So Much More

by Kim Holden

  It doesn’t.

  Janet waves me into an empty office to the right of her desk and closes the door behind us. I don’t know what she’s about to say, but I’m already thankful for the privacy she’s provided. She hands me a form. “They want you to take a drug test this morning, Seamus. You’ll need to leave right now to make the appointment.” She’s biting her bottom lip like she’s sorry she has to deliver the news, and she hopes I’m clean, all in one worrying gesture.

  “Who’s they?”

  She looks around like we aren’t alone and then she lowers her voice, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but administration called Friday afternoon to inform me of the screening appointment.” She stops and nervously licks her lips. “And earlier in the day, a manila envelope was delivered to Principal Brentwood from your ex-wife’s attorney’s office. It wasn’t sealed, only clasped,” she closes her eyes when she admits her wrongdoing, “and I opened it and read the documents inside. There was a letter stating your suspected drug use and a photo—”

  I stop her. “Jesus.”

  “Mary and Joseph,” she says under her breath. It’s a statement of solidarity. She knows I’ve been through hell with Miranda. “Seamus, this is serious. Any suspicion of drug use results in immediate testing, you know that. And if found positive, there’s a zero tolerance policy, you would be terminated.” She’s asking, without asking, if I can pass the test.

  I hold her gaze and plead with her, “I don’t do drugs, Janet. You have to believe me. It’s not what it looks like.”

  She nods her head in relief. “I believe you, Seamus. Now, take the test and prove it to them.”

  I took the test.

  I was clean.

  Fuck you, Miranda.

  No one measures up to a saint

  past

  True to my word I filed for divorce, and had Seamus served with papers Monday while he was at work.

  He didn’t see it coming.

  He’s waiting up for me when I get home late. The kids are already in bed, as usual. I should’ve gone to a hotel, but the house is big enough for all of us to live in and continue to avoid each other.

  He’s sitting, facing the front door, in an armchair he’s dragged in from the living room, when I walk in. He’s clutching a bottle of beer in his hand. There are five identical, empty bottles lined up at his feet. “Who is he?”

  I’m irritated that he’s not letting me set my purse down or take my jacket off, before he starts attacking me. I don’t answer him right away.

  He waits patiently and takes a long pull from the bottle.

  “Who is who?” I ask innocently.

  “The man you’re leaving me for?” His voice is quiet, which worries me more than if he were yelling. And the white-knuckle grip he has on the bottle in his hand tells me anger is at the surface, barely contained.

  “I just can’t do this anymore, Seamus.” I don’t know why I feel like I need to keep this vague. I’ve been waiting years for this day, working toward my destiny, and now that it’s finally here it’s harder than I thought it would be.

  I have to trade in my get out of hell free card.

  Fuck.

  “Does he have more money than me? Is that it?”

  Loads, I think.

  “Is he better looking?”

  No. Good looking, but no one’s better looking than you.

  “Drives a fancy car?”

  Someone drives him around in a fancy car.

  “Buys you expensive gifts?”

  Not in years.

  He’s firing questions at me, his voice rising. I’m not answering any of them out loud. And then it turns personal, his voice biting and accusatory. “Does he love and care for your children?”

  He doesn’t want children. Not even his own.

  “Does he look after you when you’re sick?”

  He’d ask the housekeeper to do it.

  “Does he bring you food when you pull an all-nighter at work?”

  He wouldn’t think of it.

  “Does he get up before the sun comes up on your birthday and make you pecan pancakes with extra butter and syrup because they’re your favorite?”

  He doesn’t cook. Or know that I love pecan pancakes.

  “Does he know that you like your back rubbed when you can’t sleep because it relaxes you and makes you tired?”

  He’s not one to comfort.

  The truth in his questions, and my undisclosed answers, has me wanting to run for the door to escape this confrontation. I wanted to tell him I was leaving. And for him to quietly accept it. He’s not supposed to fight me on this. He’s not supposed to make me think. I can taste something hurtful and mean on the tip of my tongue.

