Then She Roars

by Vanessa Evetts

  “Is Michael helping out?”

  “When he’s home, but that’s hardly ever. He’s taken extra shifts – can you believe it?”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He said it was because we needed the money now we’re down to one income, but that's not it. He’s just had enough.”

  “Enough of what?” I ask, but … I got why he wouldn’t want to hang around.

  “Me. He’s sick of me handing him the baby and disappearing. He’s sick of having to get up at night to give him a bottle after working all day because I refuse to breastfeed or cuddle my own son. He’s sick of my moods, the tears and the mess. He hates that I won’t look at him.” She glanced down at Ralph, then rung her hands out on her lap. “I just can't …”

  Oh, Georgia. “He doesn’t understand. Have you spoken to him about how you’re feeling?”

  Georgia shook her head and started rocking the capsule with her foot when Ralph stirred. “He thinks I’m not trying. He told me to stop being so selfish and get over it, that it wasn’t about me anymore.”

  “Why don’t you ask him to come with you next time?”

  “He wouldn’t come,” Georgia said despondently.

  I looked up at the clock above the door. I had one more chance. “Georgia, to get better, you need support. You need Michael on your team. And there’s no way he’s going to get it if you don’t talk to him.”

  “I’ll try.”

  I nodded. That was progress, at least.

  Time was up.

  When Ralph let out a squawk, I told her she was welcome to feed him in the waiting room, but she shook her head. “He can wait.”

  I watched them leave, two separate lives moving in the same direction, and hoped something would shift to bind them together before it was too late.

  4

  CLIENT

  Stuart zoned out, hypnotised by the tapping of his pencil against the edge of his desk. Most of his workmates had already left. It was Friday night – party night for those who had a life.

  He glanced out the window and watched the darkness descend. He should be home. He was late … two hours and counting. He’d called at 5.30pm and lied. “There’s been a complication with the ‘Go Live’.”

  “Really, Stuart? Again?”

  It was the witching hour. He could hear his kids begging their mother for the television, nagging her until she caved. She always did, not that he could blame her. They were relentless.

  He lowered the receiver and allowed the moment to pass. He’d made the right decision. He wasn’t up for that crap tonight.

  “I’m sorry, Jaz. There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s my job.”

  “Surely someone else can fix it. Someone without kids.”

  “They’ll just screw it up. I need to do it myself.”

  “Need to, or want to?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Despite what you may think of me, Stuart, I’m not bloody stupid! I know there’s nothing wrong with the ‘Go Live’, if that even exists. Not unless the business and IT company you work for is launching a new line of breweries,” Jaz fired down the line.

  He waited, expecting some kind of volatile exclamation to end the call like normal, but all that followed was pain-filled silence.

  “Jaz, I—”

  “Don’t bother … I’ll see you when you decide to remember you have a family who rely on you to at least pretend you’re interested in their existence.”

  Shit.

  “Don’t wake me!”

  He jumped when someone screamed in the background before the phone went dead. How the hell does she do it? The noise and the mess, the never-ending demands, arguments and punch-ups. Who knew four-year-old boys could be so bloody angry all the time? Jaz wanted to do courses, to learn how to parent better, but he didn’t see the value in adding any more stress to their lives.

  “It’s normal,” she’d say. “It’s just the testosterone pulsing through their little bodies; they don’t have the maturity to cope with it.”

  Hell, he’d respond silently. I’m a grown man, and I don’t have the maturity to cope with it.

  So he lies, and he drinks, leaving his wife to raise those animals on her own, and hates himself for the type of husband and father that makes him.

  The darkness and perversion of night had made its home around him. I should go home. He motioned to the bar staff and picked up his good old mate Jack D off the bar. Bottoms up!

  Stuart slid his key into the lock at 12am, pushed the door wide and stumbled into the dark hallway. Something crashed to the floor.

  A curse echoed through the silent house. He cupped his loud mouth and listened for signs of life. Hearing nothing, he traced the wall into the kitchen, sculled a glass of milk and chucked two aspirin down his throat before collapsing on the couch.

  When he woke the next morning, his head was throbbing.

  “What’s with all the banging?”

  “I’m playing the drums, Daddy,” Theo announced with pride. “I learnt a new song.”

  Stuart glanced at his son just before he let rip on the pots and pans right next to his ear. His outburst was instinctual –a matter of self-defence. It smashed through any filters he may or may not normally use when sober.

  “Stop that bloody racket!”

  Theo’s face quivered before he fled the room sobbing, his beloved musical tools abandoned at his feet. Behind him, his little sister, Lola, frowned at the stranger who used to be her daddy.

  Stuart watched the plastic trumpet slide from her fingers before she turned and ran out of sight. Micah, Theo’s twin, clenched his fists at his sides and shook before marching after his heartbroken siblings. Only then did Stuart brave a look at his wife. A rookie error.

  “I see you’re going for the Daddy-of-the-Year award again.” Her sarcasm was masterful.

  “Give me a break, Jaz. It was right by my ear.”

