Promises Made- Promises Kept

by Jaclyn Rosamond

  ‘I suppose.’ Something flashed in his eyes. Dismay seemed about right. ‘But I still think we should have talked it over before you did something that drastic.’

  ‘Pardon me for being snippy. But you don’t seem thrilled now I’ve done what you wanted. I gave up midwifery and what you consider to be antisocial hours at your request. Now we can spend more time together.’ My voice had risen, but I brought it back to normal. I was being reasonable. How he responded would be revealing.

  ‘Honey, that’s great.’ His face worked hard to look pleased, but blotchy red patches covered his face. I identified his furtive look as shame.

  He was ashamed. Why? What was wrong with us? Why didn’t my new husband want to spend time with me?

  ‘Eddie.’ I kept my voice low, silencing a scream. ‘Am I missing something here? You yelled at me for not being here on tap every evening. This job means I’ll be home at night.’ I glared at him. ‘And I bloody well don’t expect to be alone every evening once I start this new position.’

  ‘I’m not giving up the gym.’ He stated, jaw tightening, face hard.

  ‘I’m not asking you to. Just come home earlier so we can spend part of the evening together. That’s not asking too much, is it? It is what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  He chewed on this, avoiding my eyes. My heart ached.

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  I studied his face. He evaded my gaze, eyes bleak.

  Nodding, I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  Marriage sucked.

  A fleeting thought of divorce skittered through my head. I shied away.

  ‘You know what, Eddie? If you don't make more of an effort in this nightmare of a marriage, you can shove it up your ass.’ My eyes were hard and scornful.

  He pushed exasperated hands over his face, searching for words.

  ‘Whatever.’ I threw him a hard glare, not waiting for feeble excuses, and stomped off to work, slamming doors on the way out.

  My challenge seemed to work.

  Eddie was at home whenever I returned from work, cooking, cleaning, buying me flowers and we actually made love – once I’d held out for a while, well, for a few hours. I put my misgivings to the back of my mind. We were a couple again, finding a new balance to work around Eddie’s new gym fad. Or lifestyle. Or whatever.

  For now, his gym obsession was on the backburner.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  A fortnight later I left my job as a midwife and started working at the newly opened medical center. I threw myself into the work, getting to know each member of the nursing staff, interviewing and employing new nurses, sorting out rosters according to availability of staff and their skill sets.

  That week was pretty good. Eddie came home early enough to talk. Spontaneity was missing, and we worked at making easy conversation. A week of evenings together was enough. Stumbling through uncomfortable conversations, Eddie turned to me on the weekend.

  ‘Look, Rose, it’s great spending time together, but I’m losing fitness. If I don’t pick up my game I’m going to put on weight.’

  My stomach plummeted, hitting the floor with a thud.

  ‘You don’t eat enough to get fat. And you’re still going to the gym every second night after work, and on Saturdays. How can you possibly be worried about losing ground?’

  ‘What would you know?’ he said, his voice laced with scorn. ‘I can tell, even if you can’t.’

  ‘What are you saying then?’ I didn't even try to hide my dismay.

  ‘That I need more time at the gym than you’re allowing me to.’

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous, Eddie!’ I stood. ‘Do you want this marriage?’

  ‘Yes,’ he yelled back without hesitation, ‘but not on your terms. Like you said, this is a joint relationship and you’re asking me to give up something I really want.’

  ‘No, I’m not. You’re still going to the gym and you’re still saving for your motorbike. Just what is it that I’m stopping you doing? I’ve given up a job I loved because you asked me, and now it’s too hard for you to give just a little bit more to our marriage.’ My voice had risen to screaming point. I took a deep, calming breath. ‘Eddie, why the hell did we get married if you prefer to live like you’re single?’

  Beetroot red, he leaned into my face. ‘Like it not, Rose – this is married life. This is what we signed up for. Get used to it.’

  He shot to his feet, grabbed his car keys from the hall table and slammed the front door on his way out.

  As if doused in ice, my brain numbed, I gaped at the empty space. Like a tap had opened, tears gushed, turning into great wracking sobs. I stumbled to the kitchen and yanked handfuls of tissues. Slumped on the kitchen floor, I cried in earnest.

