The Space Between Promises (2 page)

Chapter Two

Seated awkwardly next to my husband in a new red dress, an uncharacteristic color for me, likely spurred by a strange need for his attention, I gingerly sip a glass of white wine. I am a nervous to have strayed from my usual purchase of a black taffeta dress. Something safe, elegant, beyond reproach. Falling slightly below my knee with a modest slit in the back, it is a tailored, ruffled v-neck, sleeveless dress. Cardinal red. It gracefully fits over my slender figure. I am wearing a black shawl over my naked shoulders, the outfit complete with a pair black patent hig
h heeled shoes. I know that I look pretty, my graceful legs crossed neatly under the table. I feel the tug of weariness under my eyes. I see my reflection in his empty stare. He does not compliment me. I feel as though I tried too hard. I shrink into my shawl, managing still, to sit upright.
As we wait for guests to arrive at his annual Christmas work party, we struggle to find a safe subject to discuss. It is going badly. First there is the question as to how I came about with a new dress, succeeded by the familiar tirade about how I need to find a full-time job. I can almost taste his resentment as I fumble to change the subject. He bears down on me and my chest tightens. "So what you mean to say," in a masked growl, "is that you could have landed a sixty-thousand dollar a year job that you were qualified for because you weren't prepared with a resume?" I reduce my voice to a level of false uncertainty. "I thought it would prove to you that I am looking. My resume wasn't tailored for that job, and I didn't have the time ..." "What it proves to me is that still, after four years, you refuse to work." I want to point out that my part-time job is almost full-time, and that I alone carry the entire burden of the house, children, meals, everything. I do everything. The weight of that lingers on my tongue for a moment. I am the wife who refuses to magically land a full-time job in a down economy. I stifle my response and we sit in silence for several minutes. I am grateful for the restaurant and the protection its walls provide. He will not tower over me and scream into my face tonight. He will sit, angrily sipping a mediocre beer, a poor substitute for the Guinness he once embraced as a wayward youth. As this is the one yearly occasion where he sips a beer, I wish there had been Guinness. It might have brightened his mood.
The conversation moves to our oldest child, Sam, who we find amusingly obsessive about certain things, a trait which my husband accredits to me. Laughingly, I say, "Well, somehow you managed to fall in love with me ..." Under his breath is the barely audible response, "And somehow I managed to fall out of love ..." I quickly turn my head in the direction of the DJ, a feeble attempt to hide my quivering chin. I take another sip of wine hoping to compose myself, feeling his stare as he studies my reaction. As always, I am unable to discern if this is truly the way he feels or if this unkindness was carefully measured for effect. There was no hint it was coming. After all, he had opened the car door for me as we left the house. He dropped me off at the entrance of the restaurant. He pulled out the chair for me and gently tucked me in, committing to the pleasant small talk initially. The usual courtesies. So why this cruelty? I cannot stop the tears. They well up and I keep my head turned for several minutes.
The silence is relieved as guests begin to arrive, mingling throughout the spacious room. I am selfishly amused as a parade of gaudy attire marches by. An ivory and black floor-length prom gown on a Hispanic woman in her fifties. A cheap polyester stretch knit dress barely covering the round buttocks of a girl in her early twenties. An ivory mini dress with crisscross back straps on a heavy-set woman, exposing back tattoos and rolls of bulging flesh. I suddenly feel quite myself. Elegant, albeit in a bold red.
I step into the dutiful wife role and ask all the right questions of the young couple seated with us. They have been dating three months. She is not yet twenty-one and he orders her drink at the bar. They went shopping earlier for the cute little rhinestone and satin holiday bow-tie she is wearing as a necklace. They met at the restaurant where she works. He does not play online games because he tries to spend as much time with her between his two jobs. They are refreshingly sweet. Unlike the obnoxiously cute behavior so typical of young couples, they are visibly bright and shiny, two new pennies I can't resist picking up. Maybe I am so resigned to my situation that I am not jealous, or maybe it's that I genuinely like them. Either way, their company helps the respectable three hours pass, before we drive home, my head turned toward the window, my husband trying to find the right thing to say to a wife he claims to no longer love.

