Atheists Who Kneel and Pray

by Tarryn Fisher

  This time he is silent.

  “I came because I love you,” he says. “Still, after all these years.”

  “How can you still love me after what I did?” I ask him.

  His chin is dipped down to his chest and he seems to be in deep thought after having confessed that to me.

  “I never loved you for what you did or didn’t do,” he says. “That’s not what love is.”

  I don’t quite know what he means and he doesn’t explain further. My hands are trembling around my beer, which has warmed to room temperature, but I can’t seem to let it go. It’s a sad day when beer becomes your anchor.

  “I never went looking for love,” he says. “I didn’t know what I was missing. I had women who I thought I loved, who I spent time with, who I made love to. It all felt good until you came along. Then those encounters didn’t feel good anymore. It’s like living by a lake your whole life and then being taken to the ocean.”

  I stare at him, not sure how to process what he’s saying. It’s a compliment no doubt, coming from the husband I abandoned six weeks after our wedding.

  “But then the ocean shipwrecked you,” I say. He is an artist and I am a dose of reality.

  “All that beauty and power turned against me,” he agrees.

  It feels better to speak in metaphor, easier. It’s saying the truth without actually saying the truth. You could only speak to an artist this way. No one else would get it.

  “Do you hate the ocean now?”

  He shakes his head. “I just don’t believe in it anymore. It’s not something that’s wonderful and beautiful like I thought it was. It’s dangerous. I won’t go in past my knees.”

  “Maybe it’s better just to look at the ocean,” I suggest. “Maybe none of us should go in.”

  He turns to look at me then. “But I can’t stop thinking about the ocean. It got in my head. The roar it makes—both peaceful and angry. The way its mood changes every day. The way it washes some things away and drags some things to your feet. It gives and it takes away. It cleanses and kills. It’s a fury, but also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t look at a lake the same way again. Lakes are shallow, lakes are predictable, lakes dry up.”

  I bite my lip and turn my head away to stare out the window. My heart is racing in the way hearts race when they’re afraid. I want to ask him if Petra the whore is a lake or an ocean, but I don’t have the balls.

  “So what will you do?” I’m asking about the divorce, his marriage to Petra, the papers he never seems to produce, but that’s not what David Lisey hears. He’s the type of person who hears selectively. That’s what makes him a good songwriter, I guess. He listens for the things he wants to hear and then makes beauty out of them.

  “I’ll write a song,” he says.

  That makes me angry. I’m on the wrong side of the booth. I can’t shove my way past him. I can’t climb over his lap. I’m trapped. I realize he sat next to me this way on purpose, to keep me there when I tried to run. He’s learning me.

  “That’s why you keep finding me,” I say. “Because I’m your goddamn muse.”

  I push my weight against him so he knows I want out. I’m rageful; my eyes are burning with righteous tears.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t marry a girl who doesn’t inspire you in the same way.” I’m looking for something mean to say, something to make him hurt, and I find it.

  “I didn’t,” he says simply. “I married you.”

  “Yes, and now you’re here asking for a divorce.”

  “I’ve never asked for a divorce,” he says.

  My mouth is open to shoot out more words. I close it to think. Had I been the one to surmise that? Had he ever said the word divorce?

  “You told me that you’re engaged to Petra,” I say.

  His face falls. I wonder at the sudden darkness.

  “I am.”

  “Ugh!” I make a noise. I sound like a woman giving birth. I drop my head into my hands and wish to God that I hadn’t sat on this side of the booth. Trapped like an idiot, trapped like a fool. And in this dingy bar where no one would help me even if I screamed. But, I’m not trapped, am I? I look up, suddenly hopeful. I’ve always been the one in power just because I cared less—or let’s be honest—pretended to.

  “Move, David,” I force those two words out, hard and steady. “I’m done here.”

  “No, you’re not,” he says. “And I’m not either.”

