The silence is relieved as guests begin to arrive, mingling throughout the spacious room. I am selfishly amused as a parade of gaudy attire marches by. An ivory and black floor-length prom gown on a Hispanic woman in her fifties. A cheap polyester stretch knit dress barely covering the round buttocks of a girl in her early twenties. An ivory mini dress with crisscross back straps on a heavy-set woman, exposing back tattoos and rolls of bulging flesh. I suddenly feel quite myself. Elegant, albeit in a bold red.
I step into the dutiful wife role and ask all the right questions of the young couple seated with us. They have been dating three months. She is not yet twenty-one and he orders her drink at the bar. They went shopping earlier for the cute little rhinestone and satin holiday bow-tie she is wearing as a necklace. They met at the restaurant where she works. He does not play online games because he tries to spend as much time with her between his two jobs. They are refreshingly sweet. Unlike the obnoxiously cute behavior so typical of young couples, they are visibly bright and shiny, two new pennies I can't resist picking up. Maybe I am so resigned to my situation that I am not jealous, or maybe it's that I genuinely like them. Either way, their company helps the respectable three hours pass, before we drive home, my head turned toward the window, my husband trying to find the right thing to say to a wife he claims to no longer love.
Chapter Three
"Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum ..." Gregory stomps heavily up the stairs toward the open loft. Sam and Maggie scream with delight, running toward the closest hiding place, giggling and squealing. Gregory rounds the corner, pretending he does not know that Sam has scampered into the bedroom closet with Maggie close on his heels. She squeezes behind the open door frame, holding a dimpled hand to her mouth. "I smell the blood of a Little One!" He calls out. Both children's muted giggles can be heard from their respective hidden nook. Maggie is the first to be found as she jumps out of her spot voluntarily, unable to contain her excitement any longer, and she collapses into Gregory's tickling embrace in a fit of giggles. "Sam is in the closet!" She confesses in her helpless state of excitement. Gregory rummages around pretending that Sam is nowhere to be found until finally a slight giggle escapes from the closet and Sam squats to the floor, wiggling out of Gregory's arms.
I smile contentedly in the kitchen, where I am setting the table with mismatched dinnerware. How is one married a decade without a decent dish to their name? Bright plastic dishes for the kids, clear glass dishes for Gregory and me, clouded and scratched from years of dish washing. Tessa is gurgling in her booster seat, nibbling on a bit of banana while I dish out helpings of pulled beef from the crock pot. She raises her eyebrows as I let out a small yelp while pulling the aluminum wrapped baked potatoes from the oven. I shake my hand and blow on it. "Dinner's ready," I call.
They are tossing something around in the living room, and my desire for happy moments swallows the fear that a lamp will be knocked over, or some little treasure will meet an untimely end. There is the skidding of feet and the jostle of accent furniture coupled with giddy sounds. I find myself relieved for Gregory's love toward his children, and I do not challenge him. I have learned that a simple suggestion involving his playtime with the children meets with stern disapproval and rebuke.
I lift the lid to the steamed cauliflower and frown. It is soggy, grossly overcooked. I wonder if it would have made a difference anyway. No one really likes the vegetable portion of dinner, but I regret having bought it fresh, only to do it the injustice of boiling it to mush. It falls apart at the first touch of the fork and collapses into the remaining water in the pot.
We casually gather around the table and the kids babble a quick grace, and Gregory calls out, "Let's eat!" Sam is a bundle of chatter and Gregory chimes in, as Knock Knock jokes are passed around the table. This is real, I tell myself. This is family. I do not have less than others. I have a husband who works hard, loves his kids, and comes home to his wife. I have beautiful, behaved, happy children. It is enough. "Who's there?" I call out. "Poo Poo who?" I ask. "Poo Poo on your shoe!" I pretend to frown while their high-pitched squeals fill the small kitchen.
Gregory stands up, leaving an empty plate and cup at the table, pats his protruding stomach, sticking it out further than it already is, burps, and walks out of the kitchen. I begin clearing dishes as the kids finish up, still joking and teasing one another. "Mom," Sam says, "I really liked the meat. It was flavorful." I suddenly feel emotional. "Thank you for saying so, Sam. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I have leftovers for tomorrow." "Cool," he says, oblivious to the disproportionate gratitude that I feel toward a child's affirmation. I excuse them from the table and they scamper away for a few minutes of free time before setting down to homework.
There is the familiar groan of the recliner as Gregory sinks heavily into its dutiful embrace. We all know this is Daddy's chair, and when it is moved even a matter of a few inches, he is a scarier version of Papa Bear wanting to know who has been sitting in his chair, fiddling with the distance between the chair and the cords to the game system. We all have learned to avoid that corner of the room as best we can. He turns on the game and we fade into the backdrop. As he enters into his own private world, speaking to strangers over a headset in our living room, he becomes the man I no longer love.
