One evening, after being holed up in the office all day, he finally walked into the kitchen when I was cleaning up after dinner. Against my better judgment, I tried to talk to him. I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so worried about you, Chris.”
He recoiled from my touch and lashed out at me like a caged animal backed into a corner. “Really, Claire?” he yelled, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Because I’m worried about a lot of things.” He started ticking them off on his fingers. “Let’s see. I can’t find a job, we’re going to run out of money, and eventually we’ll lose our health benefits. Should I continue? I’m sure I can find some other shit to add to the list.”
“You’re scaring me. You’re scaring the kids.”
I saw a flicker of guilt in his expression when I mentioned the kids.
“I have a family to support and no means by which to accomplish it,” he said, clenching his jaw so hard he could barely speak.
“We’re better off than most. People have lost their homes. Some households don’t have health insurance at all.”
“Well, that might be us soon. When our benefits run out, we’ll be lucky if we can afford some crap policy. And if we can’t, we’ll be at the mercy of the state of Kansas. I don’t know that you’ll be able to keep your pump. What if you have to go back to syringes, Claire? Would you be able to handle that? Injecting yourself twice a day, every day?”
“If I have to, yes.” But he had me over a barrel and he knew it. When I switched to the insulin pump I was so happy. I felt truly blessed by the freedom it provided and my quality of life improved dramatically. Chris knew I loved my pump; I’d once told him I couldn’t fathom going back to needles.
“I’m worried about us,” I said. “You and me.” If someone had told me a year ago that my marriage could disintegrate so rapidly, it’s doubtful that I would have believed them. Yet there we were.
He threw his hands in the air, as if our marriage was the last thing he was worried about. “There is nothing wrong with us that a job won’t fix!” He swept his hand along the counter for emphasis, knocking a pile of the kids’ artwork, yesterday’s newspaper, and a stack of library books to the floor. The crash that accompanied it sounded like glass breaking and when I looked down I spotted the sculpture of a puppy that Jordan had made in art class, the one she cherished but had given to me two days earlier. “You look sad, Mommy,” she said. “I want you to have my puppy so you’ll smile.” The sight of it, on the floor in pieces, enraged me.
I whirled around and faced Chris. “What is the worst thing that could happen?” I yelled. “We have to sell this house? One of the cars? Both of them? So what? We have each other. We have the kids. We have our health. Even me. If I have to inject again, I’ll inject. I don’t care what happens as long as we’re still a family.” I dropped to the floor and started picking up the pieces of Jordan’s sculpture. “You are not the only person in this household. You can’t shut me out when it hurts. You can’t stomp around here while I walk on eggshells. I need you to talk to me!” Frustrated, stressed out, and emotionally fragile, I felt my tears fall fast and furious.
“I don’t want to talk. I want a goddamned job!”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m done, Chris. If you won’t let me help you, then go see a doctor. Get some antidepressants, counseling, whatever. If you don’t, the kids and I are going to stay with my parents for a while.” Judging from his expression, I knew those words hurt my husband more than anything I could have said. I regretted having to utter them, but I didn’t know what else to do. We couldn’t continue like this. Chris needed help and resorting to drastic measures was the only way to ensure that he’d seek it out.
Josh came inside, followed by Jordan, the door slamming behind them. They stopped in their tracks when they saw me on my hands and knees, crying, and Chris, hands clenched and red-faced, gearing up to start shouting again. Chris spun on his heel and left the room, to escape to the sanctuary of his office.
“Hey, guys, what’s up?” I tried to pull myself together and act as if everything was fine. By the worried looks on their faces, I knew I was failing miserably.
“What happened?” Josh asked.
Jordan spied the pieces of her sculpture on the floor. “Mommy! Is that my puppy?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I knocked it off the counter when I was cleaning.” I tried to put my arms around her but she pushed me away and ran toward her bedroom. I knew she was hurt and that she’d be more accepting of my apology if I gave her time to cool down.
Josh started walking toward me but I threw up my hand to stop him. “Don’t walk over here. I don’t want you to step on the pieces. They’re sharp.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched in silence as I cleaned up the mess. “Are you and Dad gonna get a divorce?”
I looked up at him, my heart breaking at the anxious expression on his face.
“No,” I said quickly. At least I hope not. I threw the broken sculpture into the trash and grabbed the broom and dustpan. After I swept up every last shard I hugged him and said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” He hugged me back and then I walked toward Jordan’s room and knocked softly, hoping to make amends. She was lying in bed on her side, and I sat down next to her. “I’m so sorry, Jordan. I know how hard you worked on that puppy. And I’m so happy you gave it to me, and so sad that it’s broken. It was my fault. Do you think you can forgive me?”
She rolled over to face me, her eyes swollen and red. “I forgive you, Mommy. I know it was an accident.” I hugged her tight and left the room, feeling as if I’d failed her somehow.