  “Oh please,” I say it just as harsh as I intended to. “My mother lives somewhere in England. She neglected me for half my life and hasn’t made a move to find me in over eight years. That’s unfinished business. I’m just some girl you married on impulse. It was a blow to your pride that I left, not your heart.” I shove at him so that he slides an inch in the right direction. “You shacked up with the girl who caused me insecurity in our relationship.” I shove at him again. “I may be a runner, I may be a coward, but I’m an honest whatever I am. I didn’t try to pull one over on you. You knew exactly what you were getting into with me.” He’s on the edge of the booth now. One more shove and I’ll be free. “You’re with Petra to hurt me. Don’t even deny it.”

  I push at him with my whole body and then he’s on his feet and so am I. I head for the door, stumbling past men holding drinks like they’re props. What the fuck is this place? I bump into someone, knocking his drink onto his shirt. He’s a thick guy, neck like a bull. When his vodka spills, it makes an arc in slow motion and lands on his very expensive looking silk tie. I’ve never seen a man with thicker wrists, seriously.

  “Bitch,” he says the word like he says it a lot. He’s the type of man who calls women bitch like it’s their name.

  “Say it again,” I say. “And I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

  I say it in English but he understands me. His eyes become two hard, amused things. I mean it. If he calls me a bitch again I’ll claw at him until I’m dead. I don’t care a thing about what bad people can do to me. I care about what good people can do. David swoops in. I don’t know where he comes from, or how quickly he moved, but he’s there between me and Hercules, telling him I’m drunk.

  Hercules looks at me over David’s shoulder like he’s evaluating whether or not to believe the story. I don’t look drunk. I’m not swaying or bleary-eyed and I don’t want to pretend to be. I return his gaze, not faltering for one second. I’m not scared of him and I want him to know it.

  “Get that bitch out of here,” he says to David.

  And then I’m loose like a rock out of a slingshot. I launch myself at him, aiming for his face. David grabs me before my hands can make contact, and I am left clawing at the air. The men around start to laugh. I am just a girl thwarted, pulled aside by men stronger than me. As soon as his grip loosens I move quick as a bird. I have a promise to deliver. I reach Hercules and punch him in the nose. I have so much anger invested in that punch that his meaty head snaps backward and blood sprays. Next thing I know it’s David who is getting hit. Right in the jaw for protecting me. I watch fists rain down on him as he tries to steady himself. He hits too, first Hercules, and then a bystander. My body clenches in worry. They’ll kill him—these are the type of men who will kill him. My phone is in my pocket. I pull it out and dial the police.

  What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

  My hand is throbbing from the contact with Hercules’ nose. There is blood on my knuckles and my clothes. Someone grabs my hair and yanks me backward as I see David go down onto his knees and then his side. I scream, but my scream is drowned out by everyone else’s noise. Someone is holding me back. I kick at them until they release me and then I run for David, throwing my body over his. For a few minutes I sustain the blows. Kicks to my back and legs. My abdomen is crushed against his body, so they hurt what they can. And then there is the sound of police sirens and the men scatter. We are taken to the hospital separately. With David there is a sense of urgency. I get a flash of his face as they carry him i
nto the ambulance and I can’t make out his features amidst the blood.

  What have I done? What have I done?

  David has a concussion, a broken nose, a broken rib, and severe swelling to his face. The media catches the story the day after it all goes down and the street in front of the hospital becomes the type of place where the paparazzi and the news break bread together. Celine and I sit side by side on her sofa, our knees pulled up to our chests, and watch the news in silence. My ribs are sore, and I have a raging headache, but it’s nothing compared to the injuries David sustained to protect me. When the news story ends, we open our computers and read what they have to say online. There are suspects. Police are in the process of questioning people as to their whereabouts. A source reports that when David Lisey’s fiancée, Petra Dilator, walked into his hospital room, she burst into tears and insisted that the man in the bed was not him. I can still see his bloody face in my mind. I sustained bruises to my body that can mostly be hidden by clothes. The ones to my mind are more severe. My hardness insisting that we all have demons that need to be conquered, cannot sleep, cannot eat. I replay what happened over and over in my mind, hating myself so fiercely I can’t look at myself in the mirror. Three days later I’m so sick with worry that Celine tells me to go to the hospital to see him.

