I will sleep alone again, regardless of whether or not I asked about his day. I closed my eyes, satisfied that I had regained some battle ground of my own in this war on love.
Chapter Seven
Sipping coffee, watching snow fall, nursing both girls back to health from a cold virus, and wondering when winter will ever come to an end, I greet another day. The older I get, the longer winter seems to last. Wet snow pants flung over whatever railing or rack that can be found in our small farm house that does not have what all the modern ladies are boasting about; a mud room. Lonely knit gloves looking for a mate scattered from room to room, wet boots slopping up the entryway, and kids with incurable cabin fever.
Truth is, I'd rather be cold than hot. And Lord knows, N.Y. summers are unforgiving. The heat, mixed with humidity is often unbearable. It is easier to warm up than to cool down, at least in my opinion. It's the sunshine and the long days that seem so far gone when March comes to a close. It is not going out like a lamb this year, I muse.
Tessa's final gurgles drift through the bedroom door and I know she has settled in for a mid-morning snooze. I think about the laundry that waits, taunting me, "Run, run, run, as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the dirty-hamper man." And so it is. Each day, I wake up and chase after life, and it seems always just out of reach.
I ignore the laundry and spend a few minutes researching pursuing my Master's degree. I happened upon a co-worker this week who was working toward hers online. It piqued my interest and she entertained a few questions I had. I'm a believer in time and place significance, so I took this as a sign that furthering my education is not out of reach. I could work at night when the kids were asleep. I navigate the college website, allowing myself to taste the possibility, like dabbling with sushi, and decide I will need to set aside a block of time to devote to research.
I nurse a second cup of coffee and hang on to the quiet moment. My view is blocked by the oversized, outdated air conditioner that sits idly in the window, dust caked in its vents. The house is too old for central air, so these bulky contraptions are what keep us cool during a brutal summer day. Sometimes Maggie will mention the time Daddy turned them all off when it was ninety-eight degrees, and he went from room to room screaming. I try to ignore the conversation, as if in some way that will help to eradicate the memory.
I shudder, not wanting to believe that a man with so much good in him is capable of such cruelty. I am mildly comforted only by the fact that when I confronted him a year later he bore no memory of it, allowing me to somewhat forgive what was most likely a result of his blood pressure wreaking havoc on our lives. The invisible enemy that worked so diligently to destroy us.
Twenty-eight weeks pregnant and trying to catch up on some ironing in the heat of the day, I sighed and brushed back a loose strand of sweaty hair.
"Why don't you wait until it cools off to do that?" He asks. I answer without looking up. "Because I have the time now ..." He is of course sitting in his recliner by the air conditioner when the use of iron requires too much energy and the entire upstairs fuse blows. I tug the cord from the wall and am about to make my way to the cellar to reset the fuse box when he erupts.
"You never listen to me! Why don't you ever listen to me?! It makes no sense to iron in this heat! Here ... Here ... You like the heat? You want heat?" He storms into the kitchen, turns off the air conditioner, flies into the living room and does the same, unplugging the TV. He doesn't touch the air conditioner downstairs in the kids' bedrooms. The punishment was not theirs after all. It was mine. I had not obeyed him. I had tossed his suggestion to the side and went ahead with my ironing and now I would pay for my indiscretion. "You want to throw money out the window, ironing while all the air conditioners are on? Let's see how you do without any appliances."
Before he barrels out of the house he warns, "When I'm gone, if you touch any of these air conditioners, the TV, anything, I will throw them out the window when I get home." I want to remind him that the air conditioners technically belong to his mother and they aren't his to throw out, but past experience warned me against this. He knows the wide-eyed kids will certainly tell him if I do turn them on, so I know there would be no air conditioner in the long hours to come. He peels out of the driveway in our only vehicle at the time, and leaves me pregnant, with two small children to swelter in silence.