Chapter Three

"Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum ..." Gregory stomps heavily up the stairs toward the open loft. Sam and Maggie scream with delight, running toward the closest hiding place, giggling and squealing. Gregory rounds the corner, pretending he does not know that Sam has scampered into the bedroom closet with Maggie close on his heels. She squeezes behind the open door frame, holding a dimpled hand to her mouth. "I smell the blood of a Little One!" He calls out. Both children's muted giggles can be heard from their respective hidden nook. Maggie is the first to be found as she jumps out of her spot voluntarily, unable to contain her excitement any longer, and she collapses into Gregory's tickling embrace in a fit of giggles. "Sam is in the closet!" She confesses in her helpless state of excitement. Gregory rummages around pretending that Sam is nowhere to be found until finally a slight giggle escapes from the closet and Sam squats to the floor, wiggling out of Gregory's arms.
I smile contentedly in the kitchen, where I am setting the table with mismatched dinnerware. How is one married a decade without a decent dish to their name? Bright plastic dishes for the kids, clear glass dishes for Gregory and me, clouded and scratched from years of dish washing. Tessa is gurgling in her booster seat, nibbling on a bit of banana while I dish out helpings of pulled beef from the crock pot. She raises her eyebrows as I let out a small yelp while pulling the aluminum wrapped baked potatoes from the oven. I shake my hand and blow on it. "Dinner's ready," I call.
They are tossing something around in the living room, and my desire for happy moments swallows the fear that a lamp will be knocked over, or some little treasure will meet an untimely end. There is the skidding of feet and the jostle of accent furniture coupled with giddy sounds. I find myself relieved for Gregory's love toward his children, and I do not challenge him. I have learned that a simple suggestion involving his playtime with the children meets with stern disapproval and rebuke.
I lift the lid to the steamed cauliflower and frown. It is soggy, grossly overcooked. I wonder if it would have made a difference anyway. No one really likes the vegetable portion of dinner, but I regret having bought it fresh, only to do it the injustice of boiling it to mush. It falls apart at the first touch of the fork and collapses into the remaining water in the pot.
We casually gather around the table and the kids babble a quick grace, and Gregory calls out, "Let's eat!" Sam is a bundle of chatter and Gregory chimes in, as Knock Knock jokes are passed around the table. This is real, I tell myself. This is family. I do not have less than others. I have a husband who works hard, loves his kids, and comes home to his wife. I have beautiful, behaved, happy children. It is enough. "Who's there?" I call out. "Poo Poo who?" I ask. "Poo Poo on your shoe!" I pretend to frown while their high-pitched squeals fill the small kitchen.
Gregory stands up, leaving an empty plate and cup at the table, pats his protruding stomach, sticking it out further than it already is, burps, and walks out of the kitchen. I begin clearing dishes as the kids finish up, still joking and teasing one another. "Mom," Sam says, "I really liked the meat. It was flavorful." I suddenly feel emotional. "Thank you for saying so, Sam. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I have leftovers for tomorrow." "Cool," he says, oblivious to the disproportionate gratitude that I feel toward a child's affirmation. I excuse them from the table and they scamper away for a few minutes of free time before setting down to homework.
There is the familiar groan of the recliner as Gregory sinks heavily into its dutiful embrace. We all know this is Daddy's chair, and when it is moved even a matter of a few inches, he is a scarier version of Papa Bear wanting to know who has been sitting in his chair, fiddling with the distance between the chair and the cords to the game system. We all have learned to avoid that corner of the room as best we can. He turns on the game and we fade into the backdrop. As he enters into his own private world, speaking to strangers over a headset in our living room, he becomes the man I no longer love.
It comes back vividly as I watch him disappear in his recliner, all traces of the loving father lost now. It had been a sunny afternoon. We were newlywed. He had barricaded himself in the spare room playing on the computer. I blush, ashamed now, of how bold I once was. How I thought I could change my fate by the power of persuasion. How I could once lobby for my desires. I had expressed my displeasure at his lack of attention toward me; the endless selfish hours spent gaming online. He insisted I get out of the house and leave him alone. "I'm not going anywhere. I haven't showered yet and I'm not leaving until I shower and until I feel like leaving." I shout back. "You need a shower? You need a shower?! Here, take a shower!" is his irate response. In an instant he is out of his chair, and he has me in his grip, leading me to bathroom. I feel my will breaking under the threat of his anger. I hear the crank of the faucet and he is pulling my tank top off. Then my flannel pants. I am still wearing underwear when he deposits me in the shower. He slams the door and I stand there for a moment, ashamed that he had overpowered me with the unspoken suggestion of violence. Ashamed that I didn't fight back when there was nothing to fear in the first place.
The line had been drawn, and I knew my place. I was never to set expectations. I was never to make demands. As long as I remembered that he was in authority, everything would be okay. I had decided that in spite of the shame of separation, I was going to leave him. I could not allow him to break me. Three days later, I discovered I was pregnant. And a new arrangement was forged. Survival.
There would be traces of love. Guilt. Pain. Joy. Pleasure. Bitterness. Tenderness. But mostly, I would learn to survive. For the sake of Sam. The price of my freedom. The gift I would spend a lifetime feeling unworthy of. It is all for Sam. It always was.

