by Leanna Ellis
The lights flicker, brighten, then extinguish themselves. From the kitchen Mother hollers up at Cal Henry. A moment later the lights return.
Despite the distractions Estelle’s focus is on me, her gaze steady. She places a hand on my arm. “Is something wrong?”
I know she’s not referring to the lights. My smile feels forced, as forced as the electricity that provides counterfeit light. “No, not at all.”
“I shouldn’t have talked so much about husbands and fathers. I’m sorry. And you’re grieving the loss of your own. Please forgive me.” Her eyes are wide, the brown deep and earnest.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
25
It’s not until after we sit in front of the television watching Super Nanny, Mother’s favorite show, that I decide to turn in. I’m exhausted, weighted down with stress and anxiety. Mother agrees and goes to her own room, saying she’s going to work on the eulogy for Daddy. I don’t offer to help. She is on her own now. With a brief brush of my hand against Oliver’s thick but short hair, I whisper good night as he switches the channel to ESPN. Mike follows me to the guest room.
In silence we turn toward our own suitcases set up in opposite corners of the room. There’s an awkwardness between us that is my fault. I wait until he goes down the hall to brush his teeth, then I slip off my clothes and pull on my nightgown and robe.
I wonder how will we survive this latest crisis. How can I step over that invisible line and believe him? He’s never given me any reason to doubt before now. He’s always been faithful. Steady and solid. I know my doubt protrudes from my own sins, my own failings. Should I confess, prove to him there is no reason for him to trust me?
Confused, my life feeling like a world-class roller coaster, I sit on the edge of the bed. I know I have a choice to make. I can focus on my own sin, which makes me doubt Mike. Or I can choose to trust him.
When Mike returns, he folds his clothes on top of his suitcase. Without a word we move through our routine. It’s a dance of sorts, each of us anticipating, aware of the other’s movements. Yet not touching.
I take my turn in the bathroom, lingering longer than necessary, studying my face in the mirror as I apply moisturizer. Dark shadows have formed circles under my eyes. This week has added years to my face.
I decide to run a quick bath, hoping it will help me relax. As the water pours into the tub, I secure my hair on top of my head. At first the water is too hot, but as it cools and my skin adjusts, I lean back against an air pillow Mother keeps under the sink. I close my eyes, try to let my mind go blank, but instead up pops an image of Josie running her hand along Mike’s shoulders in a flirtatious way.
My eyes open. I sink farther down into the water without getting my hair wet. I want to hide. Could I be as devious as Mother? Do I have that potential? Could I concoct an elaborate plan to save my dignity, my pride? Could I be angry enough to kill my own husband, figuratively as Mother has done?
I know what it feels like to be abandoned, to be left, lost and alone. Sympathy wells up inside me. I hurt for my mother. To be rejected by the man you love is painful beyond measure. Did she suspect before Daddy told her? Did she have doubts? Were there signs? There were signs in my own marriage. I pushed him away. I wasn’t surprised when he retaliated with angry words and left. But was Mother blindsided?
My mother doesn’t usually elicit sympathy. She’s not the victim type. She’s strong, demanding, forceful, irritating. Yet she’s a woman. And somewhere, deep below the flawless facade she’s created, beats a woman’s heart. She gave herself, the best way she knew how, to her husband for more than forty years. She cleaned up after him, washed his clothes, cooked for him, laid in his bed at night, gave him a child. Loved him. Her love wasn’t perfect, but then whose is? It was all she had, all she knew.
I wrap my arms around my bent knees, lay my cheek on top. I consider my own marriage, my own inadequacies as a wife and mother. Yet I’ve loved Mike. I’ve supported him. I’ve done so many things for him, for our family. Withholding truth has been a part of that protection. But the cost keeps adding up. Tears leak out of my eyes and run into the water. Because I failed him. Betrayed him. And it was a mistake. In reaching out for comfort and security from Drew, I put everything at risk.
