Seventy-Two Hours

by Stringham, C. P.

  While he was offering his plea, I decided to deliver my own. “Christopher, I understand what you’re asking. I do. But I want to state, for the record, I refuse to turn into this waspish, harpy wife in order to get your attention. My concession is we meet in the middle. You have to make a concentrated effort. I will not go back to how things were before. I deserve better than that. I truly do.”

  “Absolutely. I agree with you wholeheartedly,” he said as he reached out to tuck a tendril of hair behind my ear.

  His hand lingered and I leaned into it. Closing my eyes and relishing his touch. I was torn. There was still a large percentage of my dignity that wanted to cut my sentient losses and run.

  “I don’t ever want to hear through my mother again that you’re going to her with our problems. You should come to me.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I know I’m right, Christopher.” With all the points I was making with him, I knew I’d subconsciously made up my mind even if it were only truly sinking in with me at that moment.

  “You are my priority. From this day forward, you come first,” he promised as I met his eyes. “It’s my promise to you.”

  Chris was steadfast. I was more than a little awestruck by his conviction. And despite my misgivings, I believed him.

  I nodded under his gaze. “Okay.”

  He seemed momentarily stunned by my answer. “What?”

  Staring at him squarely I replied, “Yes, I’m willing to give it a try.”

  He gathered me up and pulled me tightly against him. I could literally feel the tension leave his body as relief washed through him. The change was immediate. An almost from head to toe progression. After kissing my brow, he sighed heavily. The ER doctor had been so right about stress and the physical impact it had on a person’s body. We’d both been on edge for far too long. The weekend had taken the stress to an even higher level. It was no wonder I felt drained. Not just mentally drained, but physically. As my tension, too, abated, I wrapped my arms around his trunk and rested my head on his shoulder. It was nice. Something I had so very missed.

  “Christopher, I said I’d try. It’s going to take a lot of work on both our parts to work through this. It won’t be overnight,” I said as a gentle warning.

  “I know, but it’s a start.”

  I prayed his optimism wasn’t for nothing. Only time would tell.

  Epilogue

  October 5, 2012 - East Smithfield, PA

  I finished packing last minute items into the back of my minivan (or “mom van” as my children called it.) Moving in was so much work. Something I had forgotten with living in the same house for almost twenty years. I stood back amazed at how I was able to get everything inside. At least I hoped I’d gotten it all. I made a list. Teachers always made lists and most of us were overly organized to the point of being borderline OCD. My eyes scanned over a box labeled bathroom linens. Another for bed linens. Who would have thought I’d be setting up another home at 42? It was kind of exciting!

  I looked back at our two-story Victorian farmhouse with gingerbread trim giving myself one more chance to mentally go room by room to see if there was anything else I needed. Drawing a blank, I got in the driver’s seat and headed onto a new adventure.

  Clinton’s choice in music came on as his Rage Against the Machine CD blasted over the speakers at ear-splitting decibels. I promptly turned it down so that the interior of the van was no longer vibrating to the beat of the music. My youngest was in a rush to get in as much driving time as he could since his friend, Dean, was the first of his friends to get his license. I’d never had someone so willing to join me for the most mundane errands and such just to accumulate the remainder of his 65 hours of vehicle operation time. This time, his CD was playing from our trip home from school two hours ago since the two of us carpooled.

  We were six weeks into the new school year. As luck would have it, the curriculum hadn’t changed from one year to the next so I could use the same lesson plans. I always inserted current national and international news events into my lessons for group discussion whenever possible. Students seemed to do better remembering historical events when they could relate them to current topics. It stayed with them.

  Clinton completed his tenth week of weekly therapy. Per his therapist’s recommendations, he underwent educational testing in Rochester. The developmental pediatrician and educational testing specialist concluded he had Attention Deficit Disorder. After the diagnosis, he started medication the second week of school and already his teachers were reporting a noticeable improvement. He still had catching up to do in his academics. Because of that, he was meeting once a week with a tutor, fresh out of college, to keep him motivated and to assist him in improving his organizational skills while helping him play catch-up. The outside tutor was a godsend. I only wished I’d done it sooner. Clinton worked well with Cameron. Their sessions were successful because the two of them could still do their guy thing while getting the necessary work done. They’d talk cars and sports and joke which had built an instant bond between them. Whereas, when he and I attempted working together in the past, we’d only managed to lock horns. I was impatient and he was stubborn and defiant. Those traits disappeared with Cameron.

  It bothered me immensely that I didn’t see his disorder sooner. So much so, I’d scheduled a few sessions with his therapist for myself. While she didn’t breech my son’s confidences, we did discuss my frustrations and guilt. I shared my sense of failure with her. Naturally, through lots of mom tears. She permitted me to get everything off my chest before offering up her professional analysis. She saw me as a loving mother, involved in her children’s lives while balancing career and family life. Clinton was the youngest of three boys. Three active and busy boys. She told me it was completely natural for parents to lose some of their parenting anxiety with each subsequent child. We’d matured as parents. With that maturity and experience, we were more relaxed. Had Hudson been the one to have the disorder, in all likelihood, both Chris and I would have recognized it at a much younger age and taken earlier measures to have it diagnosed. Instead, it was child number three. Add our busy lifestyle into the mix and you have the situation we were in now with Clinton. I felt relieved when she assured me he would get the help he needed to catch up with his peers. She recommended several books and papers, for parents, written on the subject of teen children with ADD and ADHD.

