The Price of Inertia

by Lily Zante

  I decide to do the thing I’ve been putting off. Although my mom died in a hospice far, far away from here, memories of the once happy home of my childhood still gnaw at me. It’s time to go face it for one last time. Maybe that will help me put a lid on this part of my life so that I can move on. At least I now have a taste of new things to look forward to: Mari, finishing a book, having a movie release, a return home.

  I catch her by surprise at lunchtime when I tell her that I want to go. “Do you want me to come along?” she asks.

  “Only if you want.”

  “I don’t have that much cleaning to do.”

  That settles it. I give her the address and she agrees to drive me there but stepping out of the house together, just the two of us outside of our roles, it feels strange. Is our relationship tied to the confines of the house and, more specifically, the bed, or can I dare to envision something more with this woman?

  As she drives, Mari is quiet, as if she too can sense the awkwardness, because she’s normally a chatty person.

  When we get there, I climb out of the car and stare up at the dilapidated building. It looks so much smaller from how I remember it. The paint is chipped and the door is a different color. The grass is straw-like and a pale, patchy shade of green. I remember how my mom used to take pride in this little patch of green. How she would water it and tend to it, and how I would help her, carrying my plastic yellow watering can while she turned on the sprinkler.

  Mari slips her hand into mine, but I slip mine back out and fold my arms. This used to be a happy home and all it took was one man to change the course of my life. “Do you want to go inside?” Mari asks.

  I shake my head. One look at this shithole, that’s all I wanted.

  “But we’ve come all this way.”

  “This is enough,” I tell her. But just then the door opens and a guy walks out with his hands in his pockets, his eyes narrowed. With us staring at the house, it immediately looks suspicious. “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “He used to live here when he was a boy,” Mari pipes up.

  The guy looks at me as if he doesn’t trust me.

  “We were just taking a walk down memory lane,” she adds. Mari and her big mouth. That woman doesn’t think. I turn around and head back towards her car.

  “What do they want?” I hear someone say.

  I turn around and see that a woman has also come out. “Come on,” I hiss to Mari, not sure why she’s engaging in a conversation with these strangers. But she waves me over. I refuse to go at first, but then my curiosity takes over and I walk back.

  “You lived here?” the girl asks me. I give Mari a death stare.

  “He did when he was a child,” Mari answers for me. “It would be great if he could take a quick look inside.”

  Hell, no. I am not going inside. I start to walk away again, but she runs up behind me. “They said you could go in.”

  “I don’t want to go in.”

  “But they said you could.”

  “I don’t want to,” I insist.

  “Ward. We’re here. They said you could go in and have a look around. They don’t mind.”

  Hell, no.

  “Come on.” She takes my arm, and I begrudgingly head back towards the house with her.

  “What did you say to them?” I growl.

  “You weren’t going to ask so I did.” She looks at me with apprehension. “You might not get another chance, Ward. They seem nice people. They said you could have a quick look. Quick, though, because they were on their way out.”

  I glance back at them. The girl is smiling although the guy still looks at me with trepidation. I don’t want to do this. After he died, I went back, hoping to reclaim the life me and my mom used to have. But she wasn’t so happy to have me back. She always blamed me for him dying. Said I punched him so hard it broke him. It broke me. I only lasted a year. Couldn’t listen to her pining for the piece of shit who had made my life a misery. Couldn’t reconcile this stranger of a woman with the mother I used to have. In the end, I left this hellhole not because of my stepdad but because of my mom.

  Mari takes my hand again and this time I don’t push it away. The couple watches us warily. Mari turns to them. “Do you want to show us around quickly?”

  “Nah, you’re good to go. There’s nothing much of value for you to steal.”

  The girl pokes the guy in the ribs. He has his phone out and is looking at it, as if he’s reading something.

  “You can go in,” the girl urges.

  I let go of Mari’s hand and walk through the tiny living room. I see the miniscule-sized kitchen just off the side. It all looks so much smaller now that I am standing here as a grown man, instead of the six- or seven-year-old I was when we first moved here.

  I see my mom on the couch, and my stepdad standing over me. I relive the taunts and shouts. I smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke. My heart begins to pound.

  I don’t want to be here.

  “Is it okay to go into the attic?” Mari asks.

  “You want to go into the attic?” the guy echoes. “It’s a mess.”

  “Let them,” the girl insists. “But be careful. The stairs are—”

  “Narrow,” I say. They were always narrow. One time my stepdad scared me so badly that I fell down the stairs as I left the room. I twisted my ankle and couldn’t walk for days.

  We follow the girl upstairs. She waits on the landing and I look at the two tiny bedrooms. Both doors are open. Both rooms are a mess. The room that used to be mine is filled with clothes and boxes. I take a closer look and peek my head inside. Nothing of me remains here. It doesn’t look like a room as much as a storage space. The wallpaper is different, as it should be, seeing that I left more than two decades ago. My mom got me a wallpaper that was blue with astronaut figures and planets. Now it’s been replaced by paint that is stained and peeling.

