If I Break

by Portia Moore

  “That’s Cal’s daughter! Not Chris, there’s a difference!” he yells at her. Her smile fades, and she scowls at him and takes the picture and puts it close to his face.

  “Whose eyes are these? Whose smile is this?” she asks. “It’s Chris’s. I see my grandchild, William!” she yells at him.

  “I can’t believe this!” he roars.

  “Someone should have told me!” I screech , tired of being ignored. “Secrets aren’t okay when you’re the one on the other end?” I ask bitterly, and they look down guilt on their faces.

  “No one bothered to tell me that the man I fell in love with, the man I married and have a child with has a personality disorder? I guess once he came back home, you all were a happy family again, never mind the family he left back in Chicago. It would be too much of an inconvenience to inform me of what was going on! Caylen and I were too much of a liability to your perfect little life!” I shout, feeling my entire body shaking.

  “We had no idea that you were having a child. Dexter never told us that you were pregnant!” Mrs. Scott tries to explain.

  “And if I wasn’t? You were just going to let me sulk in the dark, having no clue about him. That what’s in the past is just forgotten, huh? You may not think of Cal as a real person, but he’s real to me and at the very least I’m real! I’m flesh and bones, and I have feelings. I fell in love with him, a man, not a figment of my imagination or this monster that you claim him to be. When he left me, it hurt more than anything. I cried every night. Every part of me ached. You love your son! I love my husband! Each moment you were happy with him, I was alone, wondering where my husband was! I had no idea if he was hurt, or if he was even alive, but you had the comfort of knowing your son was safe each time he disappeared!” I say feeling the tears well up from years of being held back inside of me.

  “So now that you know that I have a child with Cal, or Chris, or whatever he wants to call himself, what now? Am I just supposed ” Mr. Scott just looks as if he sees through me.

  “W-we… of course not. We’re going to tell him; he has a beautiful little girl,” she says, looking at the picture. Mr. Scott frowns at her and me.

  “I’m going to call Dexter about this,” he growls and leaves the room.

  “I am so sorry, Lauren” Mrs. Scott says tears continuing to fall from her eyes. “We had no idea. I know we were wrong for not telling you. But if we knew you had a child, we would have told Chris. I am so sorry,” her voice gives in and she then takes time to compose herself.

  I look at her and almost want to hug her. She seems genuinely sorry, and her presence is so warm. I can’t help but think in a different situation, she would have been a wonderful mother-in-law. I put my purse back on my shoulder and take a deep breath. It’s been more than a long day. I walk over to her and reach my hand out for my phone.

  “Do you… do you mind, could you send me one of these?” she asks, reluctantly handing me back my phone. I go into my purse and pull out the one wallet size picture I have which is of both Caylen and I and write my number on the back of it.

  “Her name is Caylen, this is my number.” I turn and head towards the door.

  She follows behind me to see me out. “Where… where are you staying?” Mrs. Scott asks with a sniff, trying to recover from what just happened as much as I am.

  “I don’t know yet; it’ll be somewhere close,” I tell her, opening the door. She looks behind her, and looks as if she wants to say something, but doesn’t.

  “Ritter Inn is a really nice place, not too far away, affordable, good people work there,” she says with a forced smile.

  “I’m still not sure if I believe all of what you’ve told me,” I say bluntly. “I mean, no one has been exactly honest with me up until this point.” She opens her mouth to say something, but I stop her.

  “I know you did what you did to protect your son, because you love him. Just so you understand that I love my daughter, and she’s not going to grow up without a father. If it was just me, I’d walk away from this. After all, Cal kept me in the dark just as much as everyone else,” I stop not wanting to shed anymore tears, “But she deserves a father, whether it is Cal, or Chris, or if he decides to call himself Bob. One of them had a part in making her,” I try to soften my tone.

  “Tell your husband I am not going to disappear. You have three days to tell him whatever you haven’t, because when I see him I’m telling him everything. But, I think he’d prefer to hear it from you rather than me. I think we’ll have enough to talk about without me having to tell him everything you won’t,” I say frankly. She nods her, eyes wide. I exit the house and hurry down the front porch.