  “What is it about him that makes him better for you than me?!” he bellows.

  “He’s not broken!” There it is. The worst thing I can say to him. The thing that will destroy him. Because he believes it. He knows he’s a good father, husband, counselor, human being. He knows that and never doubts it. His health he can’t change, and he wishes so badly he could. It’s his Achilles heel. And I just used it against him.

  I’m going to burn in hell atop the hottest pyre for all of eternity.

  Because the truth, everything else aside, is that no one’s better for me than Seamus. In the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I know that. And it’s not his MS that’s driving me away. Do I like it? No. Does it make him less attractive in my eyes? Yes. But does it make him less of a man than Loren? No. It’s everything that goes along with Loren that I want. Seamus can’t be the king to my queen.

  Because he’s a saint.

  And no one measures up to a saint.

  He doesn’t refute my claim. He doesn’t fight me. He stands, drinks down the rest of his beer, tosses the bottle on the floor with the others, and walks toward the hall. Before he turns the corner, he looks back. He holds me in a stare that has my emotions folding in upon each other until my stomach aches. When he finally speaks, it’s low and clear. I forgot how much I loved Seamus’s voice all those years ago when we first started dating. The first time he spoke to me butterflies fluttered in my chest. “He’ll never love you like I do.”

  And then he walked away.

  I felt the connection we’d had for over twelve years snap like a rubber band.

  Another fuck you from the universe, and I can hear it laughing at me this time, too.

  Choking on thick smoke

  present

  One month rolls into the next.

  My eyesight returned. Slowly, and deficient from what it once was, but I’m not complaining, I’ll take what I can get in the vision department. Feeling is somewhat returning to my legs again, the numbness replaced by tingling, pain, and easy fatigue. I’ve lost weight; my appetite just isn’t there. I don’t dwell on any of it. At this point, I’ve forgotten what a healthy body and mind feel like. I exist, that’s about the extent of it.

  Work is work, a job that used to be fulfilling is now just a job. I take the kids I work with seriously, and do everything I can to help them, but my motives are obligation and duty, my heart’s no longer driving it.

  I don’t talk to anyone outside of work except Mrs. L once a month when I drop off the rent check. She’s good at asking loaded questions meant to flush out substance and emotion. I recognize the approach, I’m a counselor. She’s so kind and caring that I find myself swallowing back the honesty that wants badly to escape and replace it with vague evasiveness that pacifies instead.

  I miss Faith. I miss her so much. I used to watch her come and go from her apartment. Studying the way she walked, the way she carried herself with such graceful, unassuming confidence. And admiring it because I know it’s not a product of her upbringing. She invested in herself and manifested it. That’s remarkable, a thing of beauty. I don’t watch anymore because studying her soon felt like stalking her. The torture of not being able to have her in my life distorted observation into forbidden leering. I’m not a creeper.


  I call my kids every evening. Sometimes I get to talk to them, and more often than not there’s an excuse as to why they aren’t available. It makes me furious that Miranda has this control. My fury should be calmed with words, talking to someone I trust but that person is Faith, and I can’t, so most nights I calm my fury with alcohol and a sleep aid my doctor prescribed. It doesn’t dispel, it only erases consciousness for a few hours. I’ll take that. And when I do get to talk to my kids my body is on such a rollercoaster I feel exhausted when I get off the line. I’m happy beyond belief to hear their voices, but they sound distant, the kind of apprehension that’s a reaction to sadness. That breaks me. They used to tell me they wanted to come home, now time and complacency to circumstances beyond our control has worn them quickly until all of their hard edges, their personality traits that made them so distinct, are being smoothed over to blend them into Miranda’s bland, strict world—a world where children don’t exist as children. There’s no fun, no creativity, no fostering of individuality because none of those things serve you well in a world of money-focused, soul-sucking, career-driven existence. Rory’s dropped his accent. Kira’s sweet chatter is gone, so is Pickles the cat. And Kai is silent; silence not related to introspection, but the scary silence that is the surrender of self and motivation.

