by Penny Reid
I set my hands on my waist and squinted, because my eyes were stinging with the same hot rage ballooning in my chest. “You want to be needed? Fine. Poof. You’re needed! In fact, I need you right now. I need you to do your breakfast dishes.” I gestured to the pot he’d used to make oatmeal, still caked with residual oats and left to soak on the counter.
“Oh, so very amusing, darling,” he spat spitefully, his voice a dangerous growl.
I stuck my chin out. “You think I’m joking? Because I’m not.”
“For your information, I’ve left the pot to soak on the counter on purpose and with every intention of cleaning it later. If you’d taken a moment to look around, you’d see that all the other dishes are done and I’ve wiped down the counter.”
I lifted my hands and gave him three slow claps, knowing I was being insufferable but lacking the mental energy to care. “Congratulations. You’ve wiped down the counters for the first time in over fourteen years of marriage. What do you want? A cookie?”
Greg responded through gritted teeth. “No, Fe. I don’t require treats for good deeds. But I would like some acknowledgement that I have been listening to you, and I am trying to do better. Yet all I’m hearing is that I’m needed only for the most mundane of tasks. Thank you for clarifying how desperately I’m needed.” He moved to turn away, hurt written on his features, so I gripped his wrist to stop him and yanked him back.
“That’s right, Greg. I need you for the most mundane of tasks, because that’s what marriage and parenting is. It’s the mundane. It’s the everyday. It’s the showing up and being there and supporting each other in a million different small ways that add up to a colossal commitment. It’s consistency.”
“Because you have everything else under control, right?” His words were laced with resentment, and based on the venom in his voice and the accusatory daggers shooting from his eyes, he was expecting me to answer with a Yes. I do. I have everything sorted, except the soaking oatmeal dish.
Instead I said, “No. I don’t. I’m a complete mess. I’m frantic for you. Yet I feel abandoned when you leave for your assignments. But I can forgive you for that. What I can no longer forgive or overlook is that you abandon me even when we’re together. You abandoned me in Enugu, and you abandon me when you’re here.”
He swallowed thickly, his eyes flickering between mine, and when he spoke the sentiment was jagged and rough. “Then tell me what to do. Tell me how I can help in a way that’s meaningful.”
“I don’t want to tell you; I want you to just do it without me having to spell it out all the time!”
“Too bad. I’m not a fucking mind reader. You can’t expect me to know without some direction. At this point I’ll even accept Morse code.”
“Fine.” I folded my arms over my chest and lifted my chin stubbornly. “I need you to help with the laundry. Fold it. And put it away, neatly, where it belongs.”
He opened his mouth as though he were going to give me a sarcastic retort, but then stopped himself. His eyes narrowed on me, examining my upturned face, and he blinked three times in rapid succession. “Wait a minute. This isn’t about the laundry, or the dishes, or the vacuuming.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s also about you leaving your socks all over the place, and your inability to find things or put them back where they belong, and—”
“It is, but it isn’t. Something has happened. Something has changed.”
I pressed my lips together and swallowed with effort, meeting his searching gaze. “I’ve changed. You leaving me in Enugu while you risked your life—without even discussing it with me, as though my contributions and abilities were meaningless—changed me.”
Greg gathered a deep breath and his voice was raw and ragged with blunt honesty. “I don’t know how to be sorry for that. I honestly don’t. But you must know, your contributions and abilities, they’re not meaningless to me. Rather, I hope one day you’ll understand my fear of losing you—or Jack, or Grace—my desire to keep you all safe surpasses even my respect for your feelings. And I don’t know how to change that about myself. I don’t know if I can, or that I want to.”
I stared at him for a beat, seeing this desire in him to keep his family safe at all costs as both wonderful and counterproductive. Any decision founded solely in fear, with no regard for evidence or common sense, is ultimately destructive. We needed to find a balance.
Before I could voice these thoughts, he asked, “Does it matter to you what I want?”
