you were a stupid, insecure girl. I hadn’t needed anyone to take care of me. I had needed someone to teach me how to take care of myself. That is why I married him. Glenn had saved me from becoming my mother. He had saved my life too.
* * *
Life, one day at a time, brought us to Valentine’s Day, just a few weeks later. Inappropriate to snub my husband, all I could manage was a generic card that said, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’ I signed it ‘Love, Camryn.’ I signed everything that way, everything except business letters, which I signed ‘Sincerely.’ For Glenn’s valentine, I merely wanted to convey that I loved him as a fellow human being, just as I loved my mother. He, on the other hand, had more elaborate plans, taking me to dinner and then to a pet store.
“What are we doing at the pet store?” I asked.
“We need to get a few things for your valentine,” he said, positive that his valentine surprise would mend shattered fences.
“What is my valentine?” I asked, not sure I wanted another mouth to feed, something else to take care of.
“You’ll see,” he said, heading toward the litter-box aisle. He selected a gray, hooded model. “Do you like this one?” Glenn asked.
“You’re getting me a litter box for Valentine’s Day?” I wondered what to make of it. “You don’t like cats.”
“No, but you do,” he said.
“You’re seriously getting me a cat?”
“Pound’s the next stop,” he answered.
Rain poured down on the way to the animal shelter, putting a chill in the air. Shivering, I said, “Won’t it be great to have a kitty to snuggle, keep warm?”
“Yeah, great,” Glenn mumbled. I wondered if this was just a furry peace offering, not a new family member.
We peered into ten separate cages, barking dogs in the background. Kittens mewed in front of us. It smelled like Whiskers’ veterinarian’s office.
“Pick one out,” he said.
I eliminated the adults—they could already have bad habits—and honed in on the kittens. Two were asleep, one looked mangy, another had gunk in its eyes. Two kittens on the end were rassling, playfully biting each other’s tails.
“I’d like to see that one.” I pointed to a mostly black shorthair with white bib and socks. It pawed at my finger with its soft feet, barely scraping me with its claws. The volunteer took the little fuzz ball from its playmate who sat with a take me too look on its face.
“We’re only getting one,” Glenn said as the left-behind kitten pushed his guilt buttons.
The adoption aide inspected the black kitten’s hind end and said, “It’s a male. Two bucks donation if you want him.”
“Is that the one you want?” Glenn asked as I cuddled my fuzzy valentine. He purred in my hands.
“Yep, he’s the one!”
Glenn gave the lady ten dollars. “Keep the change,” he said on our way out into the pouring rain. “Here, let me take him.” Glenn tucked the kitten into his hockey windbreaker, protecting it. Once in the car, he deposited the purring bundle on my lap. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Glenn said. We kissed, then I cuddled the kitten all the way home.
“What are you going to name him?” Glenn asked. “Something manly like Bruiser or Fang?”
“No,” I answered, appalled by the suggestions. “I don’t know yet.”
As we sat down watching X-Files, fuzz ball hopped onto the arm of the couch, padded across Glenn’s lap, then settled into mine. He purred while kneading and nuzzling my angora sweater.
Watching the show I said, “Mulder’s kinda cute.” I noticed his eyes and kind temperament. Something about him reminded me of Reese.
“Gorgeous,” Glenn said sarcastically.
“I think I’ll name kitty David.”
“David? You’re going to name a cat David?” Glenn sounded as if he hadn’t heard anything more ludicrous.
“Yeah, like David Duchovny.”
“Why don’t you just call him Fox?”
“I can’t name a cat Fox,” I said, petting David in my lap. “He’s my cat. If I want to name him David, I’ll name him David.” I lifted the kitten’s chin and said, “Right, David?” David returned with a mew. “See, he likes it.”
“David,” Glenn shook his head and sighed, then flipped the channel. “I thought about getting two pure-bred cats so we could breed them and make some money, but I couldn’t stand to have more than one cat in the house.”
“David’s just fine,” I said, enjoying the kitten’s warm purr. As I rubbed behind his ears, he closed contented eyes.
* * *
“What do you think of moving to Seattle?” Glenn asked seriously, yet half expecting me to accuse him of losing his mind, perhaps call him on an April Fool, unlikely as that was. He looked straight at me as I held David in my lap, stroking his soft fur.
“Fine,” I said, thinking that anywhere was better than here. It didn’t take long to add up that I hated my life. Hated St. Louis, hated my job, still hated my house, but hated it slightly less when Glenn wasn’t in it. Sometimes I hated him, but was trying hard not to. The only thing I was happy with was David. He let out a soft mew. “You’re so cute,” I cooed into his kitten face and kissed him on his furry lips. He continued to purr.
“When do we go?” I asked, the prospect of change lifting my spirits. Counseling hadn’t cured anything; the counselor was more of a referee than a help, but he did suggest we find a new ‘place’ with each other, start fresh. I suddenly became eager to get underway, choosing to take the counselor’s advice literally.
Startled by my quick decision, Glenn said, “That was easy.” Even he had not made up his mind.
“I take it this is for work? They want you to move?” I guessed. David began to knead my arm.
“XB has a classified project up there and they want my help. That
’s really all I’m allowed to say.”
“When do they want you?” I asked, choosing an unclassified question.
“As soon as we can get there.”
CHAPTER 22
“The first fifteen years of marriage is painful and messy like childbirth. You’re glad you went through it, after the fact, coming out with a precious new life.”
—Megan’s Grandma
In May, we bid farewell to the Midwest. When I told Mother that the house we had owned for a mere six months had sold with a hefty margin of two thousand dollars she said, “God has shown you favor. Usually you don’t break even on a house until you’ve had it a few years.” She raised her hands in the air. “Praise the Lord. Hallelujah!” I marveled at her hypocrisy, having watched her and my aunt make fun of the holy-roller church down the street from Aunt Florence’s New Jersey home during our summer vacation visits. When I was young, Aunt Florence closed the windows, blocking out “all that racket” resounding from the Court Street Full Gospel Assembly—the “afternoon matinee” according to Florence. The mid-Sunday service, complete with Glory Be’s, Amens, and peace-disturbing, drum-accompanied spirituals, would have drawn police attention, emanating from anywhere other than a church.
Rain fell when we arrived. Seattle greeted us with not a torrential downpour, but a light, constant, calming rain. Gray clouds obscured the mountains. Evergreen sentinels stood watch over the highways. I could only describe the area as cozy, as that is all I felt, immediately at home. It was love at first sight, not the mad, passionate kind, but the steaming hot-cocoa type. I knew, with an instinctual knowing, we made the right move. No second-guesses. No turning back.
“I’m glad you brought me here,” I said to Glenn as we lie in bed listening to the steady rain pattering overhead, the window cracked just wide enough for David’s whiskered nose. We watched David sniff the rain-scented air. Occasional drops fell harder from the eaves while we snuggled closer, protected from the cool air, nowhere in particular to go on a Saturday morning. Starting fresh.
Our coffeehouse chats became some of my favorite moments, making plans for the future, discussing job prospects, deciding in which home we would set down roots, start a family. They frequently launched fresh excursions—endless possibilities of things to do and see, hike and explore.
Love, Carry My Bags Page 30