  Jaz clenched her teeth, inhaled a resolute breath and followed their children out of his disappointing presence without another word.

  Five minutes later, the front door slammed. Stuart watched his family car disappear down the street and dropped his head into his hands, ashamed of what he’d become.

  5

  “Do you love each other?” I asked. It’s a simple question; it always surprises me how much couples struggle with it.

  Stuart crossed his arms and refused to engage.

  Jasmine glanced at him before answering. “I don’t love who he’s become.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked, watching Stuart out of the corner of my eye.

  “Someone with an anger problem. He lashes out, he lies to me about where he is, blames everyone and everything else for … well everything. He’s never around, and when he is, he’s too busy, too hungover or too pissed off to engage in family life. It’s easier when he’s not there to disappoint me.”

  “Wow, Jaz. Don’t hold back!”

  “Why should I, Stuart? You don’t!” she spat back.

  I waited for Stuart to counter … his eyes darkened, but his lips remained firmly zipped – perhaps that was wise.

  “Maybe if I’d spoken my mind earlier, it wouldn’t have come to this.” Jasmine motioned towards Stuart's body as if all the blame lay squarely on him.

  Let’s get this party started. The corners of my mouth twitched but I managed to keep the joy in check. I thrive on this, the uglier the better. Not because I enjoy other people’s pain, but because I love seeing broken things made whole. I love the miracle of reconciliation when all seems lost. Especially now that I needed it to forget.

  “Stuart,” I said, drawing him in. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

  “I don’t see the point,” he replied.

  Jasmine shook her head.

  I studied her silence. I could see the fight moving underneath her skin. It was a fire behind her eyes and piercing arrows poised on her tongue, ready for battle. Was it bad that I enjoyed the sight of it? W
as it wrong that I wanted her to blow?

  I lowered my head towards her in quiet encouragement. “This is a safe place, Jasmine. If you have something to say, say it.”

  “I don’t know what his problem is. What the hell did I do to make him hate me so much?”

  And there it was, her fury dissolved into a flood of tears right before my eyes. I was mesmerised by the beauty of it.

  “I don’t hate you.” The sound of his whispered voice in the silent room drew my attention. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I mean, you didn’t do anything.”

  “What is it then? Please talk to me. I can’t live like this anymore.”

  Stuart turned towards his wife, his eyes softening with compassion. It wasn’t too late. It was there, buried beneath layers of neglect and hurt. He loved her, and he was right about one thing … this wasn’t about her.

  “I don’t know.”

  Jasmine threw her hands in the air and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Then she steeled herself, took deep breaths and allowed fury to take its place again. This was going to be one hell of a ride.

  “You never answered my initial question, Stuart,” I said.

  “I don’t remember what you asked.”

  “Do you love your wife?”

  Stuart slid his sweaty palms down his suit pants, glanced at Jasmine, then back at me. “Yes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  I nodded. I do. “Look, I know this kind of thing freaks people out. Talking about feelings and weaknesses makes men particularly uncomfortable. But I really believe this” – I motioned between them – “is worth saving. I don’t say that to all couples.”

  The room was quiet.

  “Would you do me a favour?” I asked, eyeing Stuart. “Place your hand palm up on your wife’s leg.”

  He hesitated before shaking his head. “She won’t let me touch her.”

  Don’t be a coward. I nodded encouragement and watched the battle rage, doubt and fear freezing him in place. Finally, he garnered enough courage to place his hand on Jasmine’s leg.

  She clamped her hands together in protest.

  “Well done. Now you …” I raised my eyes to Jasmine’s. “The man who you married has taken one step towards you. It’s your turn. Place your hand on his.”

  “What’s this going to prove?” she asked, causing Stuart to jerk his hand away.

  “Jasmine, I assume you made this appointment. Why?”

  “I needed something to change.”

  “And why did you choose me?” I asked.

  “My friend recommended you.”

  I nodded, then turned back to Stuart. “Put it back.”

  He rubbed his palms on his pants again, then laid down his pride.

  Good man. “If you want something to change, Jasmine, you have to try something different. It only takes one little step, and right now, that’s as simple as placing your hand on your husband’s.”

  She looked down, then raised her eyes to Stuart’s. When her hand touched his, a sharp current pulsed through me, like I’d just touched the charged metal bar on a trampoline. Wow.

  I watched as she laced her fingers through his, and he instinctively rubbed his thumb over her soft skin as if their bodies were remembering what they’d forgotten.

  “Physical touch is a powerful healer. Something you love is broken right now, but it’s salvageable. If this is what you both want.”

  They both nodded independently of each other.

  “This is your homework.”

  “Holding hands?” Stuart asked.

  I nodded. “Just this. Whatever happens during the day, every day at least once, I want you to sit for half an hour holding hands.”

  “Just holding hands – that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  When the session concluded, I lowered myself to the couch they were seated on and breathed in the hope of their reconciliation.