  “They won’t let me in,” I say. “That place is a media circus.”

  She types media circus into her phone and nods when she reads the definition. “You’re still his wife,” she says. “They’ll have to let you in.”

  I stand up as soon as the words are out of her mouth. That’s right. I am his wife. I have just as much right to be there as Petra, maybe more if I can justify things the right way in my mind. I march for the door, grabbing my bag. I’d text David to warn him I’m coming but I don’t have his phone number. What a shitty wife I am.

  When I arrive at the hospital, I have to fight my way through the throng of people gathered outside. A few reporters look at me curiously, but I ignore them and walk for the doors.

  “Purpose,” Celine told me before I left. “Look like you have purpose. Don’t falter…”

  “But what if he doesn’t want to see me?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes and brushed me off.

  But, it was there—that worry of rejection. That he’d turn me away. It’s funny that I’m the one who’s been turning him away for years, yet here I am sick with worry over it happening to me. We are such hypocrites, us humans. I sign in at the desk and present my ID to a girl who can’t be older than nineteen. Her hair is pulled up in a tight bun, and when I tell her who I’m here to see, she blinks rapidly.

  “You’re not on the list,” she says to me in French.

  She doesn’t look at me—she looks at the computer screen in front of her. I want to peer round and see who is on the list.

  “Call his room,” I say. “I’m his wife.”

  She looks unsure, but picks up the phone. She speaks in rapid French that I can’t follow. I wish I’d brought Celine along to help with this sort of thing. When she hangs up she holds a finger up.

  Be quiet, we don’t understand each other, help is coming.

  My mouth is open to speak, but I quickly shut it. Sometimes you just need to wait. A few minutes of awkward standing around go by and then an official looking man in a suit walks up and stands next to the girl. They’re ganging up on me, I realize. I lift my chin. When he speaks, his accent is American, but there’s something else too, like maybe he spent time everywhere like I did and picked up a little of this and that.

  “I’m here to escort you from the premises,” he says.

  Not what I was expecting. I thought they’d ask me to produce a marriage license, or perhaps call up to David’s room to get clearance. Instead they are getting me the fuck out of here.

  “On whose order?” I ask. “David’s or Petra’s?”

  “Mr. Lisey’s doctor and his fiancée have discussed the matter and have made a decision for his well-being. They both agree that he needs rest at this time.”

  I nod. Of course. A rush of uncertainty hits me. It was wrong of me to come here. I had no right. I smile at the receptionist who is looking at the floor, and the muscle who looks like he’s ready to tackle me to the floor, and I walk out. I can’t blame Petra. Once upon a time I had been the one trying to keep her out of his line of vision. I thought that if he saw too much of her he’d realize I wasn’t enough.

  I watch them for a while, deciding which one I like most. Four women and three men. Two of the women look like the type of career bitches who are willing to trample the weak underfoot just to have a better view. I dismiss them right away. The older guy with silver hair is out because he keeps looking at his reflection in a small mirror he keeps in his pocket. That leaves two women and two men. I choose the mousier of the women. In the five minutes I’ve been watching, she’s spilled coffee on her skirt and tripped over her own feet which resulted in a scrape to her ankle. She hasn’t even done anything about it, just let the blood drip into her shoe. The other reporters sniggered when they saw her fall. Typical human nature but it still irks me. She’s having a shit day, sort of like me. Perhaps even a shit life. She deserves a break.

  I unbutton my blouse as I walk, just to get the tedious part out of the way. I like to get things done quickly, unless it’s sex, then I like to take my time. The story circulating the news was that David Lisey had been with an undisclosed woman when he was attacked. When I reach her, I pull off my shirt and stand in front of her in nothing but my black bra. She looks around alarmed, but then her face changes into something else. I turn so she can see the bruises on my back; they’ve already started yellowing.

