The Space Between Promises

The Space Between Promises

Rachel L. Jeffers

Copyright © 2013 Rachel L. Jeffers

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

For my children, Theoden, Guinevere and Rose Eleanor,

w
ho have filled the spaces between,

and for women everywhere,

w
ho listen for songs in the night.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my loyal friends and family

for believing
in the worth and weight of my words.

And for my loving husband, a special note of gratitude;

for support, and
willingness to face the peril of perception.

You are
my
better man.

I love you, always.

Chapter One

On the evenings when my husband is particularly cruel, I fold into the soft memories of Nate. Within seconds, the thirteen years that has separated us disappears, and I am safely in his arms again.
 
"You have beautiful eyelashes," Nate whispers as his long fingers trail across my forehead and cheeks. My head rests childishly in his lap. Our clothed bodies are twisted comfortably in the blankets which top his doubled mattress in the makeshift apartment on the lower level of his parent's home. I look up at him and smile. I am not wearing any make-up, and it amazes me to know he finds my natural eyelashes beautiful. He has never said he loves me, and I know he does not, but in moments like these, I wonder if his tender gaze and gentle touch are enough. We have been up all night, kissing, talking, touching, and now the sun's unwelcome rays steal into the bedroom. I know it is time to leave, before his parents begin to scuffle about upstairs. Slowly, I gather the remains of my belongings, rummage for a missing shoe, and kiss him good-bye. Hard this time. Playfully. A bit of biting.
 
The memory fades, and I feel the familiar dampness of tears on my pillow along with an ache, heavy and dull, pressing on my chest. Sounds of a video game accompanied by my husband's agitated grumbling drift into my abandoned bedroom. I allow myself to dwell for a moment on the reality that in ten years of marriage, I have gone to bed almost every night alone. I know if I permit myself to fall too deep into this wave of self-pity, it will bring along with it a throbbing headache, and to that end I choke back a small sob, and close my eyes.
 
Somewhere around 3 a.m. I awake, and meander into the living room. I ask if he would like to come to bed, and his usual answer is ironically painful. "I'm fine where I am," he says, half asleep in his recliner. Resigned, I do not beg. I have begged for years, and the result is always the same. "No, I don't want to watch a movie." "Don't touch me." "Leave me alone." Or, in this case, "I'm fine where I am." And for some odd reason, the stab his response inflicts is fresh, as though it is new. It is however, an old wound. It began a decade ago in a dreamy cabin nestled in the Berkshire Mountains where we spent our honeymoon. He had yelled at me over a botched dinner, and swore that I couldn't do anything right. He was referring to our barely consummated marriage, which had proved to be a horrific endeavor, accompanied by searing pain, a traumatic amount of blood, and an agonizing lack of pleasure on either part. He slept on the couch in the living room of the cabin, while I spent the remainder of the honeymoon alone in a massively empty bed. It was then that a new reality unfolded as he flung dishes across the kitchen of the rustic cabin. I had married an angry and explosive man. I saw for the first time, only days into the marriage, that a meager future awaited me.
 
Unable to absolve the wave of hurt caused by a barely audible response from his recliner, along with the loneliness of my bed, I choose anger over tears. Years of rejection and hurt rises in me, but gets stuck somewhere between my chest and throat and is strangled back into submission. I loathe myself for still loving him; at least I think it is love. I chide myself for every moment that I remain in this marriage as it runs thick with anger and manipulation, washing over me day after day, smothering me, drowning me. Three beautiful children sleep safely in their beds, and my love for them is overwhelming. This is what I remind myself as I silently return to the bedroom. Their safety, their security, their happiness is all that I live for. And most times, I grovel for it. But, one way or the other, I secure it. And it must remain so.
 
I slip under the covers and retreat into a softer world. Nate smiles across a bare table, aside from the beverages between us, and I feel his hand slip under my knee-length black skirt and travel softly to my thigh. I am wearing tights and his hand slides easily to the top of my inner thigh. I feel a familiar longing stir and more than anything I want this man in my life forever. "You have to stop wearing these skirts," he says with a wicked smile. His eyes tease me for a bit, and he joins the banter of the group again. The moment lingers with me though, slurred no doubt by the gin, and I realize I am hopelessly and desperately in love with this man toying with me under the table.
 