  Under other circumstances, I’d have packed a bag and gone to stay at my parents, putting an end to this connubial desolation. But they were on a long overdue two-month world trip, only setting off a few days ago. Shona and Martin were also on holiday.

  Wretched beyond belief, I tried calling Brigid. No answer. I sank to the floor again, too miserable to do more than allow tears to hit the floor beneath me.

  When that stranger who’d married me didn’t return, I slunk upstairs to the spare room and huddled, fully-clothed, under the quilt.

  I lay there trying to make sense of this…thing…we called a marriage. There wasn’t one single thing I liked about being married.

  Brain buzzing, overloaded with messages, one thing stood out: Eddie had left our marriage before the ink dried on our certificate.

  Marriage had rendered me invisible. My husband no longer saw me.

  Had he ever loved me? I’d thought so, when we made those marriage vows. Promises we’d made. Promises I believed he meant. Promises, so far, he hadn’t kept. In front of family and friends he said I was his soulmate, the love of his life. My vows were heartfelt. Had Eddie’s vows been a con to trick me?

  Why?

  Exhausted, I dropped into a deep sleep. My phone alarm shocked me awake. My heart sank. My new job, after only a week, and I was ready to leave. I considered taking a sickie, but I’m a faithful plodder and off to work I went. Mechanically, I made my way through the day, ticking off as many tasks on my list as fitted in a day. I even stayed late to finish a difficult chore.

  Eddie hadn’t come home. He’d be at the gym. Where else? He wouldn’t know I’d come home late. He wouldn’t care.

  Happy to avoid him, I went for a drive, meandering here and there until I found a spot overlooking a river. I parked, ate a muesli bar and spent some time with only half an eye on the fast-moving current, mind drifting around our damaged relationship.

  I made a few decisions.

  One of them was to give my new job the flick – after the three-month trial period. I’d grit my teeth and complete it. Tomorrow, I’d write a list of jobs to achieve before I finished. I’d made the right decision. Helen, GP head of practice, would understand. As for Shirley, she may have guessed the work didn’t suit me. I had no intention of being miserable just to please her.

  The surgery didn’t need to know just yet. I’d keep that decision to myself until closer to the time.

  Regarding my marriage, the verdict wasn’t as clear. We hadn’t given our marriage much of a chance. I’d revisit this once I’d returned to the hospital. In the interim, to keep the peace, because it made Eddie happy. I vowed to say nothing about his gym attendance. We’d spend less time together. Right now, I couldn’t give a good goddam.

  Eddie had made a peace-offering dinner of chicken salad, when I arrived back cold and hungry. He opened a bottle of wine.

  ‘Okay, Eddie,’ I said, sipping wine. ‘You get what you want – you go back to the gym every night. That’s okay. But I’m going back to hospital work in a few months. How does that sound?’

  He paused midway through pouring wine. His expression bland. ‘You don’t mind?’

  Of course I minded. But this was a peacekeeping mission, so I clinked my glass with his and forced a smile.
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  ‘Well, that’s okay then.’ He took a victory swig, happy to have his way.

  Really? That was it?

  It’s okay?

  For him.

  Not for me, no interest at all in anything for me.

  No more pretense at spending time together.

  We had sex that night. I put my back into it, using all the tricks I knew. My heart wasn’t in it. Eddie took a while to work up enthusiasm, but once he was really turned on we enjoyed ourselves. I enjoy sex. This ought to have been lovemaking. But there was no love involved.

  After that life continued much the same as before our argument. I spent evenings alone and Eddie disappeared each night. I assumed he was at the gym. I didn’t ask. My lurking resentment resurfaced. Ice cream came back on the menu, and I put back on the five pounds I’d lost – and more. I cursed myself, but it didn’t help. When I stepped on the bathroom scales and found I’d put on seven pounds, I burst into tears.

  A miserable start to a Saturday. Eddie, of course, was at the gym. Exasperated with my constant comfort eating, incensed with my absent husband, I stomped into our bedroom and faced myself starkers in the full-length mirror.