  When I reach my car I look back and see that she’s still watching me. I get in and quickly pull off. So much of what they said could be true… but is all of it honest? I’ll have to judge for myself. Honesty is something that the meaning of is starting to seem blurry.

  April 1st 2011

  It’s been three days since Cal got back from his last trip. Working. It’s funny—well, not really--that his out of town trips have become more frequent and not only that, impromptu. Apparently, they can happen in the middle of the night— with little notice as I’ve come to learn. Waking up in the morning and not finding my husband next to me. It isn’t too bad. I try to think of it as ‘exciting’ not knowing when he’ll be home or not kind of like a game. There’s nothing strange or disrespectful about it at all---according to Cal.

  I think back three months to our first fight we had about his lack of communication. How then it was out of character compared to the two trips he took before we were married and the one right after. Well, as it turns out him communicating with me like a normal person. That was actually out of character for him.

  The only thing he’s retained from that littler verbal spat is to send text messages. Oh how lucky I am to get those. Usually two words; if I’m lucky, three. ‘Made it.’ ‘Be home soon.’ ‘Don’t be mad.’ He probably has them auto-typed. I’ve decided after this last business trip that I’m done pleading with him to act like a decent human being, to respect me and not cut me off. Now I’m just tired. I’m tired of trying to compromise. I’m done asking. I'm coming close to being done with him and this marriage.

  He can say all he wants--that it’s his job or whatever the hell he thinks I’m stupid enough to believe but I’m sick of it. He thinks this is fun for me being here, waiting around until whenever he decides to show up. Whenever I see that overnight bag appear I feel myself slipping into a rage. There is something more than work going on. It has to be.

  We haven’t been on speaking terms for the past two days. He came home from this last ‘business’ trip after being gone six days leaving with less than an hour's notice, the very night he promised to go with me back to Saginaw to visit Raven. I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to him since he’s been home. He doesn’t want to talk about what I want to talk about--things like who the hell he's with when he’s gone. I know he probably has a mistress somewhere, maybe one in every freaking state. He laughed when I told him that. It was apparently hilarious based on his reaction. When I told him his job title should be “Dexter's Bitch” he didn’t find that as funny. And now he’s not talking to me, either.

  The screwed-up part about all of this, though, is that even with me being so mad at him, so furious I just want to hit him, I miss him. I miss him so much that it makes my stomach turn. I miss him --despite us sleeping in the same bed. He hasn’t tried to touch me since the first night I pushed him away and told him to keep his hands off me. Still, my body craves his touch. I want to lie on his chest and feel his fingers tracing his name on my back. I’m furious that he’s making me feel like this, that he’s doing this to us. He thinks I’m overreacting, I think he is under reacting to the affect this is having on us.

  Today, I’ve been in the gym for the past two hours beating the track with my sneakers instead of destroying things in my house. I don’t know what’s happening to me but I'm beco
ming someone I don’t want to be; a mean vindictive shrew.

  I take deep breaths as I walk into our bedroom and see him shuffling through his drawer his luggage case near his feet. My stomach tightens and I can feel my pulse beating in my head. He’s leaving, and he just got back three days ago.

  “I’m going to Seattle tomorrow. In case you give a fuck,” he says sardonically. He has to feel my gaze burning into his back.

  I turn down the music and snatch the buds out of my ears.

  “What?” I say angrily even though we both know I heard him plain and clear.

  “You heard what I said,” he says shortly. I laugh angrily.

  “Of course you are. Thanks for the heads-up on the location but, FYI, I’m starting to not give a fuck,” I say venomously. I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth but they came out so effortlessly.

  He stops shuffling through his drawer swiftly turning around, anger radiating from his expression. His eyes climb my body, and for a moment the look he gives me is familiar --something I haven’t seen in a few days from him, lust. But I’m too angry to care and it disappears being replaced with his new pissed to shit demeanor. I sit on the bed with force, removing my gym shoes. I’m hot, irritated, and sick of his shit.

