The Space Between Promises

  ***

  He is very quiet tonight. I do not hear him come home, and I don't hear him exchanging war threats over the headset. Most nights, I remain asleep on the couch for several hours, waiting until I hear the bathroom door open and close and know that he's on his way to bed. I will follow him in to bed. Tonight, I turn on the couch and open my eyes. He's staring at the television, not engaged. Thinking.

  "Hi babe," I say in a small, groggy voice, one that he thinks is adorable. He returns the greeting. "Is there any dinner?" He asks quietly. "Yes," I say casually, holding my breath for a split second. "Macaroni and cheese. It's on the bottom shelf."

  "Oh, I didn't see it." He doesn't refuse it! I breathe a sigh of relief. I go into the kitchen to reheat it, and I pretend to fall back asleep, listening for the sound of his eating. He polishes the entire dish clean, and sets it down. When he stands up and stretches, a sign that he is ready for bed, I pretend to wake up, and I say, "Did you like the macaroni and cheese?" "Yeah, it was good. I liked the onions in it."

  I follow him to bed and he wraps his arm around my waist. I listen for the sound of his steady breathing, and I feel the calm that shrouds his body. This is the man I married. Content. Grateful for whatever I cook for him, grateful for a roof over his head and food in his children's bellies. Quiet and unassuming. Appreciative of the small things. He likes to chase me in the kitchen with a towel and smack my rear end with it. He likes to sneak up behind me with an ice cube on my neck. He lives for moments when I bend over to get a dish out of the dishwasher and he can grab my "bum bum,” as the kids call it, since "butt" is not permitted. He loves to tease, and he requires very little of life's acquisitions. He doesn't turn an eye toward another woman; he is not crude or vulgar. His words are few, and they are significant. He is intelligent and prudent.

  I live and flourish for this man, yet I die, over and over, for the other, crushed beneath the weight of disapproval and fear, never knowing when his anger will erupt from deep within his core, melting my hope, searing my trust. Changing, always changing, the landscape of our love.

  Chapter Ten

  They were royal blue, with white-walled tires. Old-fashioned handlebars, no extras. They were perfect.

  "Gregory, look!" I gesture excitedly in the sports store. "They are matching bikes! Male and female. I want them! Oh, please say yes!"

  There they stood, the perfect shiny couple, new and in love. Matching. Pretty. Bright. Identical vintage style bicycles. In an instant, I envisioned picnics in the park; backpack lunches, cloud-gazing on a blanket. And matching ... yes, matching bikes! They were stunning and impractical all at once, not to mention expensive. But we were young, without huge financial responsibility, and had outgrown our childhood and teenage bicycles long ago.

  He stands in front of them, studying them, no doubt imagining himself, a rugged individualist, on one of these sissy blue and white bikes. I wrap my arms around his waist behind him, stand on tiptoes and plead in his ear. "Please, I just love them!"

  "Whatever you want, babe. If it makes you happy." "Yes, yes!" I squealed like a child wheeling around to face him. He pats me on the back, not convinced. "Okay, then, let's buy us some ... blue ... and white ... bikes."

  I jump up and hug him, and this reaction always seems to melt him. How could I find happiness with any other man? He loves seeing me smile and whatever is in his means to bring me happiness, he gives it.

  "Okay, stand right there," I direct, later on. "Put one hand on the handlebar ... Yeah, yeah, like that ... Put your other hand on you hip. Okay, good. Wait, move to the middle a little bit. I want to get both bikes in the picture. Perfect. Smile."

  The house is quiet. I am dusting. One by one, I pull out the outdated photo albums that catalogued our three years of dating. I have to give this shelf a good cleaning. For too many years I have dusted around them, without any interest to peek inside. They seemed to hold a certain magic that I had forgotten long ago. Who were these people? I imagined it would be painful to remember, so I neatly file each one on the shelf. The strange thing is, the heart doesn't forget, and I know that in the ivory floral album are the pictures of a devoted fiancé in a knight's costume, kneeling before his princess as a prelude to a harvest party. I know there are pictures of sunny afternoon hikes in the forest. A hand crafted spud gun he was so proud of. And pictures of those frivolous, shiny bikes. Each album holds some key to happiness. Along the way, I seemed to have forgotten how to unlock that door. My heart is sealed. I do not want to open them. It will hurt too much to see our love, raw, unharmed. These are my "ever-after" albums, and the magic remains tucked inside. I push back the thought. I am not ready for it. It will cost me everything. The key is forgiveness.

  Chapter Eleven

  Margaret Catherine-Clare had come wiggling into the world on a summer evening, following an uncomplicated and routine delivery. I nearly snatch her from the nurse's clutch and put her immediately to my breast to nurse. She was absolutely perfect in every way. I remember thinking she wasn't quite as refined as her brother had been at birth, but she was in fact, perfect.

  Everyone peeked, cooed and sighed, and she was back in the custody of the nursing staff. I hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, and just before I drifted into sleep, I felt the warmth of his body as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. "You did great, baby," he whispered tenderly, and I remember smiling and sinking into slumber. He brushed my hair off my forehead with a gentle touch, and I knew that he was once again, feeling that immense pride, relief, joy and beauty of becoming a father. And this time, to a girl. The girl I had always dreamed of. My Maggie.