  Surprised by my reflection, I found I didn’t look terrible. Overweight, yes, but at five feet and eight inches my body wasn’t massive. Flabby skin looked unhealthy, but my arms were strong from my work and, while my legs wobbled more than I liked, they were also sturdy from being on my feet most of the day. My double chin and sagging boobs begged for help. Otherwise, there was little difference between me and a large portion of the western world. Women and men.

  Monday arrived. The start of a new dieting attempt. Instead of toast slathered with butter – or should that be butter with a little bit of toast – I ate cereal and fruit from Eddie’s food supplies. We’d progressed to partitioning our food. His side contained foods considered healthy. Mine reflected a diet most people would consider normal.

  A lunch of ham and egg salad at work tasted good. Half an hour later my stomach cried out for more. Salads had never satisfied me. I needed carbs.

  How on earth was Eddie surviving on small meals, while exercising hard every day? His lunch and dinner meals were eaten away from home. Healthy meals for him. Or so I guessed.

  Whatever he was doing was working for him.

  An hour after salad lunch, in the middle of taking a patient’s blood pressure, my stomach rumbled loud and long, startling both me and my patient.

  ‘Time for a piece of cake and a cuppa,’ he joked.

  In my next free moment I snagged coffee and cake from the staff room.

  Laila, one of the receptionists, supplied delicious Lebanese cakes and sweets. However, despite being heavier than me, and other staff, she carried out a running commentary on all the staff who ate her offerings.

  ‘Ooh, look at your plate.’ She tutted. ‘That’s a lot of cake, and I see a muffin there, too.’ She shook her head, lips pinched.

  Pissed off, I put the plate down, crossed my arms and glared at her.

  ‘How extraordinarily rude. That’s enough judgement, thank you,’ I snapped. ‘No-one has the right to criticize what’s on someone else’s plate. Women are forever being told they’re failing at something. We don’t need to hear it from each other.’ I swept her portly figure from head to toe, picked up my plate, turned on my heel and stomped to my office.

  Helen knocked on my door ten minutes later, and found me top speed typing with a scowl on my face.

  ‘I heard you gave Laila a serve.’ Amused, she sat down opposite me.

  ‘Did I upset her?’

  ‘Of course. She loves her mini dramas. She came to me in tears.’

  I paused, hands on the keyboard. ‘Am I sorry I upset her? No, I’m not. She’s been bothering everyone, disapproving of what people eat. Bloody cheek! I’m not the only one who’s been put down by her. She must stop this pernicious condemnation, it’s awful. It’s infuriating, especially when we’re all eating goodies she’s made for us. She’s no slim chick herself.’

  ‘Mm. You’re the first person to stand up to her. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you. May I ask what you said to her?’

  ‘Well, I more or less said it served her right. With diplomacy, of course. She’s done it to me too. I stopped eating her cakes after that.’ She gave her figure a rueful glance. ‘It was time to stop anyway, I’d put on a couple of pounds.’

  ‘Really? How impertinent. Why’s she bringing in all the food if all she wants to do is insult us.’

  She shrugged. ‘Complicated, I suppose. She didn’t like me agreeing with you. She got uppity with that. I told her in no uncertain terms to pull her head in, or she’d need to be thinking about moving on.’

  Half an hour later Saanvi, nurse team leader, popped her head around the door. ‘Have you a few minutes for me to bend your ear?’

  I beckoned her in. ‘Is this about Laila?’

  She sat down with a sigh, clutching a mug of black coffee. ‘Yes. The gossip’s flown around the place, naturally. Six of our nurses have come to me already with their reactions.’

  My eyebrows shot up. ‘And…?’

  ‘They’re all glad you gave her a piece of your mind.’ Her anxious face relaxed, I hadn’t rebuffed her. ‘Of course, the reception staff haven’t decided yet whether to back you or Laila. Loyalties, you know?’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’ I sat back, wondering if I’d unleashed a real problem. ‘Look, it’s only a storm in a teacup, isn’t it? But, what a nuisance.’ I tapped my fingers on the desk, thinking. ‘Why don’t you have a word with their team leader. I’m sure Laila’s upset other admin staff. It’s time she understood her behavior’s not conducive to a calm and professional atmosphere at work.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ She scurried out, mug clasped to her chest.