  Mari’s hand brushes against mine again, and once again I move my hand away but she manages to grasp one of my fingers. She’s trying to be supportive, but I find it too much. All of this is too much. I am drowning in an overwhelm of unwanted memories; suffocating in a sea of ugly emotions that should have been laid to rest a long time ago.

  “I can show you the attic real quick,” the girl says, suddenly becoming very helpful.

  “Lead the way,” Mari tells her.

  “There’s a lot of junk up there,” she says, waiting by the stairs. “You go ahead. I’ll be downstairs.”

  I start to head up the stairs and hear Mari say that we’ll be quick. I open the attic door, and the dusty, musty, cloying smell of years of old dust and stale air hits my nostrils. Reaching out, I hit the light switch. It’s still in the same place. I peer closer to examine it and discover that it’s the exact same light switch. At least, I think it is.

  I walk inside. The room is littered with boxes, bags and heaps of junk. My heart begins to thump again, just like it used to when I was a frightened boy, huddled together in the dark. I stare at the lightbulb. There’s a bulb in it. Not like those scary nights when my stepdad would take the bulb out, leaving me in pitch darkness.

  Mari stands in the doorway, watching me. There is genuine concern in her eyes. I should be touched, I should let her comfort me, but I can’t. It’s not easy to allow someone to do that for me when my own mother couldn’t. I react to Mari in the only way I know how—to keep her out.

  In the corner is the same old mirror. Dark blue plastic edging that is covered in thick dust, and the mirror itself almost opaque. I walk around slowly, my fingers touching the walls and lighting up my synapses, making the fear come flooding back. The stale stench returns too. I used to sit here, huddled and hugging my knees with my head down and sobbing, wishing that my mom would hear me. But after that first time, I knew it was no good.

  She never came to my rescue.

  Worse, she never tried to stop that man from dragging me up there. It was as if she gave up on me. I bend down and there, in faded writing, but
still legible, are my initials, WM, and a long list of dates. These are the dates of my incarceration. Seeing them like this, in print before my very eyes, brings tears to my eyes.

  Nothing much has changed in here. The air and ambiance of this room is the same. Details are vivid in my mind, so vivid that when I wrote my first book, it was easy to relive every wretched moment, to remember every minute detail.

  Warm hands go around my waist from behind. “We should go,” Mari whispers. Her face presses against my back. “They have somewhere they need to be.”

  “Yeah.” I sniff and clear my throat. “We should.”

  I’m the first one out of the house. I need to walk away and take a deep breath but I can’t get away fast enough.

  “I thanked them.” Mari comes over to me.

  “I … I couldn’t …. I had to get out.”

  She does it again, taking my arm, hooking hers through mine. “I know. I understand.” She faces me, her hands taking hold of mine. “That can’t have been easy.”

  I swallow and stare at a point above her head.

  She leans forward and kisses my chest. “I’m sorry I asked them. I thought it might help.” She looks up at me. I had a feeling she’d said something to them. No one in their right mind would let a pair of strangers come into their home.

  “I told them who you were,” she says, wincing. “I’m sorry. I thought it was important for you to see it.”

  I nod. That’s why they let us in. That’s why the guy was probably on his phone, looking up who I was.

  “Did I mess up?” she asks. It’s hard to miss the neediness in her voice.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Maybe Rob knew better. I had to see it. But you pushed me to do it.”

  “I’m glad I did.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. This time I take her hand and am rewarded with a smile.

  “When were you last here?” she asks as we get into the car.

  “I came back at sixteen, after he died, when it was safe to.”

  “Came back from where?”

  “From the children’s home.”

  “You went to a children’s home?”

  I brace myself. “For a while.”

  “How long?”

  “A few months.”

  “Why?”

  I inhale a long breath. I can’t talk about it.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, understanding.

  “I was only there for a few months when the fucker died.” I remember hearing the news at the home. I remember being so happy that I thought my heart might burst.

  “Oh,” Mari gasps. “You’ve had such a traumatic childhood.”

  “But that bastard dying was the best thing.”

  “Do you want to go by and see the children’s home?” she asks. “I can take you.”

  “It’s closed down.”

  “We could walk by, if it might help.”

  “Help with what?” I snap. We face one another.

  “I don’t know. I was only trying to help.”

  She is trying to help. She always wants to help. She’s not the bad person in all this. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snap at you.”

  She takes my hand again. “It’s okay.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “There’s so much I don’t know about you, Ward,” she says as we drive away.

  “It’s better that way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  MARI

  * * *

  He’s quiet all through the journey home. There are moments when he lets me in, and some moments when he shuts me out. I have no clue as to what I am to him; just a comfort in bed, or something more. It’s disconcerting, given the fact that I have always tried to be there for him, even though he hasn’t done the same for me.

  He goes into his writing cave when we get home. I sense he is going through some pain and I want to make things right again. I want to make him not hurt but I can’t help him if he won’t let me.

  Ward isn’t one to let me in on his thoughts and it’s a wonder he ever told me about his stepdad in the first place.