My cheeks flush at the memory, as I try to find warmth under my decorative rose patterned quilt, wishing for the steamy heat that seeps from my husband's stocky, solid frame. I stop for a moment to wonder what it would be like to see that same look of tender desire in his eye, and the thought is too elusive, so I push it away. Sometimes, rarely, there is a look of anticipated pleasure if I tease him with a provocative flair. Never, not once, have I seen him look at me as if I was beautiful, rare, his very own. Annoyed that I have lost my grasp on Nate's memory, I smother thoughts of my husband's dark glances, his narrow eyes, and I will my way back to Nate's touch.
 
There is a soft rain outside the bar, and Nate walks me to my car. He leans over me, his tall muscular torso bending toward me, his arms sucking me deeply into him. His kisses are heavy and I take them in, one a time, enjoying them, feeling luxurious, as though we are in a movie. We are young and whatever is lacking in love on his part is made up for by his adoring touch.
 
Nate is a beautiful man. Early twenties, light brown hair, cut short, but not shaven. Classic. Blue eyes that are piercing. Sarcasm brims at their surface. He is brilliant and stunning and I love everything about him. He is tall, more than six feet, and his shoulders are broad. He has a strong nose and chin, not burlesque or obnoxious. Symmetrical and chiseled, his face is masculine, yet refined. His lips are thin, a contrast to my full mouth, his teeth perfectly aligned, and his smile is broad. We are stunning together, in this pose, under the city street light.
 
I feel the drizzle of rain against my face. The haze of the gin, coupled with the unbreakable feeling of being twenty-one creates a longing to stay pressed against my car as I allow this man to swallow me, body and soul.
 
My sleep is troubled, and I decide to settle on the couch around 5 a.m., within a few feet of the recliner where my husband snores. I can see the crust on the outside of his dark brown socks, dried sweat I presume? He is fully dressed, which means the cash from his paycheck remains in his pocket. He is the only man I know that prefers a paper check to the modern convenience of direct deposit. When his mood is dark, he is unwilling to hand it over, and rather lords it over me. I fall back to sleep and decide to worry about in the morning, knowing full well, the money will be in my hands one way or the other. It's much easier to reach into his abandoned pants pocket in the morning, and listen to him grumble about how I take all "his money," than it is to ask for it. Asking is the equivalent of begging, and it brings another beast of self-loathing along with it. How did I find myself in this place, trusting a man to care for me, and leaving all opportunity to care for myself somewhere in the irretrievable past? He will no doubt refuse me several times, audibly enough so the children will hear. I will whisper and force a laugh. “I need to pick up groceries and make a deposit at the bank,” I will say, and he will ignore me. His eyes will be closed and if I reach to touch him, he will shove me away. He will pull a blanket over his head and tell me not to bother him again. And yet, the money will remain in his pocket until he decides to count it out and hand it over to me while the children pretend not to hear or see what has transpired. I lie on the couch and hope, without reason, that tomorrow will be different.

***
 
The round-cheeked baby wakes up and greets me with a brilliant smile as she grinds together a proud showing of eight teeth. She bounces in the crib, grinning and reaching out for me. I am her world. Morning gives way to a new kind of joy, as the two older kids join us on the couch, talking excitedly over each other, thrilled with the dusting of snow on the ground outside. The man on the recliner becomes a distant hurt that I can bury for a time, as I move into the role I have occupied for over eight years. Mom.
 
Nate is gently tucked away for now, along with a hope ... a dangerous and strange and wonderful hope that one day I'll see him again. I manage to ignore the fact that I am thirty-five years old, and although a slim one hundred and twenty pounds and still reasonably pretty for my age, I am not the twenty-something girl I was, at the brink of college graduation, full of hope and dreams. There is the unmistakable sag under my jaw, the tell-tale sign of mid-thirties. My face is thinner, and when I look into the mirror, I don't recognize the tired and strained eyes that gaze back at me. I tell myself with some careful preening and a new little black dress, I might still be attractive to him in a mature, seductive way. To think this way endangers my children's happiness and security, so I try to leave him behind under that street light. It's not easy to walk away. A few thoughts trickle in, imaginings of seeing him across a table in a small restaurant, smiling while I sip a delightfully promising wine, feeling its warmth spread over my body, and knowing that now, it would be so easy. There would be no awkward fumbling, no pain, no nervousness, as there would have been then. I am past the point of feeling guilt, and I fear there would be nothing to stop me this time. Years of morality have yielded little in return, and my heart aches for the forbidden, to feel for once, full. I slip into the kitchen to warm a bottle for the baby, and I know it's going to be an acutely painful day.
 