  Lost in thought for a few minutes, I wished gossip, innuendo and rumormongering could be outlawed at work. Constant backbiting undermined staff effectiveness.

  Later, at home, I sat with a cup of tea, replaying today’s events. Laila had been subdued at the end of the day, her sulky expression bordered on insolent, as I walked past the reception desk on my way out. I’d made an enemy.

  This had no effect on me, and I’d discuss it with Helen tomorrow, but it lowered morale for staff who were expected to choose a side.

  Sure, I could manage staff on a divisive issue. But this was so petty and smallminded I’d already become impatient and bored. Patients and their needs were my core interest. Terminal care, midwifery, theatre, all of them were fulfilling. Minimum patient contact in my new role hadn’t been rewarding. And neither had soothing smallminded ruffled feelings.

  Hungry, I pottered out to the kitchen. What to eat? My daily challenge.

  Salads weren’t the answer. I needed carbs for energy. Hot chips smacked of self-sabotage. Should I go to the expense of one of those Jenny Craig type diets? Was I committed enough to do that?

  I shuddered. Not yet.

  Cake and muffin had felt like failure.

  There had to be a better way. After all, I knew about healthy eating. I had to find something that suited me, otherwise I was just going to keep on failing.

  Tonight, Eddie would be at tennis. I desperately wanted to let my hair down with a good friend. I called Shona. She and Martin, home from their mini holiday, nevertheless, were still out. Brigid was at work. I put the phone down with a thump. I had other friends, but none I could offload with. That’s where Shona and Brigid’s friendship meant so much.

  I didn’t know the staff well enough at the clinic to kickback and share personal stuff with them, especially after today’s minor skirmish.

  Disappointed, I pulled out a small frozen pizza, popped it in the oven and had a quick shower while it cooked. Pizza was followed by ice cream and a hefty glass of wine. As I licked my fingers after junk food, I knew I’d eaten all the wrong things, but wondered how to find time for sensible eating, when work hours suck energy and a quick fix seems eas
ier when you’re knackered.

  My energy had been fine before our wedding. I’d been fit and happy and always active. Something had changed. Misery dragged me down and unhappiness is exhausting.

  The next evening was better. During the day I’d eaten with care, rather than a salad without carbs I’d had a salad and ham sandwich and found I wasn’t hungry. Not as saintly as Eddie. I’d used mayonnaise for flavor and moisture, and had no desire for cake mid-afternoon. Fruit had done the trick instead.

  I’d been starved of social contact the last fortnight with Eddie out every night. He’d begun dropping in on Tony and Lisa after his workout. Another way of avoiding me.

  He had no idea I’d taken to staying late at work, crossing off essential tasks before I handed in my notice. Going home seemed too dismal, with seeds of conflict and a sense of impending disaster. My husband and I saw each other for a couple of hours on Sundays. I worked in the garden, weather permitting. He spent time tinkering with his car or surfing the internet. We shared a bed, nothing else. He crept in when I’d been in bed for at least an hour.

  Anger simmered away. Every evening I arrived home to dirty dishes piled in the sink, not in the dishwasher. His clean clothes covered the backs of chairs and lay on the dining table, waiting for me to iron them and put them away. Dirty socks, shirts and undies lay in drifts on the bedroom floor. Hands on hips, I stewed over what to do. Housework had fallen to me again.

  Decision made.

  His job to look after himself. I damn well refused to clear up like his sodding mother. I refused to be his servant. He could shove that up his well-muscled arse.

  Friday, the last working day of the week. Would he come home before our usual night at the pub, or rock up there after the gym? One way or another, he’d find I was no longer his domestic drudge.

  I tossed his clean clothes on the shabby furniture he’d brought with him when he moved in. Every other item of furniture had been mine. I’d no longer tolerate his mess on my stuff. And, if he needed work clothes, he knew where we kept the ironing board. He also knew how to use a washing machine. I threw his dirty clothes in a heaped pile on his side of the bed. I hoped he’d trip on them when he snuck into bed in the dark.