  I decide to leave him alone and fix dinner. I baked bread this morning. Not just any bread, rosemary focaccia, because he casually mentioned a few days ago that he liked it. He said it was the one last good memory he had from his childhood.

  Baking bread is so far from who I am and I barely recognize this new domestic goddess I have become—taking care of Ward, being supportive, being there for him so that he can do his work. This is everything I railed against—being a homemaker and putting my own goals aside for someone else—and yet there is something healing in our current setup. I remind myself that I am going through a journey, as is he. We’re just two people taking advantage of a unique situation.

  It won’t last forever. Soon enough I will get back out there into the world and become a working, independent woman.

  I’ve made homemade vegetable soup to go with it. Just as I finish heating it up, Ward pops into the kitchen. He announces that he is eating in the study, and mumbles something about being behind on his writing.

  He’s either lying or he doesn’t want me to be with him tonight, because I’m certain he told me earlier that he was on target. I understand his need to be alone, so I plate up his food and hand it to him. He thanks me for making the bread, takes his food and hastily leaves.

  He has hurt me again. I thought I was helping him, I thought we were getting closer but I’m deluding myself as always.

  I crave connection, that of the emotional kind, not so much the physical. The sex is great, but something is missing. Being stuck in here without having other people to bounce things off of is hard. I miss the water cooler conversations at work. I long for friends to catch up with during my lunchtime and coffee breaks.

  What Ward and I have is intense. Bottled up like concentrated perfume; overpowering, cloying and almost suffocating. The type of stuff that renders a person unable to breathe.

  This house harbors us. It closets and cloaks all of our needs and desires, keeps the secrets of the way he uses me, and the way I let him. We’re not normal people in a normal relationship. We don’t go out to dinner or hang around outside like normal people. We don’t go for walks, or go to the park, or go out with friends.

  I try not to have illusions of what this is, but being here alone and with not much else going on with me, Ward provides me with something that is lacking from my life. I’m scared of what will happen when time runs out for us.

  Today was the first time we were out together. I was hoping to do something that might get him unstuck and help him to move on but when he hides so much of himself away from me, what chance do I have?

  He’s hurting.

  Visiting a place like that will have an effect. I bring my laptop downstairs and wait for him in the kitchen in case he feels like talking. I look for new jobs online and update my resume. I even consider calling Danny again about that job he told me about. Then I hear a noise and I stare at the door, wondering if it’s Ward leaving the study and coming to find me.

  It’s not. Ward isn’t coming. I wish he would talk to me. It doesn’t always have to be about sex. I wait for him until just after midnight, and then I go upstairs to bed.

  I curl up in bed and just as I find my eyes getting heavy, the door opens. My eyes fly open. A lamp flickers on and Ward stares down at me, looking rougher than ever. I sit up. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t sleep. Can I sleep here?”

  My heart takes a leap so big, I’m scared it might jump out of my chest. This is a break from the usual. I move over and pat down the place where I had been sleeping, the bedsheets are warm and slightly ruffled. He climbs in beside me. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Because I’m not. I’m ecstatic. He lies on his back, his hands clasped behind his head and those sexy, bulging muscles peeking out from the sleeves of his t-shirt. I lift up onto my elbow, loving my new view, loving that he has willingly come to me. Longin
g swirls in my heart, and my belly begins to quiver. Could I be any luckier? Feel any happier?

  After today’s visit to his childhood home, I don’t expect him to have hit his daily word count but my heart is soft, and I want to smother him with every ounce of love I feel for him. I’ll reward him anyway, only this won’t be a reward. This will be me taking care of him. I’ll do anything to take his mind off those dark times he has suffered.

  I move towards him and stroke the sharp pointy strands of his five o’clock shadow. Slowly, slowly, slowly, my hand slides lower but he shifts, moving his arm, and taking a hold of mine. He stops me. “Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.”

  I put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh.” Of all the things he could have said and done, it’s this that fills my heart to overflowing. He came to me. He wants to be with me, and not just for the sex. He needs me.

  I want to bury my face in his chest and put my arm over him. I want to nestle against his warm skin. I want to touch his body, but neither I nor he will be able to hold back if that happens. I need to stay away and put a few cold inches between us. So, I lie on my side with my hands reluctantly away from him, and I stare at his side profile, admiring his biceps as if I’ve seen them for the first time all over again. After a while I switch the lamp off.

  I must have drifted off to a good sleep, because when I next awaken, I feel groggy. I’m a light sleeper and I stir and instinctively open my eyes when Ward shifts.

  It must be early in the morning because in the blue light of a new day, I find myself staring at his back. He’s sitting on the edge. I reach out to touch him but he gets up. I wait to hear the door open and then close. He’s starting to mean so much to me, and I hate that he feels the need to leave. I’m scared that he doesn’t feel the same way. I am left alone once more and I check the time. It’s 5:00 a.m. He’s done it again. This man can’t settle. He can’t be. It’s his restlessness which takes him away.