The Space Between Promises

  After all, what waited for me at home? A baby with numerous health issues, a brooding and silent giant who would not acknowledge me when I spoke, and would refuse to talk to me for days, leaving me to guess at what evil I had committed.

  Surrounded by friends bouncing happy babies on their hips, watching their husband's careers take off, buying houses, taking vacations, living their happy-ever-after only served to alienate me further. With mounting credit card debt, a one hundred year old reconstituted farm house, no expendable cash, and a husband whose job would be the same job in twenty years that was now, I was alone. My words became less and less, the only one with whom I could truly communicate refusing to acknowledge my existence.

  I draw a hot bath in the old-fashioned tub, which thankfully we kept when renovating the house. It keeps the water at a steaming boil for an hour. I sink into its mercy, staring straight ahead at the faucet, watching rivulets of water drop one by one into the vast pool where they seemed to belong. There is only the sound of water as it caresses my body, working to relieve some of the tension of the day. I close my eyes and my face is already flushed and clammy, my hair sticking to my temples. I indulge myself for a moment before reaching for the razor, knowing that after I shave I will want to drain the water. Then, without an invitation, comes the hateful voice.

  "It is a good night to kill yourself," are the words that echo in my head, and I sit upright, furious that they have invaded this sacred space. In that moment, I have had enough. Months of plaguing insinuations, temptations, and unbidden suggestions have clung to me like a dirty sweatshirt that one wears every day, not realizing that its seeming comfort and promise of warmth is in fact an ugly mask for the beauty that lies underneath.

  I whisper a prayer, and though it is soft, I hear the sound that my words make as they fill the silent space around me, and they are firm. They are strong. They boldly require an audience, and there is no fear. With absolute certainty, I am heard. It would be the last time that I would suffer the suggestion of suicide. I will not be anyone’s victim. I will not be my own victim. Of this, I am certain.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The only real power that Nate held over me was the result of something he had said to me in a brief moment together and those words have haunted me for years, always bringing me back to the same place, the same question. Did he love me, even though the words were never spoken?

  It is difficult to imagine a man like Nate in love. He loved his whiskey. He loved to comment on a sexy girl, especially if she had a strong back, or some other appeal that seemed unique to his tastes. He loved to dazzle with his intellect, and thrived on writing and playing with words, as it were a game, leaving the lay person to gather the meaning. He loved staying up most of the night letting his gin, vodka or whiskey work its devilish magic, warding off the demons that so frequently come to us all in our midnight hours. He loved girls with accents. But, was he in fact capable of loving a woman, for all of who she was, and if so, why had that woman not been me?

  We laid side by side, the ceilings a bit wobbly over us, the walls close, our minds blissfully muddled. I move closer, kissing him, ready in one instant to abandon every belief I had in the sanctity of the marriage act. I had received confessions of love from various suitors, even the foretelling of a proposal, but never considered giving myself in the sacred act to a man I was not married to. The courage, no doubt was fueled by the two drinks I had consumed, but the desire itself came from a place deeper than I could have realized. I loved him, and did not know it, because I had never loved any man before. He met my kiss, and I was both unsure and sure of myself in that moment. This was everything I wanted, and nothing I wanted at the same time. He touched me, and then he rolled onto his back and running his fingers through his hair. "I can't do it," he said. "You will regret this, and I don't want to be the one that brought that pain. I'm sorry, but I can't."

  For a man who was inconsiderate enough to comment on another beautiful woman in my presence, and who often poked fun at me in ways that seemed innocent enough, I found it very difficult to believe that he cared anything about what regrets I might have. I assumed he was relieving himself of whatever pressure and forced obligation that he thought might result in the aftermath. He didn't know me very well, because I was not a woman to grovel for a man's affection. It came often enough on its own, without my bidding, and I certainly was not about to attempt to ensnare him on the guilt of lost virginity. Nonetheless, I brushed the comment aside, not taking any offense where none was meant.

  "I would like this to be more than it is," I said to him, rather matter-of-factly, as mincing words is not my strong suit. To which he carefully responded that he was focused on his career, and didn't have time for a committed relationship. And that was my cue. That bright Sunday morning when I backed out of his driveway was the last time I would see his home. He would call a few times, and I would ignore the calls, not returning them. And within a few weeks, the calls stopped altogether, and that is when the intense pain of loss saddled itself to me.

  I had not known that when I would meet up with him at work, the heavy beating of my heart and sudden lurch of my stomach was a result of loving him. It did not make sense that I should love an unreligious man, so therefore it must mean that I did not. But when the phone calls ceased, and he met me at work with the birthday card which told me everything and nothing at all, my grief at losing him enveloped me.

  And it was Gregory, who came to me as a friend, asking nothing and giving everything, and gently, with tender carpenter's hands picked up my fragile heart and carried it when I could not. How was I to know that his own pain flowed so deep within him that we would break, over and over, falling just out of each other's reach, into deep places. Spaces of time where there seemed to be nothing to cling to. Nothing except the two most important words ever spoken; "I do." A promise.