  I spent two blissful days in the hospital with her, interrupted only by a few visits. Gregory and Sam came both days to see us, and then happily retreated to the man-cave they were enjoying in my absence.

  All I had wanted to do was hold and nurse her, stare at her and touch her. The feeling of joy was immeasurable. I couldn't believe this was my baby girl, stripped of the hospital attire and clad in pink and lavender ruffled pajamas that arrived one by one in stiff, bright gift bags.

  The months that followed were dreamy. I was no longer working, and I was able to nurse her and be there for each miracle of growth as it unfolded. I was the happy mom of two precious children, the "million-dollar" family as it's often called, and somehow, I failed to notice that weekly expenditures such as groceries and fuel for the car were habitually being put on the credit card, and the mounting bill, worse still, did not frighten me.

  I would go to work eventually and the first thing would be to pay off the debt. My place was in the home, I reminded myself. It would all work out. Gregory was happy that I was home, caring for the children. Dinner was on the table every evening. He was working day shifts. I would sing while folding laundry. I painted the living room and bedroom while the kids napped. He called me his little squirrel, bustling about the place, nesting. For the first time in a few years, our lives were happy. And I was determined to keep it that way, no matter the cost.

  In this case, the price was deception. He never knew about the mounting credit card debt. I would keep it secret as long as I could. I could not imagine anything shattering our happiness. But that day would come, and it would seem that the damage was irreparable. Gregory's tolerance would take a nose dive, and what had been a handful of angry outbursts would become more frequent, fueled by resentment and betrayal. And the Gregory that I loved would fade into a distant backdrop. The curtain would close and a new scene would unfold. I would lose my resolve, shrinking under the weight of his bitterness, and Nate would enter my world again, in my mind, where I had a voice.

  ***

  The interesting thing about a secret is that you fear both the secret itself and you fear its discovery. You fear the lonely prison that comes from keeping the secret, never knowing when you will be discovered, only to feel a moment's freedom before you are delivered into the prison that waits. And so it was for me. Two years I would awake every morning and wonder if this woul
d be the day Gregory would ask for a credit card bill, or ask how many cards I had taken out in his name without his knowledge, or ask how much debt we were in. And one day, when Maggie was just over a year old, he did.

  On his way out the door, he stands on the stairwell and casually asks, "Exactly how much debt are we in?" The weight of his words strikes me quickly and painlessly. In a moment's time, I would feel a single breath of freedom, and I would exchange the shackles of the secret for a new prison. I would not waste my moment deliberating, excusing, or attempting to explain. I take that single precious breath and say clearly, without hesitation. "Ten thousand."

  He doesn’t say a word, and when he walks silently out the door, I know it was the last brave thing I would do. All credibility, trust and faith were lost. It was out now, no longer my private burden to bear, although he would inflict the worst sort of punishment, and assume none of the burden.

  The months that followed were a blur. I couldn't eat or sleep. I would hide when he was home, and shake all over when he entered a room I was occupying. He would ignore me for days, refusing to speak, and those days were the blessing. Other times I was not so fortunate. On those days he'd back me into a wall by inching closer and closer, and he’d scream at me, never touching me, but breaking my spirit just the same. "You're lazy! You refuse, absolutely refuse to obey me and get a job. We are sinking, drowning, and still! ... Still you refuse to work."

  Within a few months I take the first job I can find, but it is only part-time and barely pays for groceries, so he is not swayed. Still, I keep the job for more than two years, pretending that the little money we were putting into a debt program was going to free us. It was not. But what else could I do but try to pacify him. He would go into quiet hibernation for a month or two where he would be docile, and then, he would emerge again, raging about my failures as a woman and a wife. "You call this a pizza? Throw some sauce and cheese on it and stick it in the oven? You can't even set the timer? Zero effort. That's what I get? That's what I'm worth to you? Throw it away. Make me some real food. Now. Comprende? I said, COMPRENDE?" "Yes, I understand. I understand you completely," I whisper, making my way to the kitchen where I would stand at the sink, feeling my chest tighten.

  In many ways, I already knew it was over between us. His contempt for me was profound, and his behavior toward me equally unforgiving. How could we ever get back to the place where we once stood? It's not as if words can be undone, or threats can be forgotten. It wasn't the debt that killed us. We never really had a chance from the beginning. He brought the anger into the marriage, and I would ignore the isolated threats and tirades once or twice a year. But this time, I was guilty of wrong-doing and because of it, he was free to unleash the beast he silently carried since he was a boy.

  "You are not my wife anymore. I want nothing to do with you," he said one day, removing his wedding band. "I will look for an apartment. Until then, I will stay with Finn." I begged him to stay, kneeling at his feet, thinking only of Maggie and Sam. I refused to accept that our marriage was over, and he made no promises. He remained, as I knew he would, but when I asked if he still loved me, his answer was, "I don't know," and from those three simple words, I never quite recovered.