I thought about his question for exactly two seconds, then responded with honesty fueled by fury, my throat constricting with each word spoken. “Yes. It matters to me what you want, but I honestly don’t think I can do anything about it anymore. I am at the end of my rope. So, no. No, it doesn’t matter what you want. And it doesn’t matter what I want. Because, guess what? I’m pregnant!”
I paired the words “I’m pregnant” with frenetic jazz hands, a strangled and hysterical laugh, and two fat tears running down my cheeks. I sniffled, wiping the moisture away with shaking fingers.
Greg’s features, so inflexible and determined just moments ago, grew almost comically confused—as though I’d just announced I was a twelve-toed honey badger with a penchant for rose-scented drawer satchels. I continued to glare at him, watching the play of emotions wreak havoc behind his eyes as his mouth worked but no sound arrived.
At last he said, “I don’t understand.” I was fairly certain he wasn’t speaking to me, but rather was addressing the universe.
“When’s the last time you had your sperm count checked, Greg?”
He gaped.
I huffed another humorless laugh; I was shouting now, and I didn’t care one bit. “Of course. Of course you have autocratic sperm. Of course you have mandate-making semen. Because that’s who you are. You show up here, after being gone for months, and you make a giant mess of everything. You have no respect for my time, for what I do, for how hard I work. I may not be working sixteen-hour shifts on an oil rig, saving the world. I may be doing the “most mundane of tasks” as you call it. But guess what? I work twenty-four-hour shifts raising our children, managing the accounts, the household, cooking, cleaning, and loving you even though it’s unbearably lonely. Not just because you’re gone, but because when we’re together, you don’t see me as a full partner.”
“When did you find out?” Apparently, he was still stuck on the baby reveal. I couldn’t blame him. I was also still in shock.
“Yesterday on the phone with Liz, confirmed just this morning at Dr. Freeman’s office. And, by the way, thank you for drugging me with Ketamine in Nigeria. He now thinks I’m a recreational drug user.”
“You’re . . . welcome?” He seemed to have difficulty moving beyond the pregnancy news, so I gave him a moment to reflect, watched his handsome face as he watched me with an unfocused gaze, plainly prioritizing his cornucopia of questions.
Eventually, with wide and worried eyes, he settled on, “The baby is okay? Did I . . . did I—”
“Yes. The baby appears to be fine. The doctor said there shouldn’t be any adverse effects from the Ketamine, though he’s planning to run some additional tests.” I split my attention between him and my shawarma, suddenly no longer hungry for it.
Greg said nothing and the fire behind his eyes had mellowed. He watched me, like I was something new and volatile and wonderful, like he was considering how best to handle me. I could see he was excited by the idea of a new addition to our family and, strangely, his excitement both eased and irritated me.
Eased because I needed him to be happy about this. If he’d been upset, I would have lost my mind, gone into full ninja mode, and destroyed the apartment.
Irritated because he wasn’t the one who would be pregnant, deal with mood swings, weight gain, medical tests, back pain, labor, struggle through breastfeeding, and juggle Grace and Jack’s needs as well.
And lose myself a little more in the process. . .
I scoffed at his cautiously e
xuberant expression and posed his question back to him. “How about you? Do you care at all what I want? What I need?”
“What do you need, Fe?” he asked, his voice quiet and curious, bracing.
“I need a partner,” I blurted, swallowing a sob, my eyes still stinging with stubborn tears. “I meant what I said. I need you here. Alive. Active and involved and helping, every day. I need you to look for ways to help, not wait for me to make you a list. I need you to listen and not discount my point of view or contributions despite your feverish caveman need to keep me safe. I need you to clean the apartment, and pick up your goddamn socks, and stop making mindless messes—like we have magical cleaning fairies who orgasm every time they do the laundry.”
He cracked a rueful smile at the last bit, but quickly pressed his lips together.
