“I don't know what a Picasso is, so why should I congratulate you? For all I know, it’s a mutant booger you pulled out of your nose, and your teacher named Mr. Larsen wants to keep it in his class for other kids to get grossed out over.” He brought an apple to the table with him, sitting across from the girls. “See? My flaps work fine.”
“Nice save, Felix.” Nora acknowledged him with a high-five. “But just so you know, Picasso is an artist, and Les had to do a Picasso-style painting for her art class.”
“Isn't that plagiarism?” He’d recently discovered the hard way that copying someone else’s work, even from a report posted online, and calling it his own, was cheating, but with a fancy name.
“Geez, Felix. Don't get too excited for me.” Leslie's words, though directed at her brother, reverberated inside Nora’s mind. She could hear Jake saying the exact same thing to her not more than an hour ago.
Speak of the devil. Jake stood in the doorway, and shot her a smug look behind the children’s backs. He’d recalled his words, too. “Come on, kids. Your mother has work to do. And you have homework, too, I’m sure.”
“No, actually, I think I'm done for the day.” Nora stood and began stacking her things into neat piles. “Let's go celebrate the artist. How about dinner at Pepe's?” Leslie grinned proudly, while Felix ran around in a tight circle, his fist in the air, chanting like a football player. Nora turned to face her husband.
“I'm sorry for being negative today, Jake. Congratulations on your contract. I mean it.”
He hesitated just long enough for the children to take notice. Leslie looked from one parent to the other, her face carefully blank, and Felix stopped whooping, but kept spinning in a circle. He didn't fool Nora, though. She could see his flaps were tuned in.
“Well, thank you. It isn't quite in the bag yet, but Robert’s pretty confident that the board will sign off on it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, but only came a few steps inside the kitchen. “He's presenting it at their meeting tonight and will call me in the morning.”
“Are you going to get a job, Daddy?” Felix stopped spinning and looked over at his father.
“I have a job.” Nora tried not to watch the flush creeping up Jake's neck. “I'm just getting more work.”
“Oh. Is that a good thing? I’d rather get less work.”
“Congratulations, Dad.” Leslie cut in, crossing the room to hug her father. Nora’s heart sank as she realized just exactly how aware her daughter had become of things. “I hope you get it.”
“Me, too,” Felix agreed, although he still didn’t look convinced. “Can we go eat now?” He grabbed Jake’s forearm and started tugging him back toward the garage door.
“Wait a minute, Mister.” Jake pulled Felix to a stop, placed both hands on his shoulders, and turned him to face Leslie. “Now that you know what a Picasso is, don't you think you ought to congratulate your sister for real?”
“Sure. Congratulations, Lester the Lion.”
Leslie raised both hands like claws and growled deep in her throat, but she grinned at his use of her favorite nickname.
~ ~ ~
In his office, Jake stared at the phone sitting on the glass-topped desk in front of him. Why couldn’t things go his way just once? It had taken G & G nearly a month to make a decision on his proposal before opting to keep things as they were. A whole month of him assuring his wife that things were going to start happening, he just knew it; that by the holidays, she’d be able to cut back her hours significantly. He knew that was what she really wanted—the love notes, the chocolate, and the extra care he took in bed with her were his way of telling her that he was trying.
He should call Nora, but he didn’t think he could bear to hear her voice right now; her disappointment, both for him, and in him.
Nora often seemed sad these days, even though she refused to acknowledge it. A few weeks ago, when he came out to the driveway to see what was keeping her, he was shocked to find her sitting in her car, bent over the steering wheel. He thought she was crying, but he was even more concerned when he realized she was just sitting in the sweltering heat, pink-faced, and sweating, as though enduring some self-inflicted punishment. She assured him she was fine, but inside the closed up car in the middle of an uncharacteristically warm September afternoon? Who does that?
He’d been trying so hard these last few months, and in many ways, things were greatly improved. But Jake couldn't help noticing Nora’s smiles rarely lasted once the kids left the room, that everything seemed forced and unnatural when she was alone with him.