  ***

  I turn it over in my hands as I have done many times in the last two years of our five-year marriage. Several years in the insurance industry, as well as the years I dabbled in education have taught me one invaluable lesson; document, document, document. This habit of writing up incident reports, or detailing lengthy notes in a claim file has served me well. And though the idea of a "Dear Diary" is not the least bit appealing to me, the evening that my husband punched a hole through the wall, and smashed a small table was the night I decided to "Dear Diary."

  I smooth the cover of the journal, an inexpensive one that I think was given to me as some type of gift basket filler one year, and as it had been mercilessly squeezed between the pots and pans, a place Gregory was sure never to disturb, the cover was bent back. As I have done many times before, I scan the pages. My desire in doing so is an effort to hear my voice, so long held hostage in those two years after Sam came to us. The words jump out of the page and they are angry, indignant, despondent, unforgiving. These are the words I had longed to shout out at Gregory, and had learned since the wall, dresser and table incident that my shouting at him is certainly not an option.

  I had told myself that should the day arrive when Sam and I would be able to break free, this journal might serve as evidence in the judge's ruling. I knew nothing of legality, but I knew that documentation such as this could never harm us. It might not be considered in the ruling, but it was worth the effort. I was helpless to decide my fate. I had no job, no place to go, and no way to support Sam on my own. The only thing I could do for him was to keep notes of Gregory's outbursts. I felt as though I was doing something, anything, to fight off his anger, one entry at a time. And so I did, for six months. The pages contain every foul word he spoke to me, every time when he refused to hand over his paycheck because he was angry over something like me moving the tools in the cupboard. It is a laundry list of Gregory's faults, failings, and contempt for me.

  As I rifle through it, remembering the time he moved in with Finn for two weeks, missed visits with Sam, came and went for his appointed visits without speaking a word to me, and de
cided after two weeks he was desperate enough to come home. With a pang of guilt, I remember how affirming it was to reunite, and how I somehow did not feel any lack of esteem in doing so. I read my words, "Why is it still good between us, when we seem to despise one another?" I think now that the answer to that is because we are truly joined as man and wife, and the bond is strong and familiar, and knows no boundaries such as temporary separation.

  Maggie toddles around the corner, and I pop her into the high hair, spooning out some pasta for her to nibble on. I close the journal and return it to its secret corner, and agree to give my impending decision a little more thought. It has been almost two years since Gregory has inflicted any kind of wrath on this home or that I have written in the journal, and as I am reminded that "love bears no record of wrongs," I am considering disposing of the journal. We have Maggie now, and our lives are peaceful, uninterrupted by my trying to work and take care of Sam, coming home after a long day at the office, to make a meal, do laundry, run errands. I am home, where I have wanted to be since the day when Sam was almost two, and I walked out of the office, leaving an impromptu resignation via e-mail. Then Maggie came, and our lives take another twist down the often lonely road of marriage. This time, it is not a valley we are walking through, or a mountain we are wearily climbing. This time, we are standing on a precipice with a full view of sky, land and sun. I know where we are now. It is a small space of land jutting out into the horizon. It is hope.

  ***

  I tuck my arm through his and squeeze a little closer to him, as I do every Sunday morning after the kids head off to Sunday school. I nestle in for what I know will be another one of my father's insightful, powerful, and comforting sermons.

  I think I can remember every sermon he has ever preached, going back to the tender age of five, when I watched my then very young father call a volunteer up to the platform and wrestle with him, demonstrating the story of Jacob wrestling the angel for his blessing. I can remember his sermon on the Israelites gathering stones from their journey, as a memorial from where God had brought them, to where they were going. There was the message about the Potter's Hand, first breaking the pot to free it from error, but rather than destroy the pot He had made, as my father put it, He said, "This is my broken pot. It is not a cast-away. It is not garbage. This is mine, and I will restore it." I remember watching the tears fall in the audience as he spoke with such conviction that there was not a broken pot in the sanctuary that did not feel in that very moment, the Potter's Hands reaching for it. And so it would be, that I would cling to his sermons, for I was Jacob fighting for my blessing, I was the Israelite gathering stones along my painful journey, I was Hannah beseeching God day and night to answer my prayer, I was the broken pot. My soul continually hungered for the stories of love, faith, miracles, hope, and promise.

  Gregory shifts his shoulder lower so that I can edge closer to him. We nibble on mints from a little tin, discreetly dipping into it throughout the sermon. I smile when he silently teases me by pocketing the tin with his unoccupied arm. Then he winks when he produces it again, holding it out for me.

  My father is preaching about sticking power, the will to walk with God when faith fails, when hope is out of reach, when our spirits have sunk so low we have no strength to believe any more. He contends that it is better to come to church during those moments of disbelief, than it is not to come at all. What he says will stick with me, and I will recall it in years to come. He says, "Just fake it until you make it." If you keep going through the motions, no matter how lost you feel inside, one day those motions will self-propel you, and you will realize you aren't pushing through those barriers any more, you are flying. You made it. Fake it until you make it. Yes, I think. This is the same for marriage. Just keep going. Keep linking arms on Sundays even when he's been out all night playing games the night before. He is here, after all, with us, in the place that matters, occupying a very important space. The seat right next to me in the church where I was raised. We will make it.