Despite the just-spoken sarcasm and humor, my voice wobbled as I added earnestly and gently, “Let me remind you of some words a very wise man once said to me. ‘A relationship is made up of many burdens, and the two people within the relationship have different strengths and weaknesses, abilities and talents. Burdens are weightless, worlds change, and love endures when both people are contributing their maximum.’”
Greg set his jaw, his eyes narrowing, but I could tell his temper had lost its steam. “That guy sounds like a pretentious asshole.”
I pressed my lips together, partly to keep my chin from wobbling, and partly because I was fighting a smile.
Pulling him into my arms for a tight hug, because I needed to touch him—I needed his strength—I lifted my chin and whispered against his ear. “I’d like to amend that wisdom to include: burdens are weightless, worlds change, and love endures when both people are allowed to contribute their maximum.”
“Now you sound like a pretentious asshole,” he grumbled, but I could tell it was false grouchiness because his arms came around me and held me to him with a tight, possessive embrace.
I had to take a couple deep breaths before I admitted brokenly, “I need you to stop leaving me behind.”
He paused for maybe a full minute, then squeezed me and nodded. “Okay. Okay.” His hand soothed up and down my back as new tears leaked out of my eyes, tears of relief and tears of panic.
“I’m serious, Greg. You can’t do that to me anymore. You can’t—”
“I know. And . . . I’ll do my best. I might require reminding, but I’ll do my best. And, in return, I need something from you.”
“I don’t know if I have anything left to give.” I was so exhausted and overwhelmed and honestly scared. I couldn’t fathom having any energy to spare.
“I need you to tell me I’m wanted.”
“Of course you are—”
“And needed—”
“Yes,” my arms tightened around him as his lips came to my neck, “more than you know.”
“And you’re desperate for me.”
“I’m beyond desperate for you.”
“Good.” Greg placed a wet kiss just below my ear, biting me, and whispering, “Because I’m desperate for you—and not just your intoxicating warmth and body. I’m desperate for your beautiful heart and brilliant mind. I’m desperate for you to need me as I need you—insatiably, completely, eternally.” He punctuated each of his last three words with a kiss, a lick, and a nibble, sending lovely spikes of melting affection and ardor through my limbs, flushed heat to my cheeks.
“I do,” I admitted breathlessly, leaning my head back so I could catch his eyes, so he could see both the veracity and importance of my words. “I belong to you, Greg. And I demand you take better care of me. And not just because I’m pregnant—”
“No, darling. We belong to each other. I shall require reminding and some patience if you can spare it, but I intend to take the best care of you. And not because you’re pregnant.”
I gave him a disbelieving glare.
His mouth tugged to one side. “Well, not just because you’re pregnant. But rather, I shall take the best care of you because it’s no less than you deserve—pregnant or not.”
My eyes were still leaking water, but I let the tears come, I allowed them to fall freely without wiping them away. “I’ll remind you.”
“Good.”
“And you have to remind me not to bottle things up, you have to remind me to ask for what I need.”
“I will. And thank you.”
I sniffled. “For what?”
He kissed the wet streaks on both of my cheeks and smoothed his hand from my shoulder to my bottom. A huge smile split his face as his gaze moved over me with what I knew to be worshipful adoration.
Thank God! Because, at that moment, what I needed and wanted most was worshipful adoration, even if it was only a band-aid until backed up by consistency and actions.
“Thank you for always taking the best care of me, even when I’m undeserving.”
I tsked, and when I spoke my voice was nasally and thick. “Haven’t you realized yet? You do deserve me. We deserve each other.”
CHAPTER 23
Dearest Husband,
I love you for who you are and who you have become. I am thankful that you accept me for what I am and who I have become. I am grateful you joined me in this ride, that you wanted me too.
-M.
Email
Indiana, USA
Married 15 years
~Present Day~
*Fiona*
“I just want him to put the colander back where it belongs. Is that too much to ask?” Janie was crocheting with the fervor of a woman who had just received fifty colanders from her husband. “I don’t want one colander for every closet and cabinet in our apartment, I want one colander. Period. One! And I want him to put it where it belongs.”