  6

  I’ve always been a runner. Dawn is my favourite time of the day. I love the silence. It’s just me and the music I create, the rhythmic pounding of feet on pavement, the profound inhaling and exhaling of breath, the dreams inside my head. It’s my time away from the noise, away from other people’s broken lives, from responsibilities, from expectation. It’s something I crave. My drug of choice.

  Something the beast hasn’t stolen from me – yet.

  I listened to the song of my limbs, my muscles, my expanding lungs, the rapid beating of my heart; I searched for signs that weakness had taken the place of strength, but there were none. How can a body that feels so alive be dying?

  The tests got mixed up. It’s all some sick joke.

  I’ll turn up today and they’ll slap me on the back, laugh and announce, “April Fool!”

  I’ll curse them for playing such a cruel joke, then walk out committing to live better, love harder and write a bucket list I’ll actually tick off.

  It’s not April.

  My body launched to a stop beside the lake without warning. I grasped the railing and inhaled desperate breaths.

  Why? Why? I wiped the sweat and tears from my cheeks with my sleeve and raised my face skyward as the first rays of sun caressed my skin. My senses were alerted to the perfection of nature as the cicadas sung their morning greeting.

  I wanted to sing back, but I had no song. They didn’t know.

  I focused inward, willing my heart to pump new life through my flesh, my organs, my bones. Willing it to undo what had been done – to repair what had been broken inside me.

  Was this the last time I’d be able to do this? To exert myself until my lungs and muscles were screaming for mercy? Would I still be able to surrender myself to the wonders of an orgasm or the taste of my favourite foods?

  Was this it?

  Not yet. Not today. I looked out over the lake and inhaled the sweet taste of morning as its crisp tendrils cooled my skin.

  Who are you now? I untied my sweater from my waist, slid it over my head and curled into the warmth of it.

  I am alive. I pushed off from the railing and flung myself to the ground hands first, then sprung up, legs straight and graceful. I finished the cartwheel with style worthy of an Olympic gymnast.

  Oh yes, you are!

  “Nice one.”

  I spun towards the voice to find a smoking-hot human of the male variety. I was looking for one of those.

  “Why, thank you. I was quite impressed myself.”

  “So you should be.” He dropped out of a stretch and reached for my hand. “I’m Harry.”

  “How very princely,” I said. Where does this stuff come from? My senses were on high alert as my hand was enveloped by his.

  Suddenly, I was Olivia Newton-John dressed in black leathers, and he was John Travolta. I wondered what he’d do if I started singing, “I’ve got chills, they’re multiplying …”

  I did it.

  He grinned, then joined me on the crazy train. “And I’m losing control … cause the power you’re supplying …”

  We threw our arms in the air and wriggled our spirit fingers. “It’s electrifying!”

  The space between us filled with laughter.

  “You’re my kind of guy,” I said without a filter. What would be the point now?

  He shook his head and studied me, blatantly amused.

  “You’re married, aren’t you?” I said. That would suck.

  He held up his naked wedding finger. “Nope, why would you think that?”

  “You’ve got an anger problem …”

  He shook his head.

  “Gay?” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  He took some time to check out my behind, then grinned. “That’s a firm no.”

  “Serial killer?”

  “Only with my jokes.”

  “You’re forty and live with your mother.”

  “She lives with me,” he said, suddenly serious.

  I paused. Mumm
a’s boy – no, thanks.

  He laughed. “Kidding … and I’m 41.”

  “Okay.” I motioned towards his nether regions. “It must be your package then.”

  “What’s wrong with my package?” The glint in his eye lit a spark.

  “You tell me,” I challenged, taking a good long look at his enticing attributes.

  “My package is in full”– he held his hands out wide –“working order.”

  I laughed. “Okay then – if you’re such a catch, why are you single?”

  “Who said I was single?”

  “You’re not?” I asked, ready to tell Prince Harry here that he was a sleaze.

  The hairs on my arms stood to attention when his irresistible masculine laugh sounded. He stepped back; his hands raised defensively. “I’m single and also a wee bit afraid.”

  I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head towards him. “Dangerous game you’re playing here, Prince. Dangerous game.”

  He leant against the walkway railing and studied my expression. “What’s your name, Sandy?”

  “Sandy works just fine.”

  “Haven’t we just run through the security check? I’m on the safe list.”

  “Safe wouldn’t be a word I’d associate with you.” I gave him a sideways glance. “But it’s Avery.”

  “Beautiful.” He turned his body towards me, and another song came to mind. You’re sexy and you know it. I decided to err on the side of not giving him any more ammo.

  He narrowed his eyes and jutted out his lips.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Do you always say everything you think?”

  “Only the juicy stuff,” I replied. And it’s true … well, has been since … I shook the thought out of my head, focusing on the now.

  He laughed again.

  “What?” He obviously didn’t verbalise his thoughts. “You should try it.”

  “Try what?”

  “Saying everything you think – it’s freeing.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Well?” I prompted, I wanted to hear what was making him smile.

  “I think your confidence is sexy.”

  7

  I found myself smiling at the memory, when I shouldn’t have been. I took a swig of water and leant in.