  She’s sucking the life out of my kids.

  I keep the conversations positive, encourage them with every word whether they acknowledge my comment or not. Talking to them this way was second nature all their lives, even if I felt like shit or my mind was muddled in the chaos of adulting in Miranda’s world, talking to them was always easy. They were my light, my fire that I never wanted to dwindle. I wanted it to grow stronger, brighter, bolder, so I fed it by the day…by the hour…by the minute. Because that’s what parents do, without even thinking about it, that’s what parents do. They fill their children with love and understanding and compassion and knowledge so that when they’re adults no one can extinguish them. They’ll burn so bright they can’t be brought down.

  Feeding now takes effort because their fire has been reduced to a small flicker leaving only an ember that I feel like I’m trying to ignite with water-sodden branches and soggy newspaper.

  And it’s generating only thick smoke.

  That I’m choking on.

  So are they.

  I used to write them a letter every day and mail it. They never saw them. I know because I asked. I’m sure Miranda’s housekeeper intercepted the mail and gave the letters to her. I even sent a few certified. A signature was refused, and the letters were returned to me. I still write the letters I just don’t mail them anymore. Instead, I keep them in a shoebox that I’ll give to my kids when I see them next. She can delay communication, but she can’t shut it down entirely.

  Sulking in the cesspool of villainy

  present

  Thanksgiving.

  It’s finally Thanksgiving.

  My first visitation since Miranda stole custody.

  School’s out the entire week, so I pack up the car on Tuesday morning with a suitcase of clothes, a cooler of food and water, the shoebox of letters to my kids, and a heart full of hope I’ve missed for so long, and I drive north.

  I drive eleven hours before I give up and stop at a rest area and let sleep consume me for several hours making the final few hours of driving possible.

  My legs ache when I pull up to the gate in front of Miranda’s address, and eyestrain has launched the indignant insurgency taking place inside my skull, a violent thumping.

  The pain is easily pushed aside by excitement, though. My kids, my kids, are on the other side of that fence, inside that house, waiting for me.

  I call Miranda’s cell. No answer.

  I call her house phone and the housekeeper answers, “Buckingham residence.” Her accent is thick.

  “May I speak to Kai, please?”

  She knows it’s me on the line, but she keeps up the air of formality, even through her broken English and heavy accent. “Kai not here.”

  Something feels off, even with the formality. “What? This is his father. I’m here to pick up my kids.”

  She clears her throat and delivers the death punch with an assertiveness I’m sure even Miranda would admire. “Mrs. Buckingham and kids on vacation. They be back Monday.”

  My anger is delayed by disbelief. Disbelief is short-lived. Anger implodes, gutting me before it explodes on her. “Where in the hell are my kids?” The words come from the bowels of that deep, dark place where hate is born.

  The line goes dead on my rage.

  I throw my phone on the seat next to me and climb out of my car. Before I know it I’m beating on the iron gate with my cane, hurling obscenities at the oversized, pretentious structure that is supposed to house my children.

  A stout, steely looking woman emerges from the front door and stomps toward me. The look on her face is a mixture of annoyance and fear. She’s waving her arms in front of her urging me to be quiet.

  To hell with quiet.

  “Where are my kids?” I yell again. Projecting my voice isn’t necessary, she’s standing six feet from me, but my rage won’t allow civil volume. “So help me God, if you don’t tell me where my kids are—”

  She cuts me off, “Quiet,” she hisses. “They not here. I told you.” Her eyes are darting back and forth, never falling on me; she’s assessing the street to see if my commotion is drawing any attention. She looks nervous now, the vibrato she exuded over the phone is gone.