I fear what might happen if Mike finds out. I never want him to feel the way I’m feeling now, betrayed, bereaved, bludgeoned by doubts. All we’ve worked for—our family, our home, our marriage—could so easily be destroyed. Because of my own foolishness.
* * *
THE ROOM IS dark when I climb into bed. I can see the bump of Mike’s shoulder. I consider reaching out, touching him, trying to bridge this space between us. But I don’t know what to say. I long for the comfort of his arms, yet those same arms make me ask too many questions, while at the same time withholding information from him. I turn away, pull the covers up, and lay on my side. I hear his steady breathing and assume he’s asleep. But then a hand touches my shoulder.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was waiting for you.” His voice is deep and rumbling.
Guilt once more churns inside me. His thumb begins to knead the tight muscles along my neck. A part of me needs him, needs this, and wants to lean into him. Yet another part of me is afraid to need him too much for fear I could lose him if he were to learn the truth.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“You’re tense.”
Of course. Now he uses two hands. His fingers knead and press along my tight muscles. In the quiet of our room, we’re alone together for the first time all day. “How was Dad?”
“Tired of being dead. Open to any ideas.”
“What if Mother won’t change, won’t bend?”
“Then we might have to accept the idea that they’ll get divorced.”
“No.” My tone is harsh, desperate.
“Suzanne, you’ve got to accept it’s a real possibility. You’re not five. You’ll be okay. They’ll be okay. Maybe better.”
“How can you say that?”
“Look, I love your folks. But they’re not happy. I’m not the one to say what they should or shouldn’t do. It’s their decision. Their lives. Right?”
I sigh, roll onto my back with a huff. Mike is silent for a long time, but I can feel his gaze as firmly as his caress.
“Are you still angry because of those rumors?”
“No. Not really. I—”
“You’re not going to get a wild hair and go off the deep end like your mother, are you? Should I hide any guns or knives?”
“Mother killed Daddy with her tongue.”
“It’s sharper than a two-edged sword. But she also used the pen.”
“The obituary,” I whisper. “It’s mightier than the sword.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Of course I wouldn’t pull a stunt like Mother.” But my ability to react like my mother is unsettling to me. She would think the worst. She would run off and leave Daddy stranded in the middle of nowhere, just as I did to Mike. “I’m sorry,” I say, “for all of this. For running off this afternoon. For doubting, fearing—”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
He wraps his arms around me, and I hold onto him like I’m clinging to the edge of a cliff. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” But belief in Mike only points out the disbelief in myself.
* * *
I’M UP EARLY. I’m not sure I slept much. Long before the alarm ever thinks of buzzing, I creep out of bed, tug on a pair of shorts and top, slip on sandals, and sneak out the back door. Outside it’s cooler than I imagined and chill bumps cover my bare skin. Dark as how I feel inside, it’s not quite night and not quite day yet. A thick fog hovers over the ground, thickening around the trunks of the peach trees.
It only takes me ten minutes to reach my destination. Josie’s house is more of a cottage, small and da
inty, with peach trim and a front door of etched glass in a large oval shape. Spotting her car in the port alongside the house, I climb the steps and hope she doesn’t have company. At least I know it’s not Oliver, who was sleeping on the couch when I left. Or Mike, who was snoring in bed. Before I can rethink the decision I made sometime between the hours of two and three, I ring the bell, then ring it again when no one answers.
Finally, a faint glow of light appears, and a fuzzy shape approaches the front door. The bulb above my shoulder splashes the porch in light and makes me squint.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Suzanne.”
The bolt clicks and the door opens. Josie is wearing flannel PJs with snow bunnies all over them. Her hair is wilder than usual, pressed flat on one side of her head. Remnants of mascara and liner circle her eyes. “Come on in.”
“I’m sorry it’s so early.”
She turns her back on me, wanders down a hallway and waves for me to follow. “You want coffee?”
“No, that’s okay.” She doesn’t seem to mind the early morning hour or the unexpected company. Maybe she’s used to visitors at all hours. Maybe she’s simply more laid back than I am.