  “My name is Yara,” I say. “I am the woman David Lisey was in the bar with.” I pause as she watches me, her eyes growing larger as she decides if she believes me or not. I smile bitterly. “I am also his wife.”

  In ten minutes the reporter, whose name is Lunya Louse, has me powdered and miked, standing in front of a heavy camera, which is balanced on a man’s shoulder. She’s eaten tuna for lunch. I can smell it on her breath. Lunya tells me to loosen up so I do, shaking my shoulders free of the tension. She hands me a tube of lipstick and tells me to put some on.

  “The camera washes you out,” she says.

  I realize Lunya isn’t as helpless as she looks. The red lipstick is a nice touch for an estranged wife. Adds that extra—where’s she been whoring around all these years—drama. I have to show her a photo of David and me on our wedding day. She holds my phone between her short stubby fingers and peers at the photo for a full minute before she hands it back.

  “Until we can verify record of the marriage, I’ll have to say you’re claiming to be his wife.”

  I nod. That is fine by me.

  In the picture, which after all these years I still have saved in my phone, David has his arm around my waist, smiling toward the camera. His smile is so genuine it’s infectious. I see the corners of Lunya’s mouth turn upward and I don’t know if she’s smiling because she just fell into a juicy story or because David looks so happy. I suppose it could be a combination of both.

  My side of the photo is a different story. I’m holding one side of my dress up, smiling close-lipped, a huge bouquet of red roses behind us. You can almost see the fear in my eyes. The picture itself brings on a great deal of pain. I don’t look at it often, but with each new cell phone I’ve had through the years, I always make sure it is there.

  Lunya is briefing me, her English perfectly accented. She will ask me three questions in French, and I am to answer them in English. They will dub the video later. The other reporters have taken notice and are walking over, their eyes narrowed in anticipation. They stop and consult each other as Lunya ignores them. She will break this story. It’s a big one. A beloved and well-known musician has an estranged wife no one knows about, that’s media gold. Strangely enough my heart is not racing, I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not lying. This is my story to tel
l, my truth. I am relaying it as it happened. I am David Lisey’s legal wife and soon the whole world will know.

  Make a plan, watch it go to shit—something my mother used to say after her third beer. She’d be glossy-eyed by then, her cupid bow lips slashed angrily with the coral lipstick she wore every day. It was probably wrong to imprint a child with this sort of pessimism, but my mother thought warnings and wisdom went hand-in-hand. I had some warning at least. I didn’t expect the world to open up for me. I was prepared to make a plan and watch everything go to shit. I think about those kids a lot—the ones who had two parents and three non-microwaved meals a day. What was it like for them when things went to shit? Were they expecting it? Did it hurt more because it was so foreign? With a truth teller for a mother life can’t blindside you.

  My plan goes to shit faster than I expect. As it turns out, revenge is best taken after much planning and consideration. Impulse on the heels of anger is wrought with the type of issues a sane and private person would want to avoid. After Lunya Louse’s short but efficient interview, I am ushered into a black Range Rover wearing red lipstick and driven home to Celine’s flat. The driver, a man Lunya referred to as Gerard, did not speak a lick of English, and I had to type the address into my phone and hold it out to him in order to get home. In our confusion over language and phones, we did not see the white van following behind us, though I’m assuming Lunya did. What does it matter to her? She has her story and they can chase her source all they want.

  A nasty throb has started behind my eyes, a headache to rule all headaches. I open the picture of David and me on our wedding day and stare at it until my appetite for memories has been sated. What have I done? I’m not sure, but it’s too late to change anything now. I step out of the Range Rover after thanking Gerard and make my way up the stairs, wondering how I am going to explain all of this to Celine. She told me to go, to talk to David, not aim at ruining his life. I stare at my feet, shamed. What is it about me that sends me over, over, over the edge? I can’t blame my mother, or my father, or my loneliness. Cheap tricks. Sure, I carry around your average bitterness, but it doesn’t stop me, I’m not drowning in it. Outing David to the whole world was brought on by something else.