  I take in a deep breath through my nose. It’s a nostril-flaring intake meant to quell anger. It doesn’t. I take another. Still nothing. So, I dive back in speaking through clenched teeth to moderate the volume. “Where did they go?”

  She shakes her head emphatically, her words hurried like she’s trying to speed up my departure, “I not know. They no tell me.”

  I’m staring into her eyes, trying to read her. I see nothing but fear now. She’s scanning the street again. I turn my back on her and slam my fist down on the hood of my car. “Fuuuuuuuuck!” It’s a long, drawn out release of frustration, rattling out on all the air my lungs will hold. And when it’s purged it hangs heavily around me, as if I’m surrounded by hate so tangible I can touch it. Punch it. Strangle it with my bare hands.

  Arguing with her is useless. The ache in my chest tells me she’s not lying and that my kids aren’t here.

  The stubborn side of me tells me to wait it out, in case she’s lying, and see if they either come out of the house or return home.

  I wait.

  I eat two peanut butter sandwiches and drink a bottle of water from my stash.

  After the sun goes down, I pee behind Miranda’s high hedges next to the gate.

  I doze off around three in the morning and sleep for an hour.

  I pee behind the hedges again before the sun comes up.

  I eat an apple and another peanut butter sandwich and drink my last bottle of water.

  After twenty-four hours of sulking in the cesspool of Miranda’s villainy, I relent and leave.

  I drive straight through, only stopping for gas.

  My body, mind, and spirit are wrecked by the time I get home.

  I write my kids a letter telling them about every evil thing their mother has ever done. I tell them how much I hate her. And how much they should hate her. And how sorry I am that she’s in their life. And how I wish she would die and rot in hell.

  And then I crumple it up and throw it in the trash because my kids don’t need my hate.

  They need my love.

  So, I pull out another piece of paper and I write:

  I fold it in half and tuck it in the shoebox with the others.

  And then I drink some tequila and skip the sleeping pill because I’m already so tired I can’t see straight, and I fall into a state of rest so solid that it takes fourteen hours for me to deconstruct it and emerge on the other side.

  When I do my chest still feels hollow, like Miranda took a blunt
spoon to it, emptying the cavity of my life force and ability to love or see the good in anything.

  Shedding regret like snakeskin

  past

  I’m standing in what was, up until an hour ago, my master bedroom. It belongs to someone else now. I shouldn’t be here. I signed the closing paperwork and handed over the keys this morning. But I kept one so I could come back and say goodbye.

  The room is empty. There are indentations in the carpet where the four-poster bed and dresser stood. An imperfect reminder that there used to be life in this room.

  Now it’s quiet.

  And cold.

  Like me.

  The divorce is final. I’ve been in Seattle with Loren for weeks. Living my new life. The life I wanted.

  That’s what I keep reminding myself—it’s the life I wanted.

  Loren and I were married last night. He arranged for a minister to come to his house to conduct the ceremony. It lasted five minutes. I lied to Seamus and told him we were headed to Europe this morning for an extended honeymoon. There won’t be a honeymoon; we didn’t even go out for dinner afterward.

  I close my eyes and let grief and loss and regret overtake me, something I never do. Something I never allow. But that’s why I’m here. It’s been eating at me, and I hate it. I feel like a snake trapped in skin I’m trying to shed, but it won’t fall away. It sticks with me, itchy and uncomfortable. I need to release it so I can move on.

  I can see Seamus in my mind, so handsome. Hair as dark as midnight and eyes to match. Eyes that didn’t just look upon me, they looked into me. Golden brown skin he received from his mother and a tall, broad frame that could swallow me up when he wrapped me in it.

  And now that I can feel his touch again, there are tears in my eyes. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with who made love to me. Even if I didn’t return it, he gave me all of him, his body and his heart, because that’s how he did everything. I took it for granted. I gravitated toward the physicality of sex with others because it was need driven, solely to satisfy an itch. I couldn’t reciprocate love driven. But I realize now how much I loved receiving it.