  “You are, huh?” He laughs in disbelief. I roll my eyes at him and snatch off my other shoe.

  “Well, it’s the last time I’ll tell you where I’m going, since you don’t give a fuck,” he says angrily.

  I open my mouth to respond but I feel a burning in my throat, and I know that if I say something my voice is going to break and I’ll start crying. I won’t give him the satisfaction. So instead, I take a deep breath, stand up, look him directly in the eye, and show him my middle finger. I walk towards the bathroom, holding the gesture the entire time until I'm inside and I slam the door as hard as I can.

  Once I’m inside, my angry fa軋de quickly starts to break down. I rush to the shower, turn on the water so he can’t hear me cry. I strip out of my sweaty shorts and sports bra and make my way into the water where I let go completely. I’m angry. I’m so angry that I don’t feel angry. I’m devastated. It hasn’t even been three months since he’s started going back to work and my marriage is on the brink of falling apart.

  I hate the way we’ve been acting toward one another. That little spiel was the first actual conversation we’ve had without screaming at each other. Tomorrow he’ll be gone again. I’m terrified the cycle will just repeat itself and in a year, I’ll be signing divorce papers.

  I rest my arms on the wall, cradling my head as the waters pours over me and I continue to cry--the hot water not washing away the sorrow I feel nor numbing the pain my spirit’s in. Suddenly, cool air filter into the shower. I turn around and my face automatically sets into a scowl as I see him standing there.

  “We need to talk,” he says sternly. I hope the droplets of water camouflage my tears. I turn back around, barely glancing at him.

  “Go fuck yourself, Cal.” I laugh angrily barely glancing at him. He doesn’t want to talk about anything I want to talk to him about and he’s leaving anyway so any conversation is useless.

  “Oh but I’m sure you have plenty of women doing that for you,” I add with a bitter chuckle.

  A second later he's in the shower, fully clothed.

  “What are you doing?!” I ask in disbelief. He starts to take off his shirt and undoes his pants, stripping right in the shower. He’s lost it. He throws out his wet clothes and closes the shower door. I shake my head in disbelief and shock. I try to move past him, he grabs me. I move to snatch away but he doesn’t let me go. “Let go,” I yell pulling away from him.

  “Talk to me!” he demands angrily, oh he’s angry. No, I’m angry! I’m tired of talking to him. It hasn’t helped! I’m wasting my breath. I try to snatch away from him again but he doesn’t let my arm go.

  “No!” I yell, trying to push him out of my path. He moves in front of me each way I try to go.

  “I don’t want to talk to you!” I say angrily shoving him away from me but he forces me toward him I resort to hitting him and he grabs me.

  “Then just fucking listen!” he demands, pinning me against the shower wall my arms near my head.

  “I’m not fucking anybody else, okay? If I wanted other women, I wouldn’t be with you. I know it looks bad! But, I swear to God I’m not cheating on you. If you’re mad, be mad about me being gone but I can’t deal with you hating me for this imaginary shit going on in your head.”

  I look up at him. He’s breathing hard, his brow furrowed. I want to slap him and kiss him all at once. He’s looking directly in my eyes staring me down trying to read me and I look away from him.

  “You’re all I want,” he says his tone lowers as he rests his head on mine. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” His grip loosens on my wrists but still he holds them. He kisses me. I turn away slightly still trying to process this. He grabs my chin holding my face toward him and kisses me more forcefully when I break away we both catch our breath.

  “I need you,” he says his voice pleading and he kisses me more urgently—until I start to kiss him back.

  His hands move underneath my thighs and he lifts me up effortlessly. I feel him slide inside of me. I gasp as he enters. My fingers dig into his back as my body adjusts around him. He goes deeper inside me, each movement reminding me of how much my body craves him, each thrust reminding me that he knows it’s every crevice. My body has given into him but my heart hasn’t, it’s bruised and in hiding. Until after he’s satisfied my body making up for all the time he’s been away, while still inside of me he takes my hand and intertwines his fingers with mine.