It comes back vividly as I watch him disappear in his recliner, all traces of the loving father lost now. It had been a sunny afternoon. We were newlywed. He had barricaded himself in the spare room playing on the computer. I blush, ashamed now, of how bold I once was. How I thought I could change my fate by the power of persuasion. How I could once lobby for my desires. I had expressed my displeasure at his lack of attention toward me; the endless selfish hours spent gaming online. He insisted I get out of the house and leave him alone. "I'm not going anywhere. I haven't showered yet and I'm not leaving until I shower and until I feel like leaving." I shout back. "You need a shower? You need a shower?! Here, take a shower!" is his irate response. In an instant he is out of his chair, and he has me in his grip, leading me to bathroom. I feel my will breaking under the threat of his anger. I hear the crank of the faucet and he is pulling my tank top off. Then my flannel pants. I am still wearing underwear when he deposits me in the shower. He slams the door and I stand there for a moment, ashamed that he had overpowered me with the unspoken suggestion of violence. Ashamed that I didn't fight back when there was nothing to fear in the first place.
The line had been drawn, and I knew my place. I was never to set expectations. I was never to make demands. As long as I remembered that he was in authority, everything would be okay. I had decided that in spite of the shame of separation, I was going to leave him. I could not allow him to break me. Three days later, I discovered I was pregnant. And a new arrangement was forged. Survival.
There would be traces of love. Guilt. Pain. Joy. Pleasure. Bitterness. Tenderness. But mostly, I would learn to survive. For the sake of Sam. The price of my freedom. The gift I would spend a lifetime feeling unworthy of. It is all for Sam. It always was.
Chapter Four
There had been clues from the beginning. The time he had finished an outdoor lunch and was polishing it off with a cigarette. In my innocence and eagerness in a series of first dates, I had risen from my seat and asked if he was ready. In an instant he stamped out the cigarette, shoved the chair aside, and looking straight ahead, lips set, began walking. I remember pleading, "I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd mind walking and smoking ... Why aren’t you talking to me? What did I do?"
The answer was simple. My standing up had indicated an end to that moment, and it was he who would dictate when ends would come. After punishing me for several minutes with agonizing silence, he forgave me and explained he had been enjoying the moment and wanted to sit and relax while smoking. I had ruined it for him. That part rings clear, as they it had been last summer, not thirteen summers before. His tantrum, his smoldering silence, his infuriation were the result of my inconsideration. If only I were a marionette, he would not be forced to
stamp out my hope.
Somehow, I had moved past the blame, not believing it, or feeling it, and went on to allow many more accusations to come my way. Miraculously, I never actually believed that I was in the wrong. I chose to love him despite his anger. I felt as though I was the one in control, choosing to love a man when I could have walked away. Until the day I couldn't walk away.
I gaze out the window with such intense longing and desire, that I cannot swallow. The pain spreads from my throat to the top of my chest, and I try to catch my breath without his notice. The early spring sun pours through the lace curtains and Sam nurses contentedly at my breast, as we rock together. The tears slip down my cheeks. I marvel at how easily they come without distorting my face. One by one, I can almost count them as they roll rhythmically from cheek to chin, landing in a gentle drop on my white nightgown.
I sense Gregory's tense stare, and I feel his mounting disapproval. When I didn't touch or hold Sam other than to nurse him in the hospital, Gregory was patient. He was kind and gentle. He carried me from the bed to the wheelchair when I could not walk. He was there for five days, sleeping in the chair next to my bed in the aftermath of a traumatic birth. His presence was calm, reassuring. Everything was going to be okay. He fell into his new role with ease and tremendous love. But now ... now that we are home ... Now that two months have passed and I cry every time I hold Sam, his disapproval grows.
Within moments of these first few daring tears, his voice shatters the silence. "You're a mother now. Get a grip, and do what you need to do." I think it is hatred that I feel rising within me. Surely, any fool can see that I need some relief from the relentless colic. That I need a few hours of sleep. That I need a day to go somewhere with a friend. Instead, what he affords me is an isolated existence as I pioneer motherhood, watching him walk out the door three, sometimes four nights a week to spend the night at Finn's, leaving me to pace the floors with a fitful newborn.
On that beautiful spring day, I realized it was the beginning of many days that I would spend on the inside, looking out. Slowly, the longing would fade, as the sounds of children, like many waters, would fill my heart, drowning out even him. It would be this way, and in their love and laughter, I would become who I was always meant to be; my children's mother.
Chapter Five
There had been clues from the beginning. The time he had finished an outdoor lunch and was polishing it off with a cigarette. In my innocence and eagerness in a series of first dates, I had risen from my seat and asked if he was ready. In an instant he stamped out the cigarette, shoved the chair aside, and looking straight ahead, lips set, began walking. I remember pleading, "I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd mind walking and smoking ... Why aren’t you talking to me? What did I do?"
The answer was simple. My standing up had indicated an end to that moment, and it was he who would dictate when ends would come. After punishing me for several minutes with agonizing silence, he forgave me and explained he had been enjoying the moment and wanted to sit and relax while smoking. I had ruined it for him. That part rings clear, as they it had been last summer, not thirteen summers before. His tantrum, his smoldering silence, his infuriation were the result of my inconsideration. If only I were a marionette, he would not be forced to stamp out my hope.