***
It is four o'clock in the afternoon and I pour a glass of grocery store wine as I begin to prepare dinner. The sound of the children's playful bickering echoes within the walls of my crowded thoughts. The baby follows me around unfolding neat piles of laundry left mistakenly within her reach, and smudging the painstakingly mopped hardwood floors with drool covered hands.
Gregory has recently left for work, and I feel a sense of freedom filter through the house as the door closes behind him. I am hoping the wine will soften the edge I am feeling as Nate's shadow clings to me. His presence is now unwelcome. I am angry with him today. I am angry that life allowed me a few short months of exhilarating love, and then convinced me that true love was something deeper than what I had felt for him. I am angry that I let go when I wanted more, although I had realize that he did not. I am angry he has followed me into daylight today, my children's world.
I close the bedroom door behind me, muffling the sounds of Sam and Maggie. I reach into the closet and pull the heavy linen bag from the top shelf. I begin rifling through the cards. Many are from high school friends, birthday cards, graduation cards, letters from Clare, my closest friend. I pause when I come across the wedding cards. "Honey, I have a surprise for you," says the bride to her groom as they walk into the sunset. Inside: "I’m not wearing any underwear." From Gregory's friend. I grimace, thinking of the taunting bachelor pad that Finn keeps, where Gregory loves to run and play several nights a week, coming home at dawn reeking of cigarette smoke.
These are not what I'm looking for. I shove the pile of wedding cards aside and continue to dig through the bag, beginning to feel agitated and desperate. I can't remember what it looked like. How could I forget? The one and only keepsake that I owned to prove that Nate had been part of my beautiful world. It was a birthday card, my twenty-second, but it had been hand delivered in the shape of a small folded note card. It had come after our break-up, and as it always was with Nate, its meaning was ambiguous. Like him, not quite within my grasp. Had I saved the envelope? What did his handwriting look like? What had the note read? "Like a ghost, you passed through me ..." Was that it? "The gentle breeze of a ghost...?" Why can't I find it? Why can't I remember? What had that meant anyway? Was it a plea to rekindle the relationship on his terms? Was it a sweet good-bye? What had he meant by those haunting words? Thirteen years of unanswered questions plague me as I scratch through the thick surface of love that lies in disrupted patterns on the yellow and pink rose quilt.
I dump the entire contents of the bag on the bed, and hundreds of neatly filed memories protest as they are scattered about. I am scrambling now, fighting back tears. A small stack of envelopes emerges with the precise and carefully written address of the soldier who had promised he would be the man I would one day marry. Longing to feel the love of any man, I open these tenderly folded letters. "You say you don't love me now, but you will. Wait until I get back home. You will fall in love with me." I finger the letters, remembering the man who so deeply cared for me, and whom I did not love. I miss his friendship. I miss his warm hug, devoid of any selfish motive. His constant laughter, his generous spirit. He was an excellent man. I cherish his letters. I feel no regret for not marrying him, only sadness that I may have caused him pain. If it hadn't been for Nate, maybe I could have loved this tender soldier. The pain of letting Nate go was all too fresh when this broad shouldered marine came into my life. When his honest face brushes my memory I feel myself to be a small person, having wounded him. I hope he has forgiven me. I gently put his letters in the bag, and tuck along with them a hope that one day I can apologize for the way it ended, and somehow thank him for his kindness to me. How does one do that? I wonder, as I give his letters what seems to be an appropriate moment of silence.
As I pilfer through the remaining cards, envelopes, and folded writing paper, my heart sinks. I realize now that Nate's card was most likely the victim of a cleansing ritual. In my desperation to stop the everyday aching throb in my chest, I must have thrown it away, whispering a good-bye to him that I would never truly release from my heart, where many of my emotions are carefully imprisoned. The card is gone. I slump onto the hope chest at the foot of the bed and surrender to the tears. They will flow for a few minutes and I will straighten my shoulders, breathe deeply, and move past the wave of self-pity. I will wander into the living room, scoop up that gorgeous stumbling baby, and slap a kiss on both of her pudgy cheeks. I will pat my son's head, and wrap my arms around him from behind lifting him off the ground. He will wiggle free, kicking and giggling. My middle daughter will climb up on my lap and tuck her delightfully stubby feet in between my legs, and I will remember that these children's father is Gregory. My Gregory. For better or for worse.