“Are you okay?” He asked her that question almost every night, certain she wasn't, but her answer was always the same.
“I'm fine, Jake. Just tired. It's been a long day.”
Was her day any longer than his? Any longer than Felix’s or Leslie’s? When he probed, though, she only grew impatient with him.
Nora’s work load was one of the things that hadn’t improved. It had gotten worse.
She used to bring a file or two home every once in a while, stuff she had to finish in time for a client meeting the next morning, but now it was her nightly routine; dinner, dishes, and decorating. In fact, more often than not anymore, instead of bringing work home, she headed back to the office after putting the kids to bed, explaining, “It’s hard for me to concentrate here, and everything takes twice as long. It’s like a mental block. It just works better for me to go back to the office.”
Well, it didn’t work better for him, especially since it meant he went to bed alone.
“At least sex is still good,” he muttered to himself. He lifted his gaze in a halfhearted prayer. “Yeah, I know. Spoken like a true man. But it seems like the only thing I can do right for her. Don't get me wrong,” he added quickly, lifting a hand in a halting gesture. “I'm not complaining. Don't know what I'd do if that wasn't happening, either.”
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, imagining his wife standing in the doorway, crossing the room to him, brushing her fingertips along his jaw, lifting his face to hers. He loved thinking about her; about her curves, her silky auburn hair, her eyes, her full mouth. His skin tingled when she said his name; the special way she answered her cell phone when she knew it was him. At least, he reminded himself with a grimace, the way she used to answer it. Anymore, he got her voice mail more often than not, and when he did catch her, she was always in the middle of something, or in a hurry to get somewhere…besides home to him.
It was days like this that made him seriously consider going back to working for someone else. He didn't miss driving a forklift. He didn’t miss the warehouse atmosphere. He didn't miss the early and long hours. But he missed coming home at the end of the day. There was something rewarding about flexing his arms and straining his back to provide for his family.
And there was something soft and feminine about Nora after she'd spent a few hours puttering around her nest and nurturing her children. He especially missed that.
“No. I can’t go back,” he asserted aloud. “I can’t. I deserve better. I can’t quit now.” Today was just a little bump in the road he had to get past. So what if it wasn’t happening as quickly they’d planned? That didn’t mean it wasn’t happening at all.
He scrubbed his shadowed jaw with his fingers—he’d need to shave before she got home—then flicked his phone so that it spun across the slick desktop and bumped up against the miniature sand garden Leslie had given him for Christmas last year, complete with rake, shovel, and a red pail. The sound of canned clapping, his text message ring tone, had him raising his fists in triumph, as though all those tiny cheering people in the phone still believed in him. “Who’s the man? I’m the man. That’s right.”
Then he saw the sender’s name. Nora.
Need to put in a late night at the office - sorry. Coming home for early supper, then back to work for me. Bringing Antonio’s family meal unless you have something else planned. Love you.
4
; The glowing windows seemed to glare at Nora as she pulled into the driveway, angry at her for making them wait up. It was after midnight, and Jake had left all the lights on again.
Slipping out of her heels just inside the door, she systematically made her way through the kitchen, dining room, family room, and the hall, shutting things down as she went. She poked her head into the kids' rooms, smiling at the sight of each rumpled head in the glow of night lights. She wrinkled her nose at the sweaty boy smell in Felix’s room; it seemed to be losing its charm these days.
“Good. You're home.” Jake's voice spoke out of the darkness as she crept into their bedroom. No matter how quietly she came through the house, she always woke him up.
“I'm home.”
“What time is it?” Jake knew exactly what time it was—his clock with its bright blue numbers faced him on his bedside table. This was a game they played almost every night, even those when she didn't stay late at her office. If she came to bed after he did, it was how he greeted her. Not “Come snuggle with me,” not “Where have you been all my life, Baby,” but the badly played part of the neglected husband who’d been rudely awakened out of a sound sleep.