  Clinton and I were both going through a metamorphosis of sorts. Each with our own struggles. If anything, it brought us closer together. Chris as well. Our son was no longer opposed to our input and we no longer expected less from him simply because he was Clinton and that’s the way he was. With the diagnosis came understanding and patience. Mutual respect as well. Clinton’s struggle wasn’t his own making. There was a reason for it. Now, we worked together to rebuild our relationship and overcome what happened in the past.

  Having been lost in my thoughts while driving, I’d arrived to my destination on autopilot or so it seemed. I pulled into the driveway and parked under the trees. Getting out of the van, I took a deep breath of the earthy air and felt a mixture of peace and contentment. It had taken work to get there. I knew there was more work to do to maintain it. Nevertheless, the results to date were a welcomed relief. So much had been at stake.

  “Are you going to stand there all evening or are you going to get to work unpacking?”

  I chuckled and found my husband standing on the front porch, hands on hips and smiling at me. “Just taking it all in.”

  He closed the distance between us, stopping right in front of me. “Happy about it, are you?”

  I reached out and cupped his cheek. “I think giddy with joy sums up what I’m feeling.”

  “You just took me back saying that. All fresh-eyed and young. Like when we bought our house.”

  “It’s not every day a woman moves into her dream vacation house. You know the one; nestled in a grove of trees, beside a gorgeous lake, and at the foothills of a rolling
vineyard?”

  Once our offer to Curt was made, it had taken six weeks for our closing date. That happened the previous Monday.

  “As a matter of fact I do.”

  “Location. Location. Location.”

  He laughed and offered, “Do you know what makes it a perfect location?”

  I turned my head coyly and replied, “Beyond what I’ve already pointed out? You tell me.”

  “Your being here makes it the perfect location,” he said huskily before gathering me up into his arms and kissing me breathless.

  I shrieked with laughter as he swept me up and began carrying me towards the cottage. “I say we take a break from moving in and christen the master bedroom. Something I’ve dreamed about doing for a long time with you.”

  “A break? I just got here, Christopher!” I teased as I got the door for him.

  “Too dedicated to your job to leave early like I did. We’ll have to see what I can do to make sure that doesn’t happen next time.”

  “What did you have in mind, Mr. Gardner?”

  “Lots and lots of experimentation with my wife on this Columbus Day weekend. I am a scientist after all. We like to experiment.”

  I giggled, “And I love that about my mad scientist.

  That familiar stir of excitement came to life in the pit of my stomach and I felt myself twitch with anticipation from a place lower in my anatomy. Who would have thought that after all we’d been through, we’d be able to return to what we used to have? In some ways, it was even better. Coming so close to losing everything we had only made our relationship grow stronger. We fought to save it.

  On the threshold of the master bedroom, Christopher murmured, “Prepare for me to razzle dazzle you, Mrs. Gardner.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Gardner.”

  Successful marriages were a work in progress. Not something that could be settled into and left to its own devices. It needed to be nutured. We each made a concentrated effort to mend and grow. Counseling helped, but as the counselor pointed out, during our very first session, without our mutual desire to save it, no amount of therapy would help. And he was right. My husband and I wanted nothing more than to make it work. That meant forgiving each other for past behaviors. Not holding them against one another. And, ultimately, forgiving ourselves for them as well. Guilt wouldn’t rebuild a healthy relationship. Forgiveness would.

  I still needed to give my husband gentle reminders from time to time when he was overly engrossed in his work. He was good natured about it and would set things aside to engage in family life. It was such a relief having someone to share the workload of home and family with. So much so, I was a better teacher for it. I had renewed energy at work. My involvement as co-advisor of student council increased to a level I’d always wanted it to be, but had fallen short before. My new freedom had permitted me to engage more in student activities and I loved it. Student government was the greatest tool for getting them interested in community outreach programs and turning them into civic-minded individuals. Maybe even future community leaders and beyond. A history teacher’s dream.

  “You’re smiling,” Chris said as he trailed kisses along my neck.

  “I’m happy, Christopher.”

  “My dear, I’ve barely even begun to razzle dazzle you.”

  His fingers worked deftly opening buttons on the old dress shirt I’d stolen from his side of the closet. Before long, it was tossed aside as he went to work on the clasp of the demure pale pink bra I was wearing. It, too, was discarded with haste. My scarred breast no longer brought a moment of unease or embarrassment to me. Chris assured me over and over that what he saw when he looked at me was the beautiful woman he fell in love with.

  I shivered with delight as his breath brushed along my breast before his lips sealed over the peaked nipple and began sucking it and teasing it with his tongue. My already heated core turned to molten liquid as I felt my wetness grow in anticipation for what was to come.

  Christopher pulled away from me and traced his finger along the wing of my butterfly tattoo. His touch, gentle and feather-light, left me panting for more.

  On a breathless whisper I said, “Christopher, please make love to me. Fast and hard. I’m coming out of my skin right now waiting.”

  “We’re not rushing this, Jennifer. We have the cottage to ourselves and I intend to take advantage of it,” he told me softly. “I’m going to work you up into a frenzy just to watch the results unfold before me. Sort of like watching an element convert from a solid state into a liquid. Ideally, it’s a slow burn until the satisfied results of pooling occurs. Too hot, too quickly and it combusts with less than perfect results.”

  My breath caught momentarily before I could say, “Please. Talk more nerd with me.”

  Chris lifted me up and placed me on the bed, “Baby, that’s all you needed to say.”