She pulls open the fridge, offers me one of those energy drinks, but I shake my head. She pops the tab and takes a long pull. “For when you don’t have time to percolate.”
I smile, then remember why I’m here. “Look, Josie, I’m sorry to disturb you but—”
“I know what this is about. I expected it.”
“You expected me to come?”
“Sure. What wife wouldn’t?”
I blink. Scuffing her bare feet across the wood floor, she settles at the kitchen table. It’s a white wicker table with a glass top and dainty chairs that remind me of an ice cream parlor.
“So you …” I’m at a loss for words. All the things I thought about saying collide like a ten-car pileup in my brain. “You and … well, Mike …”
“Sit down, Suz. Take a load off.”
I remain standing. “This won’t take long. Are you after my husband? Or is it my son?”
Her laughter rankles me. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Why? I know you. You’ve told me you date men who are married, men who are old enough to be your father and young enough to be your son. So is it my dad? My husband? My son?” I realize then all three are contenders and none would please me. I feel my fists clenching.
“Oh, Suzanne, sit down. I’m not after anyone.” She slurps down more of her energy drink. Already she seems wide awake. “But I can see you don’t believe me. You know, Suz, maybe you should pay less attention to your paranoia and more attention to how you’ve become just like your mother.”
Her words slap me. My face feels like it’s on fire. “How can you say that to me?”
“Because it’s the truth. You are just as controlling as she is.”
“How? What am I doing? Trying to keep my marriage together? Trying to protect my son?”
“You’re trying to get your parents back together. Most people would just accept that their folks were divorcing. But not you.”
“What’s wrong with that? Oh, yes, I remember. You don’t believe in marriage anymore. But some of us do.” I flatten my hand against my chest. “Why shouldn’t I want my parents to stay married?”
“Because it’s not really about them, is it?” She leans back, props one foot on the other knee. “Isn’t it more that you don’t want your life to be changed? Or disrupted.”
“That’s not true. I want them to be happy.”
“And were they? Really? You can stand there and tell me your father was a happy man for the last forty years?”
My thoughts scatter like a flock of birds startled, wings flapping, beaks squawking. Bits of arguments surface and are overtaken by more. By truth.
“That’s what I thought.” Her hand cups the energy drink, turning it around and around. “Your father hasn’t been happy. And now he has a chance for happiness.”
I shake my head. “But divorce is wrong.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s correcting a mistake that he made forty years ago. Maybe there’s no fixing some relationships. Would you tell a woman married to a man who beats her that she has to stay, has to take it?”
“No. But—”
“What about a woman married to an alcoholic? Should she stay? What if the man doesn’t want to change? What if a man is married to a woman who cheats on him?”
That barb is a little too close for comfort.
“And she doesn’t want to change. Or she can’t help herself.”
I swallow hard.
“So where is that fuzzy line that determines what’s right and wrong? Your father has kowtowed to your mother for forty years. What if he couldn’t take it anymore? What if he just said, ‘Enough’? Is that wrong? What if he’s tried to get your mom to loosen up but she resists? I don’t know the answers here. But I can’t point my finger and say that’s wrong. Can you? Isn’t that between him and God? And if it is wrong, is it the worst sin imaginable? I don’t think so. So, tell me, is it that you’re really so devastated that your parents aren’t together? Or is it that you don’t want things to change? Don’t you just want everything to go back to normal so you can go home, go back to your own life?”
Her words cut me deep. I want to argue, but the arguments die on my tongue. “Am I that selfish?”
“No,” her voice is tender, “I didn’t say selfish. I think it’s fear.”
My eyes ache with the pressure of hot tears.
“And it’s fear that keeps your mother controlling and manipulating. I’m not saying she’s the worst woman in the world. She has a caring heart when she allows anyone to see it. But she’s so scared, so fearful of what, I don’t know. Why do you think she’s doing this whole bury-the-husband thing? She’s scared. Scared to be abandoned. Scared of not being loved. Scared of being alone.”