"Daddy's not feeling well," I say as I usher Sam and Maggie downstairs to their room to play. I can feel the contractions beginning. Already the heat is suffocating. I can barely breathe. Within an hour the bare hardwood kitchen table is covered in condensation. The kids are asleep in their cool room, but the contractions are increasing. Knowing he could walk in the door at any minute, I don't dare seek relief. Sitting in the kitchen, struggling to breathe against the oppressive heat, I muster what courage I have and dial Finn's house, "Gregory, you need to come home, I'm in labor."
***
The first thing he does when he comes home is to turn on all the air conditioners. In what had been a matter of six hours, he seems to have completely forgotten that he had forbade the use of them, and seemed perplexed as to why I was sitting in a house whose walls and wood furniture were literally sweating. I remind him that he went into a rage and turned them all off, to which he responds with a baffled expression.
"Your mom is going to stay with the kids," I say flatly. "The contractions won't stop."
The ride to the hospital is a silent one. I had expected him to feel worried and guilty. I had expected him to reassure me, to attempt reconciliation. He says nothing. His mood is dull, as if this trip is a nuisance, as if this was a plan I devised to pull him away from a good game, a few Mountain Dews and a package of Twizzlers.
I am strangely more concerned with his level of guilt than I am this baby's safety. Fairly confident that I will be given something to stop the labor, I make a point to cover my belly with open hands on either side, sitting staunchly upright to ensure him of my discomfort.
We arrive at the entrance and he drops me off at the front door. "You aren't coming in?" I asked incredulously. "You're in good hands," he says without looking at me. “I’ve got to get home to the kids.” He drives away as I clutch my belly and hobble inside.
It is his mother who picks me up the next morning after the drugs had successfully stopped the labor. I had explained to the nurses that my husband had to return home to care for our other two children and that he would make arrangements to return if the situation did not improve. I'm sure in their line of work, they have heard every excuse in the book, and have quietly overlooked the absence of many a foul husband at a laboring woman's bedside. What they did not know that is if my husband believed this was anything other than a guilt-trip, he would have been glued to my bedside. We have been at this game long enough, he and I.
This was not a well devised plan. I lost a night's sleep, twisting on the thin hospital bed in a humid room, an aching I.V. in my wrist, knowing he was home sleeping in the comfort of an air conditioned room. He had come out with the upper hand, and there was nothing to do but return home and pretend nothing had happened.
And so I did, neatly filing this grievance into my memory along with many other of its like. I take comfort in believing that one day he will stand before God, and each of these inhumane moments will file out of the Book of Life and stand to accuse him. I concede to defeat, and suppose I should feel grateful that this baby was not born at twenty-eight weeks, fully knowing that if it had, he would never have felt responsible anyway.
After all, how was I to know that this baby would be a girl, and that he would fall helplessly in love with her? And that this love would change everything.
***
"Uh oh," Tessa says, standing at the baby gate as Gregory heads down the stairs for work. About the only words she knows are "mom," "dad," and "uh oh." He smiles up at her and waves. He has a smile for her that no one else can call their own. It seems he has a special smile for each member of the family. I know them all
. I see them before they form, and I feel them, knowing the depths to which they travel. When Gregory smiles, childlike purity surfaces, and I see him as a boy, before life hardened him.
The smile reserved for Sam is a soft one, accompanied by a sad look in Gregory's eyes. It is as though he knows that in many ways, our gentle and kind little boy is fragile and too soft for this world. When Gregory smiles at him, it is a smile that begs for many years with his son, but knows this may not be. He worries for his delicate son, and is filled with love for the little boy whose heart is unmistakably pure. How will he fair in this cruel world, with such uncompromising goodness? His fine spirit humbles us, and we see our shortcomings in his unadulterated kindness. It is a meek smile, and its reach is far, seeking to find refuge in Sam's heart.