Nora responded the way she always did. “It's late. Sorry I woke you.” She quickly retrieved her nightgown from the top drawer of her dresser, and tucked her shoes under the bed so she wouldn’t trip on them in the dark. She would get ready for bed in the bathroom.
Just as she was closing the door behind her, he spoke. “Did you finish what you needed to tonight?”
Nora stopped, and turned slightly to answer him. “I did. I'm going to take my shower now. Go back to sleep.”
“Who are you working for right now?”
“The Carlsons, remember? I told you at supper.”
“Yeah. The Carlsons. Are you meeting with them in the morning?”
“What is this, Jake? Twenty questions?” Nora peered through the darkness toward the shadowy shape of their bed. She pressed her tight spine against the door frame, her muscles protesting, but the pain bringing relief and loosening her tongue. “Or are you asking me something you're not really asking?”
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know. You tell me.”
“No, you tell me, Nor. Is there something I should be asking you? Or is there something you should be telling me?” She could see him moving, pushing himself upright into a sitting position. His shape was now silhouetted by the pale moonlight slipping in through the blinds at the window, and she could see him cross his arms. She crossed hers in response.
“What would you like to know, Jake?” She was exhausted; too tired for this. Her feet hurt, her head hurt, and her heart hurt at the sound of accusation in her husband’s voice. All she’d wanted was to wash away the day and crawl into bed next to him, to have him take her in his arms and hold her, comfort her, assure her that things would change soon.
Not anymore. Now her weariness turned her sour, and once the words started spilling out, she couldn’t pull them back in. “Do you want me to tell you about the undercover prostitution ring I run from my little hole-in-the-wall office? Or are you asking about the pole-dancing job? Don't worry. I quit that last month. I found a better night gig. Now I'm a highly-paid escort to the stars. Not nearly so seedy.” She turned to leave, then spun around and came right back in, not quite finished. “Wait! Maybe you’re referring to my Latin lover who comes to my office at night; who calls me mi corazon and does all my paperwork for me in between bouts of passionate love-making. I almost forgot about him.” Indignation burned her cheeks. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Overreacting a little, aren’t you? I just asked a simple question.”
“No, Jake. No, you never just ask a simple question. There’s always so much more than a simple question in your questions.” She pulled the door closed behind her, just shy of slamming it, so as not to wake the children, and made her way to the bathroom across the hall.
By the time she stood beneath the blistering flow of hot water in the shower, she was crying. “Why do I have to cry over everything?” she berated herself. “I hate crying!”
Nora ran her water extremely hot. Even as a child, she loved baths that turned her skin pink and tingly. Tonight she let the water cascade over her body, washing away the tension in her neck and shoulders while her hands kneaded her low back. She couldn't quite get rid of the dull pain that settled there every night.
When she was pregnant, Jake used the heel of his hand to push against her sacrum as she lay on her side in bed, relieving the strain her swollen belly put on her back just enough that she could fall asleep.
It had been a long time since he'd touched her without expecting anything in return.
As her body began to relax, and her tears dried up, she closed her eyes and made a concerted effort to think good things about her husband.
“Every night before you go to bed, remind yourself how blessed you are,” Vicky’s voice prodded. “Be thankful for a man who loves you, who loves your children, who takes your family to church. Thank God for giving you someone who is kind to your parents, who supports your dreams, who thinks you're incredible.”
After she chickened out on giving Jake his ultimatum, Nora started therapy. He didn't know she’d been seeing Vicky Johanson for the last several weeks, and the longer she put it off, the harder it was to tell him.
“We don’t need counseling, Nor,” he argued, every time she suggested they try it. “We’re good together, you and me. This is just a rough season for us, but it’s not so bad we need a shrink. We can figure it out on our own; do our own therapy.”
But Jake’s idea of therapy consisted of a little conversation, a lot of sex, and enough sleep to get up and do it all again. Besides, there was no way he’d admit they were having problems to a complete stranger if he couldn’t even acknowledge it to himself.