Her words resonate deep inside me. It’s fear. Fear of my own. Fear that has turned me into my own mother.
* * *
MOTHER IS AWAKE when I return home. She’s already in the kitchen when I walk in the back door. She looks startled, surprised to see me. “Where have you been?”
“Is Mike still asleep?”
“Far as I know. But then I thought you were too.”
“Oliver?”
“On the couch. What’s wrong?” Mother’s hand pauses as she is sharpening a paring knife. A bowl of fresh-picked peaches sits on the counter. “Is everything okay with you and Mike?”
I contemplate making a U-turn. I’m not ready for any more confrontations this morning.
“You’re not getting a divorce, are you?”
I open the fridge and search behind leftovers for the cream. “No, Mother. We’re fine.”
Fine. At least I hope so. Once I left Josie’s, I realized she never answered my question about whether she was after my husband, father, or son. She changed the subject.
“I thought you drank your coffee black.” Mother watches me pour cream into my mug of coffee.
“I forgot.” I put the cream back in the refrigerator and slurp coffee, obviously needing it more than I thought. The coffee is hot and perfect.
“If everything is fine, then why aren’t you having sex?”
I almost spew out a mouthful of coffee. I choke down a swallow. “What?” I sputter. “Mother!”
“You’ve been here how many nights now and nothing—”
“Who are you? Mrs. Hoover? One day you’re telling me my husband is cheating on me with my high school friend. And the next day—”
“These walls are very thin, Suzanne. Your father was cheap when he built this house. About those rumors … well, you should just be careful. Not give Mike such a free rein. And keep your eye on Josie. I’m not saying anything has happened there, but you can’t be too careful. As a wife, you have to take precautions against these things.”
“And having sex with my husband will do that?
”
“Well, that’s often where the troubles start.” She begins peeling the skin off a peach, her knife precise, the peach skin curling and falling into the sink.
I blink, sip more coffee, feel my synapses spring to life, but I want to crawl back in bed and pull the pillow over my head. “What are you talking about?”
“For us, well, when your father and I stopped having sex …”
The nearest chair catches me as I fold into it, my legs feeling suddenly weak. There’s not enough coffee in the world, not even French-pressed, to prepare me for this conversation. “Uh, Mother—”
“Don’t look at me that way. It wasn’t my fault. I was willing. I even missed it. But your father … well, he started having headaches, or he was stressed about work, or …”
Tired from being bullied. But I never utter the harsh words. I just stare at Mother. I know the toll it takes on her to make such a personal confession. A flash of white outside the window catches my eye. I glance out the window and see Cal Henry’s Cadillac pulling up the drive.
“Your boyfriend is here.”
Mother follows my gaze. Her lips tighten. She quickly finishes slicing the peach, letting the slices slide into a serving bowl, then rinses her hands under the faucet.
“What are you going to do about him?”
She wipes her hands on a towel. “I don’t know yet.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of marrying him, are you?” At her blank expression, I protest, “Mother! You’re married.”
“Oh, pish-posh.” She waves her hand as if dismissing my arguments. “Anyway, it’s neither here nor there now. Doesn’t matter anymore. What concerns me is you and Mike.”
An exasperated sigh escapes me. “We’re fine. We’ve been here three nights, Mother. The conditions here are not the most romantic.”
“I’m simply saying a virile man like Mike might not be looking, but if his needs aren’t met, then when some floozy like Josie comes along he’s ripe for the picking.” Mother cups a peach in the palm of her hand and smells it. She then begins to peel the skin off it.
I already have a truckload of my own guilt, but now, thanks to my mother, I can add a few more shovelfuls onto that. So if Mike is fooling around with Josie—and I’m not saying I believe that—then part of the guilt is mine. This is the gospel according to my mother. Which then demands the question in reverse: Does Mike carry part of the blame for my sin? After all, he was the one who walked out, leaving me vulnerable and scared. I didn’t know if he would ever come back or not. I’ve never contemplated this possibility. Quite frankly it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I refuse to blame Mike for my own mistakes.