  ***

  It would be the first of many secrets I would keep from Gregory, and not the first that he would discover. During those horrific months, I lost all feeling as a woman. There were no adoring touches, no compliments, and no love-making. There was the occasional, emotionally disconnected consummation, which generally ended with unbidden tears that were quickly wiped so he would not discover them. The only thing worse in my estimation than being crushed by the one you love, is that person knowing that they have succeeded.

  It was my sheer stubbornness and will to survive his battering that gave me strength to pretend that I felt nothing. And some times, what frightened me was that I didn't have to pretend at all. Sometimes I felt nothing. And in a way, I guess I was grateful.

  Loneliness is quiet enemy. It first wraps you in a deceptive shroud of self-pity, which is an ointment to the wound. Then, it blankets your mind with endless possibilities, giving you a sense of false freedom to pursue them. And finally, it girds you with a heightened sense of courage, layered with justification to act on the very thing you have concocted to do. This is how I came to search out Nate.

  He was in fact, merely a click away on any given search engine, but it had been years since I had imagined who he turned out to be. I had known he was married, as there had been a brief time over e-mail that we connected and shared the knowledge of our newly-married status. I was told that she knew who I was and that he and I had communicated, proving to me what a marvelous and faithful husband he was, apparently. But since that time, the children came and I had been at the business of family and love.

  Heavy loneliness consumed me and when Maggie was in for her nap, and the house was quiet, I sought him out. I considered messaging him, but to what end? My marriage was a wreck, and the picture of him hugging two small children led me to believe that his was not. I stared at the picture for a long time, wondering how it is that some people find happiness and others do not. And deciding that attempting contact was both an embarrassing and exceedingly poor idea, I abandoned all thought of it, giving Loneliness a good, swift kick. Beating it back, one moral battering at a time.

  Oddly, my innocence was misconstrued as absolute proof of guilt when Gregory happened upon the recent search on the computer. He would have no reason to believe me, after all, given I had essentially stolen ten thousand dollars of his credit and by omission, lied about it every single day for two years. He was sitting in his recliner, staring straight ahead when I entered the living room.

  "What's wrong?" I ask innocently, the grave suspicion that he has discovered yesterday's indiscretion sinking into the pit of my stomach. "Think about it. You're a smart woman," was his passive response. How typical. When I am the one to confront, direct, to the point, no room for gray. Not Gregory. He loves the game, the agony and mental anguish that come from guessing which one of your crimes he has discovered and what your punishment might be. And if he is especially lucky, you might admit to the wrong crime and it's a bonus for him. Two punishments, two excuses to spend more time at Finn's, two reasons to feed the growing anger inside him.

  I refuse to play. "Well, I have no idea what you are talking about," I respond flippantly as I turn on my heels. "Don't you?" is his casual reply. I ignore it, and leave the room, steadying my shaking hands by wiping down the kitchen counter, busying myself in the kitchen.

  This would go on for a few days, neither of us relenting. He refuses to ask me any direct questions, and I refuse to continue to ask why I am a victim of his brooding silence. Both of us know why. And so, realizing I have nothing to lose, and actually gain the credibility of not caring what he thinks, I say, "This is about Nate, and there's no sense in either of us pretending." I see that he is surprised by my open, casual admission, and he quickly works to gain composure. He tries to appear satisfied that he has wormed the information out of me, but as he quietly shifts his gaze from mine, I see something in his eyes that is unfamiliar to me. Pain.

  ***

  Although I feel as though I have no reason to feel guilty, given the maltreatment I am suffocating under, I feel a stab of regret for having inflicted a fresh wound to the man I still love. I have no idea why, or how, but try as I might, I cannot fall out of love with him. And the knowledge that I have caused him pain is bittersweet. With it, comes the knowledge that he loves me. He can say that he does not, he can question his own heart, but the truth flickers in his eyes like a single match's flame in the midst of the storm. There is no denying what I see. He loves me, I am sure of it.

  In a few days I would softly approach him, and I would sincerely apologize for what I had done. I would assure him that I had not attempted any contact with Nate, nor did I intend to. He would balk at my apology, pretend he was not hurt by my omission, contend that my intentions
were dishonorable, and I would leave it be, knowing that in his heart, he knows the woman he married. She is loyal, she is his alone. There was never another man that she made love to, and there never would be. He would take comfort in that, all the while maintaining that she could never hurt him. What I didn't foresee was that I addition to all of this, he would tenderly look me in the eye and say, "I understand. I know he is your first love." And I would be speechless. There was a saying that I happened upon one afternoon, "I married the one my soul loves." And it is true. Gregory is the one my soul loves, so deeply, nothing can separate it. But Nate, he was the man who unknowingly stole my heart. And so it would be, that I would say to him, "Gregory, you are my whole world. You and the kids are everything, and it is you that I love."

  This is the moment that some healing will begin. It will prove to be an excruciating and slow process, riddled with doubt, unanswered questions and hateful words splattered along the way. It will stop entirely at times, and we would function in an ambivalent bubble, unmoved by time or space. And then something will spark within us, and that bubble would break. We will feel free to love in the moment, leaving the mess behind. And in one of those very moments, a few years later, Tessa is conceived.