“Find things to be thankful for, Nora, and do not climb in bed next to Jake until you can do so with a thankful heart.” Vicky’s expectations seemed idealistic, but the woman was absolutely unrelenting about positive thinking, in a biblical sense of the word. “Stop focusing on the things you want to change about him, and pay attention to the things you love about him.”
The first visit had been the “rant” session, and Vicky allowed her forty-five minutes to say anything and everything she wanted to say, without interference. Through tears that developed into stomach-wrenching hiccups, pacing that included flailing hands and raised fists, Nora unloaded on the counselor all the weight she'd been carrying on her shoulders for the past sixteen years of marriage.
“Okay. Time's up, Nora.” Vicky tapped the timer she’d set. Nora was shocked to see she’d used every last second. “Do you feel any better?”
“Yes. I do.” Nora spoke quickly, certain the overwhelming sense of relief washing over her was because she'd been allowed to release all the things she’d kept bottled up for so long. Vicky didn't respond. The silence settled between them until Nora began to feel uncomfortable and she reached for a tissue from the box on the end table beside her to dab at her puffy eyes. Meeting Vicky's gaze, she saw a question there.
“I do feel better. I really do,” she assured the counselor again. When Vicky still didn't speak, Nora felt her eyes began to well up again. “At least I think I do.” Then she covered her face with her hands. “Actually, I feel terrible. No, worse. I feel wretched. My head is throbbing, my stomach hurts, my sinuses are so plugged I can hardly breathe, and I feel like I didn't accomplish anything.” A sob escaped when she took a deep breath. “In fact, I think the relief I feel is because I finally shut up.”
Vicky reached out and laid a hand on Nora's shoulder. “I'm going to pray for you, Nora.” It wasn't a request. “Father, thank you for bringing Nora to my office today. We come to you, now, and lay these things that Nora has spoken at your feet. Please take them, sort through them, and help us figure out which of them we should deal with, and which of them we need to leave in you
r hands. We come in your name, Jesus. Amen.”
Nora sat stone still, as a sensation, like fingers fluttering along her skin, washed over her, and the tears flowed in earnest again. They poured from her eyes, down her cheeks, dropping steadily onto her folded hands in her lap. She could not remember the last time anyone had prayed with such fervency over her. Finally, Vicky spoke again.
“Here's the way this works, Nora. This is the only time, I repeat, the only time you will be given the freedom to speak negatively about your husband in this office. As you can plainly see, the method of unloading, of venting, of letting off steam, whatever you want to call it, rarely benefits anyone. I know from experience though, that it seems to be a bit of a necessary evil. So I intentionally get it out of the way at the very beginning.” She chuckled and patted Nora on the knee. “I'm not surprised you feel like you've just been run over. In fact, freight train comes to mind when I think of what you've just gone through in the last hour. And look. You’re still alive.”
Vicky stood, rolled her shoulders a few times, and crossed the room where she began flipping through the leather bound appointment book on her desk. “Please take that box of tissue with you. You may be reeling from this session for a couple of hours. And I suggest you do not go straight home to your husband. Go shopping, go watch a movie, go hang out at a friend's house, one who won't require you to explain anything. Just don't go see Jake right now. Wait until your spirit has settled and you can forgive yourself for daring to say all those terrible things about him to me.”
Feeling chastised, Nora frowned. “But I... I thought you wanted me to—”
“To unload?” Vicky, still standing, braced both palms on the surface of her desk and leaned forward a little, eying Nora across the room. “It's exactly what I wanted you to do. I'm talking about the natural progression of feelings here. You may not feel weird about what's gone on here yet, but I can almost guarantee you, that over the next hour or two, you'll run the gamut of emotions, everything from guilt, shame, embarrassment, resentment and possibly even anger toward me for making you expose yourself this way. It's okay. Just give yourself time to process before you go home. Now, when will I see you back here?”
Waters Fall Page 3