Chapter Four

There had been clues from the beginning. The time he had finished an outdoor lunch and was polishing it off with a cigarette. In my innocence and eagerness in a series of first dates, I had risen from my seat and asked if he was ready. In an instant he stamped out the cigarette, shoved the chair aside, and looking straight ahead, lips set, began walking. I remember pleading, "I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd mind walking and smoking ... Why aren’t you talking to me? What did I do?"
The answer was simple. My standing up had indicated an end to that moment, and it was he who would dictate when ends would come. After punishing me for several minutes with agonizing silence, he forgave me and explained he had been enjoying the moment and wanted to sit and relax while smoking. I had ruined it for him. That part rings clear, as they it had been last summer, not thirteen summers before. His tantrum, his smoldering silence, his infuriation were the result of my inconsideration. If only I were a marionette, he would not be forced to stamp out my hope.
Somehow, I had moved past the blame, not believing it, or feeling it, and went on to allow many more accusations to come my way. Miraculously, I never actually believed that I was in the wrong. I chose to love him despite his anger. I felt as though I was the one in control, choosing to love a man when I could have walked away. Until the day I couldn't walk away.
I gaze out the window with such intense longing and desire, that I cannot swallow. The pain spreads from my throat to the top of my chest, and I try to catch my breath without his notice. The early spring sun pours through the lace curtains and Sam nurses contentedly at my breast, as we rock together. The tears slip down my cheeks. I marvel at how easily they come without distorting my face. One by one, I can almost count them as they roll rhythmically from cheek to chin, landing in a gentle drop on my white nightgown.
I sense Gregory's tense stare, and I feel his mounting disapproval. When I didn't touch or hold Sam other than to nurse him in the hospital, Gregory was patient. He was kind and gentle. He carried me from the bed to the wheelchair when I could not walk. He was there for five days, sleeping in the chair next to my bed in the aftermath of a traumatic birth. His presence was calm, reassuring. Everything was going to be okay. He fell into his new role with ease and tremendous love. But now ... now that we are home ... Now that two months have passed and I cry every time I hold Sam, his disapproval grows.
Within moments of these first few daring tears, his voice shatters the silence. "You're a mother now. Get a grip, and do what you need to do." I think it is hatred that I feel rising within me. Surely, any fool can see that I need some relief from the relentless colic. That I need a few hours of sleep. That I need a day to go somewhere with a friend. Instead, what he affords me is an isolated existence as I pioneer motherhood, watching him walk out the door three, sometimes four nights a week to spend the night at Finn's, leaving me to pace the floors with a fitful newborn.

On that beautiful spring day, I realized it was the beginning of many days that I would spend on the inside, looking out. Slowly, the longing would fade, as the sounds of children, like many waters, would fill my heart, drowning out even him. It would be this way, and in their love and laughter, I would become who I was always meant to be; my children's mother.

Chapter Five

There had been clues from the beginning. The time he had finished an outdoor lunch and was polishing it off with a cigarette. In my innocence and eagerness in a series of first dates, I had risen from my seat and asked if he was ready. In an instant he stamped out the cigarette, shoved the chair aside, and looking straight ahead, lips set, began walking. I remember pleading, "I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd mind walking and smoking ... Why aren’t you talking to me? What did I do?"
The answer was simple. My standing up had indicated an end to that moment, and it was he who would dictate when ends would come. After punishing me for several minutes with agonizing silence, he forgave me and explained he had been enjoying the moment and wanted to sit and relax while smoking. I had ruined it for him. That part rings clear, as they it had been last summer, not thirteen summers before. His tantrum, his smoldering silence, his infuriation were the result of my inconsideration. If only I were a marionette, he would not be forced to stamp out my hope.
Somehow, I had moved past the blame, not believing it, or feeling it, and went on to allow many more accusations to come my way. Miraculously, I never actually believed that I was in the wrong. I chose to love him despite his anger. I felt as though I was the one in control, choosing to love a man when I could have walked away. Until the day I couldn't walk away.
I gaze out the window with such intense longing and desire, that I cannot swallow. The pain spreads from my throat to the top of my chest, and I try to catch my breath without his notice. The early spring sun pours through the lace curtains and Sam nurses contentedly at my breast, as we rock together. The tears slip down my cheeks. I marvel at how easily they come without distorting my face. One by one, I can almost count them as they roll rhythmically from cheek to chin, landing in a gentle drop on my white nightgown.
I sense Gregory's tense stare, and I feel his mounting disapproval. When I didn't touch or hold Sam other than to nurse him in the hospital, Gregory was patient. He was kind and gentle. He carried me from the bed to the wheelchair when I could not walk. He was there for five days, sleeping in the chair next to my bed in the aftermath of a traumatic birth. His presence was calm, reassuring. Everything was going to be okay. He fell into his new role with ease and tremendous love. But now ... now that we are home ... Now that two months have passed and I cry every time I hold Sam, his disapproval grows.
Within moments of these first few daring tears, his voice shatters the silence. "You're a mother now. Get a grip, and do what you need to do." I think it is hatred that I feel rising within me. Surely, any fool can see that I need some relief from the relentless colic. That I need a few hours of sleep. That I need a day to go somewhere with a friend. Instead, what he affords me is an isolated existence as I pioneer motherhood, watching him walk out the door three, sometimes four nights a week to spend the night at Finn's, leaving me to pace the floors with a fitful newborn.

On that beautiful spring day, I realized it was the beginning of many days that I would spend on the inside, looking out. Slowly, the longing would fade, as the sounds of children, like many waters, would fill my heart, drowning out even him. It would be this way, and in their love and laughter, I would become who I was always meant to be; my children's mother.