That night, shortly after 1:00 A.M. when neither of us was sleeping, Chris walked into the bedroom. I put down the book I was attempting to read. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said. “I’ll call the doctor tomorrow. Just please don’t leave. Please don’t take the kids away.”
I wanted to go to him. Put my arms around him and tell him the same thing I told Josh. That everything would be okay. But he looked like my touching him was the last thing he wanted, so I stayed put. “I won’t.”
He turned around and walked back out.
Two days later, Chris got in his car and left and when he came back he walked into the kitchen. He withdrew the half sheet of paper from his wallet and threw it on the island. “I don’t want to take pills,” he said.
“Did the doctor say anything about counseling, instead?”
“He wants me to do both.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to sit in some doctor’s office and talk about what’s wrong. I know what’s wrong.”
If he wasn’t willing to talk to someone, then the pills were his only option. I had expected him to be resistant to the idea and were it not for the kids, and the promise he made, I doubt he would have ever considered antidepressants.
“Just try them,” I said, the memory of our fight still too fresh to believe that there was any other way for him to dig his way out of the depression. “You said you would do whatever it took, Chris.”
He got back in the car and drove to the pharmacy, and when he came home he twisted off the cap, shook the tiny pill into his hand, and knocked one back with a drink of water. He put the bottle in the cupboard and said, “There. Happy now?”
Well, not really. Maybe I was the one who needed pills; I couldn’t remember the last time I was happy.
Watching him closely the next few days, I looked for a sign that the pills were working. I’d researched antidepressants online and I knew it would take time for the medication to build up in his system, but I still hoped to see some improvement, no matter how miniscule. I finally brought it up one morning a few weeks later after the kids got on the bus and Chris walked into the kitchen to take the pill. After he filled a glass of water from the sink and swallowed it down I asked, “Do you think they’re helping?”
He looked ou
t the window and shook his head. “No.” He didn’t seem mad, just resigned.
Bracing myself for the fight I was sure to start, I said, “Sometimes you have to try a few different ones before you find one that works.”
“Maybe.” Chris didn’t yell. He didn’t even raise his voice. But the look on his face scared me to death. His lifeless eyes told me he didn’t care anymore. About anything. If he didn’t catch a break soon, I wasn’t sure what would happen. “If you call them, I bet they can prescribe something else.” I fought back tears and walked over to him and took his hands in mine. “It will be okay,” I said. I put my arms around him and tried not to take it personally when his remained at his side.
Chris called the doctor and was given a prescription for another drug. I picked it up at the pharmacy, swapped out his pills, and waited again.
This time, I didn’t have to ask him if they were working; I could see it with my own eyes. As each day passed and Chris continued swallowing the pills, an amazing thing happened. He slowly emerged from the fog of depression. His step got lighter, his movements quicker, and you could hear it in his voice when he spoke: the sound of relief, of hope. He slept more and he slept deeply, as if making up for all the rest he’d missed out on. I made all his favorite foods and one day, when I brought a plate into the office, he smiled and said, “Thanks.”
The pills weren’t a magic bullet, and the stress of being unemployed still weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he emerged from the office more often, and he spent time with the kids, helping Jordan with a school project and throwing the football around with Josh. The circles under his eyes lightened and the pall that had been cast over our home lifted a bit. I began to breathe easier.
Six weeks after starting the new antidepressant, he landed an interview with a local software development firm. He’d applied for countless jobs within the company and had never received anything other than a form rejection letter. He prepared for the interview as if his life depended on it. He nailed it and when he made it through to the next round, I noticed an increase in his confidence. I could tell he didn’t want to get his hopes up, but I also knew that the competitive side of Chris had been reawakened and if there was one thing he hated, it was to come in second.
He returned home from the third round of interviews, buoyant instead of despondent. The golden boy, whose appearance prompted most women to take a second glance, practically glowed with enthusiasm.
He followed me up the stairs that night instead of retreating to the couch to watch TV or spend time on his laptop. When he joined me in bed he kissed me for the first time in I don’t know how long, and I wished I had suggested the antidepressants earlier. But after he took my clothes off, and his own, and I touched him the way I’d been touching him for years, nothing happened. I kept trying until he finally shook off my hand and rolled away. The silence that filled the room roared in my ears, and I wisely kept my mouth shut because what could I possibly say that would help?
This had only happened once before, when Chris attended the bachelor party for his college roommate. Not only could he not get it up when he came home, he passed out trying and didn’t remember it the next morning. He laughed about it the next day when I told him, and said something about never drinking scotch again.
We attempted to have sex again a few nights later with the same results. Stopping the antidepressants wasn’t an option—not when they were working so well—and the class of antidepressants with the fewest sexual side effects included the pills that hadn’t worked for Chris.
I felt like we were all out of options. As if losing his job wasn’t emasculating enough, Chris had to decide what mattered more: his mental health or his ability to make love to his wife. I assured him, repeatedly, that it didn’t bother me. That it was more important that he take the pills. We’d come a long way since the dark days of late winter, and I had no intention of rocking the boat and undoing all the progress we’d made.