Somehow, I had moved past the blame, not believing it, or feeling it, and went on to allow many more accusations to come my way. Miraculously, I never actually believed that I was in the wrong. I chose to love him despite his anger. I felt as though I was the one in control, choosing to love a man when I could have walked away. Until the day I couldn't walk away.
I gaze out the window with such intense longing and desire, that I cannot swallow. The pain spreads from my throat to the top of my chest, and I try to catch my breath without his notice. The early spring sun pours through the lace curtains and Sam nurses contentedly at my breast, as we rock together. The tears slip down my cheeks. I marvel at how easily they come without distorting my face. One by one, I can almost count them as they roll rhythmically from cheek to chin, landing in a gentle drop on my white nightgown.
I sense Gregory's tense stare, and I feel his mounting disapproval. When I didn't touch or hold Sam other than to nurse him in the hospital, Gregory was patient. He was kind and gentle. He carried me from the bed to the wheelchair when I could not walk. He was there for five days, sleeping in the chair next to my bed in the aftermath of a traumatic birth. His presence was calm, reassuring. Everything was going to be okay. He fell into his new role with ease and tremendous love. But now ... now that we are home ... Now that two months have passed and I cry every time I hold Sam, his disapproval grows.
Within moments of these first few daring tears, his voice shatters the silence. "You're a mother now. Get a grip, and do what you need to do." I think it is hatred that I feel rising within me. Surely, any fool can see that I need some relief from the relentless colic. That I need a few hours of sleep. That I need a day to go somewhere with a friend. Instead, what he affords me is an isolated existence as I pioneer motherhood, watching him walk out the door three, sometimes four nights a week to spend the night at Finn's, leaving me to pace the floors with a fitful newborn.
On that beautiful spring day, I realized it was the beginning of many days that I would spend on the inside, looking out. Slowly, the longing would fade, as the sounds of children, like many waters, would fill my heart, drowning out even him. It would be this way, and in their love and laughter, I would become who I was always meant to be; my children's mother.
Chapter Six
10:15 p.m. Gregory would be home in fifteen minutes. I have two choices. I can pretend I am asleep, knowing that he will not wake me, or I can continue to watch television and greet him with an empty stare and silence, instead of my usual eager hug and kiss. After all of these years, I feel a stir of excitement when the familiar headlights of his Jeep round the corner and bounce cheerily into our dark gravel driveway. Often I watch from the window, and those times when he sits, listening to a song, I wait by the window until I saw the lights go dim, as his broad shoulders ease out of the tiny frame of his Wrangler. I stand at the door smiling like a child. Oh, how I love this man. His tender embrace can erase the cares of the day and his gentle gaze can melt any fear. I am small in his arms, and I fit neatly into him, my head touching his chest.
Tonight, I am angry. Earlier in the week, I had climbed on to his lap, my long hair flowing over bare shoulders, a definite suggestion, since it was usually pulled back into what I called my "mom bun," a loose chignon at the nape of my neck, the front loosely parted to the side, not too harsh around my aging face. I had smiled warmly and he had tucked me into his arms, like a child would a favorite doll and said, "You are beautiful. You are sexy. I love you. I had a really hard day at work." I slipped off his knee and buried myself in an oversized quilt, staring at the television and watching the lips move on the screen. He would then spend the following two nights at Finn's house, leaving me to wonder from what he needed escape.
Tonight, I am not happy to see him. I opt for the latter choice, occupied with a sitcom, when I hear the quiet click of the door. He gently plods up the slightly groaning stairs to the loft and gazes in my direction with an amused and boyish smile. He holds a wrapped chocolate chip cookie from a bakery that he had been convinced to buy along with his meal and gestured for me to take it. It wasn't a peace offering. Gregory doesn’t see himself as doing any wrong which would require such a thing such as a peace offering. In fact, he probably had completely forgotten that on Saturday night I stood at the top of the stairs weeping as he walked out the door.
In a single moment, during a simple exchange, one hand giving, the other taking, an insignificant cookie becomes the very thing that eases my hurt. I humor him by breaking off a piece, and it is cold, from sitting in the car, as he sits down in his recliner and sighs. It is an invitation for me to ask how his day was, so we can find some common ground and chat for a few minutes. This would mean he h
as fulfilled his husbandly duty, providing me with a few minutes of his attention, just enough to ease his conscience before he wearily puts on his headset and turns on the console, as if that too, is a burden he has to bear.
I do not ask how his day was. I nibble a few bites of the cookie, and pretend to watch TV. He waits several minutes, staring ahead in his chair, and when he realizes that I shifted the pillow on the couch the way I always do when I am ready to fall asleep, I hear him greet his buddies through the headset that invades the privacy of our home every evening. 'He's home, boys,' I muse. 'Your game spouse is home, and he is ready to make love to you all night. Into the wee hours of the morning, he will romance you. You will dance to the music of missiles, artillery and ambush.'
The Space Between Promises Page 2