Maggie's smile is one of masked pride for her smart, sassy and spunky personality. Often, he turns away when he smiles for her, because he is humored by her guff, and knows she marches to her own drum. This smile is one of total amusement and always comes with a short laugh. He secretly adores that she is like him, always questioning authority, unashamed to stand up for what she thinks is right. He is proud of her and it shows in his smirk.
His smile for Tessa is entirely unique. His face lifts when he smiles at her, and his shoulders immediately shrink. I love this smile. It dismantles him. His heart is unguarded and it rests in her little hand for that brief moment. It is the most vulnerable of all his smiles, and it is saved for Tessa. I think it is my favorite. It does not carry a note of sadness, or a smack of smug pride. It is wide open and completely free.
She waves back, squats down to see his face through the slots in the gate, then starts spinning in circles, showing off for him. She adores him, and out of all the children she most readily welcomed him into her little life, often reaching for him when she is in my arms.
"Daddy's going to work," I tell her. I am loading the dishwasher and he seeks my gaze from the stairs, and then comes my smile. It is a closed lipped smile, one that says, "I'm off to work babe. Another day, another dollar. I do this for you. It isn't much, but I do it for you." My smile is one that wants to find a way to prove its worthiness, but it carries with it a burden that I cannot always imagine. It is not a smile of mirth or amusement, or pride. It is one of weariness and defeat. But, there is something singular about this smile. It also holds a promise. And it is my very own smile, my very own promise, my very own love.
I smile softly and wave good-bye. Words don't seem to fit this moment. We speak in many ways. I have been smiling for many years, some real, others not. But what has remained silent all this time is my song. And the words to this are many.
Chapter Eight
It was he who first confessed his love for me, which looking back seems a bit ironic. Though we had known each other from our youth, it was in our early twenties that a friendship was formed.
I was grieving Nate, and dating the marine, but Gregory was my soft place to fall in between both men. Often we would lie down next to one another and find comfort in the warmth we shared. I would talk, and he would listen. A man of few words, his mere presence was a comfort to me. He was solidly built. Just shy of six feet, his wide shoulders somewhat disproportionate to his long torso. He was not long-legged, but his stance was sturdy, suggesting a man who could hold his own. His rugged appeal was refreshing to me. He wore an old leather coat, solid polo shirts, and well-worn jeans. His appearance was so unassuming, a contrast to my carefully applied make-up, neat little skirts and tights, and bouncy curled hair. Standing next to one another, we were disjointed. But we were not worlds apart. We connected in a way people could not understand. His unkempt appearance and my pristine appearance were both masks for the same condition; loneliness. And in one another, we found comfort.
"Gregory," I stop him in the hallway of his mother's house where I had waited for him to arrive from work. "Are you busy tonight?" "Depends," he says, and I sense his curiosity is peeked. "Let's go out. Let's go dancing!" I had only to state what I wanted and he quietly conceded, content to see a girlish smile line my face, and the flirtatious bounce of my shoulder-length curls.
We drive to a nearby town, walk the streets lined with pubs, sports bars and clubs, and stop into a popular pub. He settles into a corner table, and I make my way to the dance floor, smiling at him over my shoulder. 'You don't know what you are missing,' my eyes tell him, and he raises his Guinness as a blessing. I close my eyes and escape into the music. I leave Nate far behind, and know that I will survive him somehow. I am aware of my own courage, my own will to survive any pain, my ability to dance alone among strangers. Minutes pass, and the song fades. There is applause for the band and I open my eyes. I look in his direction and to my surprise and vain pleasure Gregory is watching me intently, smiling. I blush. Was there more to that smile than met the eye? This quiet man who seems to find pleasure in my happiness has begun to captivate me. His guarded emotions sparked a fire in me. I will wait for him. Many secrets will unfold in time.
The first of those was the night we laid next to one another, fully clothed, resting side by side on his mother’s bed as she pattered about in the room. "You know that I love you, don't you?" His whisper breaking the peaceful silence. I did not know this, but I do not say that. I was not unused to men falling in love with me. The only one who hadn't was in fact the only one that I had loved. I do not answer him, and for some reason, the silence is not awkward.