  “Without you I’m nothing,” he whispers in my ear. I try to account the unsteadiness of his voice due to his body recovering from what it’s done. But with just those four words my heart shows itself and gives in to him. I’m still scared, so scared. The heaviness on my chest is gone and I believe he’s not cheating on me but I realize that if he’s not we have a problem—one much bigger than I ever thought. Because if Cal loves me as much a much as he makes believe he does. Whatever is slowly peeling away at our relationship, we may not be able to fix.

  March 9th 2013

  ....You’re the reason I fight to be here

  I open my eyes, trying to get away from the past words that have been relentlessly playing in my head. I can’t escape from his echoing voice. I keep trying to make his face disappear, but every time I close my eyes, I see him.

  The words seem to hold more meaning than I ever imagined, but now they’re worthless. Something made him stop fighting. Or even if he did, at this point it’s pretty moot.

  I sit up on my lumpy bed in the Ritter Inn’s lovely room… not really.

  I let out a sigh as I hold my head in my hands. Sleeping has been practically useless. When it’s not his voice, it’s his parents, the Scotts’ words following me around. Scenes of Cal and me in the past haunt my thoughts every second, or even worse, my first meeting with “Chris.”

  It’s been two days since I found out the so-called “truth,” whether or not I believe it. It is implausible, but makes so much sense, connecting so many dots that have been scattered about in my brain for years—all of Cal’s sudden disappearances, his void connection with family, with everyone except the Crest Field’s; but to believe that he isn’t real, that he’s a forged personality… I’ll never believe that. I can’t.

  I try to forget the look on the Scotts’ faces; they carried a quiet honesty and a sincerity—even Mr. Scott. His bitterness was too genuine to be an act. Mrs. Scott’s tears were too real, her eyes so full of sorrow when she spoke. If this is all a scheme, they should both win an Oscar.

  I look over at the side table where my phone is vibrating once again. It’s Hillary this time. She, Angela, and Raven have all called numerous times, but I haven’t been up to the task of talking to them. I can’t face not being able to answer questions that I don’t have answers for myself.
This entire thing seems as if I’m in a nightmare, just waiting to be woken up, as if everything is playing backwards in my head.

  I grab the remote beside me and turn on the television in the hope that it will take my mind off of my complex thoughts. I think of Caylen, this is the longest I’ve been away from her. I miss her so much. I know that Raven is taking great care of her; she would die before letting anything happen to her, but I still miss her.

  I feel guilty for my lack of communication back home, but I’m just not ready to talk to anyone right now.

  I can’t begin to think of what this means if it’s all true. Whenever I do, I feel as if I’ll throw up or pass out. I don’t know anything about this Chris person, and he knows absolutely nothing about me. He’s in love with another woman, or he’s engaged to another woman. I can only imagine how his parents will explain me to him.

  I think back to Mr. Scott’s words about the possibility that Chris won’t be able to handle the truth the chance that it’ll make things worse. But what does that mean? Would Cal come back?

  I’ve seen movies about split personalities, story arcs in soap operas Raven watched when I was younger, but facing it in reality is something completely different.

  A knock at the door breaks me from my thoughts. It’s probably room service, which means Ms. Ritter is making sure I haven’t trashed her room. I lazily get up from my bed and open the door.

  “I don’t need…” I start to say, but freeze when I see the person looking back at me.

  “Hi,” he says softly, his eyes as wide as mine.

  My heart crawls up my throat. Here, he’s here, standing in front of me. I try to move my eyes from his, but they’re locked there. I search for the intensity in his eyes that I haven’t seen in years, but there’s only uncertainty.

  My hands are starting to shake, my body taking on directions of its own. I can feel my emotions start to swell from the bottom of my stomach, ready to overflow, if I don’t gain some sort of control over them.