“Well, it bothers me,” Chris said.
“Take the pills as long as you need to,” I said. “Don’t worry about anything else right now.” He started to speak, but I cut him off before he could protest further. “Please, Chris.”
“Okay,” he said. He looked so dejected when he said it, and I wondered why fate felt the need to throw so many obstacles at my husband.
He walked into the laundry room one afternoon a week later. I was folding clothes and when I looked up Chris said, “I got the job.”
My emotions soared. I knew our luck would finally change. Now everything would start to turn around. I gave him my biggest smile. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” His voice held no trace of the elation I was expecting.
I started to rush forward, to hug him, but his somber expression and serious tone confused me. He should have been smiling, too. He should have sounded happy. A prickle of unease worked its way down my spine and my feet remained rooted in place. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’ll have to travel. I didn’t want to say anything about it until I knew they were going to hire me.”
“How often?” I asked. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer to this question.
“Four days a week.”
My relief disappeared instantly, replaced by trepidation. “Do they have any other positions available? Anything that doesn’t require so much travel?”
“No,” he said. “I found out during the final interview, when they let down their guard a bit, that the only reason they’re hiring someone at all is because the guy who used to have the job didn’t work out. They were careful about what they said, but it sounded like he couldn’t cut it.” Chris leaned against the dryer and shook his head. “I don’t like the travel, either, Claire, but there are ten men, maybe more, who’d be happy to have this job. The base pay and commission structure are comparable to my old job. The benefits are excellent. I’ll be eligible for a promotion in six months and if I get it, I’ll be able to come in from the field.”
I wanted to protest, tell him to turn it down. Time apart was the one thing I didn’t think our marriage could weather. We needed to work together, to repair and rebuild what we’d torn down. I couldn’t imagine how we could possibly accomplish that goal if we weren’t under the same roof. But when I saw the anxious look on his face, saw the desperation, I couldn’t say the words. Chris needed that job, and to be employed more than he’d ever needed anything in his life, so I threw my drowning husband a lifeline and said, “Don’t worry about the travel. We’ll manage.”
The relief on his face mingled with the sadness. The bittersweet triumph hardly seemed adequate considering what he’d been through.
He looked at me, nodded, and whispered, “Okay.”
In the distance, a bell sounded. The possible death knell of our marriage. Judging from his expression, I’m almost certain Chris heard it, too.
But one week later he put on a suit, packed his bags, and got on a plane anyway.
23
claire
On the first day of school the kids pout because Chris had to catch a 6:00 A.M. flight and won’t be joining us at the bus stop this year.
“Daddy always comes to the bus stop,” Jordan says, lip wobbling.
“If you haven’t noticed, he’s not here. He had to leave again,” Josh says. “Quit being a baby.”
I shoot Josh a look. “That’s enough.”
“Well, she is.”
“I said, that’s enough!”
He opens his mouth to protest and wisely shuts it. I know he’s frustrated, but I’m not going to let Josh take it out on me or his sister.
I snap pictures of them standing in front of the fireplace in the family room, the same way I do every year, and try my best to make up for Chris’s absence. “Daddy is very sad that he couldn’t be here today. He wants us to call as soon as you get home so he can hear all about your day.”
> “He’ll probably be in some meeting,” Josh mutters under his breath.
Sighing, I let it go but only because Josh is right; that exact scenario has happened too many times to count. “He told me he’ll be waiting. He’ll call right back if for some reason we get his voice mail. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says.
Jordan’s backpack is overflowing with stuffed animals. “Let’s leave some of these at home so they don’t get lost,” I say, as gently as I can. Lately she’s developed a strong attachment to the toys Chris brings her when he comes home. She loves all of them, but the stuffed gray kitty is her favorite. “I’ll babysit them for you,” I say, when I see the panicked expression on her face. “They’ll be safer here with me.”
Reluctantly, she pulls them out of her backpack and lines them up on the couch, covering them with a throw blanket. “Please take care of them,” she says somberly.
I bend down to her eye level and say, “I will. I promise, okay?”
“Okay,” she says.
The kids perk up a little at the bus stop, caught up in the excitement of the first day of school.
“How did it go this morning?” Elisa asks.
I take a sip of my coffee. “They’re disappointed. Josh is angry and Jordan is sad. I’m trying not to let them make it into a bigger deal than it is. Their feelings are justified, but there are worse things in the world.”
When the school bus pulls away from the curb I say my good-byes to Elisa, Bridget, and Julia and head home. I pour another cup of coffee, light a scented candle, and turn on the adult contemporary station. I sit on the couch, laptop resting on my crossed legs as Tucker snoozes next to me. Reveling in the silence, I focus on my work and the morning passes quietly. At lunchtime, I send an e-mail to Daniel at the police station to let him know that I’ve finished mocking up the designs for their logo. An hour later my cell phone rings and Daniel’s name lights up on the screen. “Hi, Daniel,” I say when I answer.
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