Love is not always a flood, sweeping us into its powerful current. Sometimes love is a deep water, filling us slowly, one kiss at a time. We are gently moved in its direction, unaware that in its depth, we will find a lasting love. And that this love has the power to hold us beneath the current above. It will steady us, and secure us. But this love is the most difficult to abandon. Because the real strength is not the flood, nor the rapids, but the deep, quiet waters that lie beneath.
Chapter Nine
I peek into the refrigerator and frown. I skimped on groceries this week and am out of meat. It's going to have to be pasta dinner. Because Gregory works evenings, any late night meal requires reheating, which is why I do most meals in the crock pot. I have perfected a beef stew, a spicy chili, a melt-in-your-mouth pulled pork, and I am committed to repeating pot roast and corned beef until I get it just right. I do reserve one night for seafood, which the kids love, and he despises, and one night for homemade pizza or stuffed bread.
After nine years of eating reheated pasta, he came home one night in an uproar, refusing to eat "leftover" pasta. I had assumed his mood was the result of a very bad day at work, so I went ahead the following week and made a pasta dish, as I had once a week for years. He went into a tirade. I never listen to him. I don't care about what he needs. I don't have a job, the least I can do is cook him dinner. Why does he have to tell me over and over that he won't eat leftover pasta? These questions and accusations do not require answers or defense, for if I attempt to speak, he becomes more irate, screaming over me. "Did I tell you?! Did I? Yes! Yes, I told you. Do you have a problem understanding? I wouldn't have to yell at you if you would listen in the first place. I yell so you will hear me." If I try to walk away, he yells, "Get back here. I'm not done with you yet."
I do have a job but because it is not full-time, he refuses to acknowledge it, and there is no point bringing this up. It was 11:30 p.m. and he was yanking open kitchen cabinets, slamming the refrigerator, and yelling. Reduced to tears, I offered to make him anything he wanted, apologizing profusely. I want to tell him that he has eaten leftover pasta for years and that this is an absurd and random personality change. But, somehow, I know this is deeper. It's not the leftover pasta he does not want. It's the leftover me. What is left of me at the end of a harrowing day with three children, balancing a part-time job, alone every night to juggle baths, homework, story-time, maybe a game of checkers? What is left is a pair of worn-out flannel pajama pants and a stained t-shirt, wet hair from a late-night shower pulled back into bun, a tired and drained expressi
on, legs that haven't been shaved for a week, and absolutely no desire to wait up for him to return from work in whatever mood he may be in.
A small knot forms in my stomach as I peer into an almost empty refrigerator only halfway through the week. It is snowing energetically outside and I won't be able to get to the store today. A few years ago, I attempted a homemade macaroni and cheese, and apparently it was not very good, so he claimed he did not care for macaroni and cheese, which I knew was not entirely true because he had eaten it many times at church picnics. I never made it again. Knowing that Gregory's memory is extremely limited, especially when it comes to outbursts, I brave the unthinkable; macaroni and cheese, a pasta dish which will need to be reheated.
If I am clever I can disguise it into a new dish. I use a ziti noodle instead of a macaroni noodle, and I line the casserole dish with onions. I use condensed milk and toss in shredded cheddar, sprinkle salt and pepper, Italian bread crumbs, and bake it for thirty minutes. The result is an absolutely delicious dish. The cheese is golden brown, the sauce thick and creamy and the scent of onion wafts through the kitchen. I taste it, and I know it is worthy. Something out of almost nothing. This is a skill I have honed over the years. And it has served me well. If I have some courage, some kind of job, some hope, some faith, no matter how close to nothing it seems, I am sure I can find myself again. I can reinvent myself with a little of this and a little of that. He will forget the years of pasta and look at me for the first time.
The Space Between Promises Page 3