“Why can’t men put the dishes away correctly?” Sandra addressed this question to Nico and Greg. “Because Quinn isn’t special in this. As far as I know, inability to correctly unload the dishwasher is something from which all men suffer.”
“Maybe we just like watching our wives bend over while they search cabinets.” Nico grinned.
I lifted my gaze from my knitting and it immediately tangled with Greg’s. We shared a secretive smile. He wagged his eyebrows. I rolled my eyes.
Two weeks had passed since we’d returned home from Nigeria. Two weeks of Greg being home. Two weeks of us clumsily trying on these new roles, new costumes in our relationship. Every so often I’d trip on my proverbial hem, or he’d rip a hypothetical seam, and we’d have to patch things up.
Ten days ago he’d washed the laundry, not separating the whites from the colors, and turned all of our socks pale pink. We’d argued. He’d researched and discovered a solution online. The socks were saved.
Eight days ago he’d caught me, awake in the middle of the night, re-washing the pots and pans he’d done after dinner. We’d argued. He’d worn a pot on his head and pretended to be a robot. I’d laughed. He’d kissed me. I’d instructed him regarding the appropriate method for cleaning the Dutch oven and seasoning cast iron skillets. He was very patient and receptive to my instruction, so we had sex afterward.
Four days ago I stuffed his pillowcase full of the dirty socks he’d left around the house. We’d argued. We’d argued some more. We’d whisper-yelled at each other until 11:30 p.m. The next morning I apologized for my passive-aggressive actions. He apologized for leaving his socks around the house. We made out in our bedroom closet while the kids watched Big Hero 6 in the other room.
Earlier in the day he’d received a call from his contract supervisor at Nautical Oil. He let the call go to voicemail, then returned it later in the day out of my earshot. We hadn’t had a moment to discuss it.
As well, I’d received a call from Quinn. He’d offered me a job. He wanted me to consult on his corporate contracts, to work full-time. Greg wasn’t aware of the job offer yet because we hadn’t had a moment to discuss that either.
I didn’t know what Greg wanted to do about Nautical Oil—whether he was planning on eventually le
aving for another assignment or turning them down and looking elsewhere—but one thing was for certain: no matter what he wanted or had planned, I would be vocal about it. I would be vocal about my feelings regardless of whether the feelings were convenient or timely.
Or at least I would try my best.
“Finding things.” Elizabeth poked her husband with her elbow. “Nico does a pretty good job with the dishes, but he can’t find things even when they’re right in front of him. I once sent him to the Asian market to pick up soba noodles. He called me three times from the store, asking if ramen would suffice. Finally, I had to send him a picture and it turns out there were seven different kinds, and he was standing right in front of them.”
He smirked and nodded. “This is true. The same thing happens when I go to the hardware store.”
“At least Nicoletta can admit it,” Ashley said. She’d joined us from Tennessee via Skype and her image, on Elizabeth’s laptop, was sitting on the side table next to me. “If Drew goes to the hardware store without me, it takes him four hours of screwing around to find what he’s looking for. But if I’m with him, he’s in and out in ten minutes.”
“That’s probably because he’d rather be doing a different kind of screwing when you’re around.” Marie wagged her eyebrows and sipped her lemon drop cocktail.
“Is this what you ladies do during knit night?” Greg frowned at the room. “You corrupt my wife with your drinking, gossiping, and double entendre?”
Janie blinked at him then looked to Ashley. Ashley set her knitting down and glanced at Elizabeth. Elizabeth swapped a stare with Kat while Nico smirked at the baby blanket he was making. Marie and I exchanged a quick grin.
“Basically? Yes,” Nico answered . . . for all of us.
Greg shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth and proceeded to talk around it, his words hilariously garbled, a few kernels spewing forth for added grossness and drama. “Why didn’t you tell me this was so much fun? I’ve always wanted to learn how to make lace—for collars and such—and here I could have been tatting whilst championing lewd comments and imbibing girl-drinks.”