  ***

  "Oh nuts!" I say, seven months of pregnancy hormones leaving me completely intolerant, sweating, and physically inadequate. I am standing in the living room, in a black taffeta full-length evening gown. It is sleeveless, and fitted from breast to ankle. A rare find. I was delighted to come across a "skinny" maternity dress, as I have always had the good fortune of maintaining the rest of my figure during pregnancy, and relished the "all baby, all belly" compliments that came my way throughout each of my three pregnancies. The dress was stunning, and fit me beautifully. That was, until I attempted to undo the back zipper myself. Certain things simply require an understanding of our limitations. When your belly is the size of a globe, you do not try to unzip yourself starting at your bra strap. There simply is a lack of range of motion.

  Gregory sits bemused, peeking up from his game, watching me struggle, both to dislodge the zipper, and to mute the cuss words that are about to erupt. I am fit to be tied, quite literally, and I have no desire to ask for Gregory's help as he is quite aware of my predicament and smugly taking immense enjoyment from my discomfort. I cannot see that the zipper is caught on the fabric and that it would take an incredibly patient person to try to remove it, given that there is absolutely no wiggle room in this dress.

  So, I do what any third-trimester mom-to-be would do in my irrational state. Rather than ask for help, I push the top of the dress down, exposing bulging bare breasts, and somehow think that once the criminal zipper is more evenly placed within my reach, (right at my waist,) that I will now be able to unzip it. To no avail. I return to the living room after this brief bathroom endeavor and face Gregory full-on, a black taffeta evening gown bunched around my huge stomach, and my heavy breasts hanging, delighted to be free.

  "Wait! Don't move!" He says, laughing. "This is AWESOME." And before I know it, he has reached for the camera on his desk and has taken my picture. He stares at it, grateful for his good fortune, and we are both laughing hysterically now. I am a ridiculous sight, and have proved that this new celebrity sexy-pregnancy rage is most likely quite staged. This is the real deal. I am beside myself, stuck in a dress that I have completely sabotaged any chance of getting out of naturally. Now I am struggling to breathe because the dress is so tight around my belly and ribcage. I try to pull it back up over my breasts and there is no going back.

  Gregory takes one look and says, "Get me the scissors. That's the only way this thing is coming off." "No!" I say, incredulous, "I wore it for ONE hour! I don't want it ruined." "Suit yourself," is his casual reply, knowing it's pointless to argue with me in the last trimester. After a few sullen moments, allowing his sensibility to take root, I fetch the scissors, and Gregory cuts the back of the dress. In one glorious union of scissors to fabric, he performs a surgical tear, evenly, right down the back of the dress, and it falls to my ankles. I inhale for what seems to be the first time in minutes, gather the dress off the floor, and slip into my nightgown.

  Gregory has always been my reality check. Refreshingly honest and practical, he is always looking at the big picture. I think I see things in small frames. Isolated scenes in tiny frames. Unable sometimes to see past the focal point. But Gregory sees in panoramic view, and he never faults me that I do not. He doesn't push me to see it his way, but offers honest advice, a bit of humor, and when asked, he will help to tear down the fabric that covers me, so that I can breathe deeper.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There are at least three of them, discreetly tucked into the eaves surrounding our "L" shaped farm house. From the kitchen window, I can see the roof that spreads over the living room. It is sort of a funny thing to look out one's window and see another side of their home staring back at them. But, in the corner where two sections of the roof meet, there is a small bird's nest. There is also a hefty one on the front porch overhang, a remnant from last year, where we held our breath as we gazed at three pairs of tiny black eyes bulging from the nest. All we could see were three beaks and those surre
al looking eyes. I remember feeling excited knowing that our home had in a sense given birth to spring. Something beautiful to behold, life coming from a place whose walls had known such sorrow. This year, the front porch nest is twice its original size, and we wonder if more baby birds will be born to us.

  It is warm today, and the sun is shining. I slip on a sheer mint sweater. It is angora, I think. Very delicate and feminine. I am wearing a nude colored tank-top underneath, which gives a modestly sexy look, requiring a second glance to ensure that in fact, there is a layer of covering underneath. I have recently discovered the color "nude," in clothing and have woven it into my wardrobe, glimpses here and there of masked nakedness. I pull out my hair dryer, which is so old that the coils turn red sometimes when I use it. That can't be good, I think, but I haven't bothered to replace it, since I rarely use it. I begin to brush my long acorn colored hair. I hate when people call it dirty blonde, or worse, brown. My hair, completely natural in its color, does look darker pulled back into a damp bun, but when conditioned and dried, it shines with a mix of browns, reds, and hints of my childhood blonde. It is a pretty color, I think, and never seems to warrant attention.

  I am feeling younger today, a little prettier than usual, and I begin to give my hair some curl and wrap it romantically into a messy low-ponytail, pinned back gracefully with a few bobby-pins. I look in the mirror and I wonder why I don't wear my hair down more often. I guess because there is always the eager fingers of a toddler waiting to tackle it, or the fear it will fall into a cooking pot, or in general, because I feel too old to wear my hair down anymore.