by Sylvia True
He holds up a sweater, debates whether or not to put it in the bag, decides against it. She got it for him for Christmas. It’s a Ralph Lauren.
“Where were you?” she asks.
“Just some hotel.”
“Did you watch porn?”
“This is why we can’t talk.” He picks up the bag, then lets it thump back on the floor when he realizes she’s blocking him.
“Were you?” she asks again.
“Yes. I was.” He’s defiant.
“Did you masturbate?”
“Liz, I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
“Why not?”
“Look, this is why I need to leave for a while. Questions like that just aren’t constructive.”
She twists her pastry tissue until it rips. “I hate that you make me feel so unwanted. I hate that you lied to me. That you make me feel like a pest for asking perfectly good questions.”
“Listen, we can’t do this. I talked to my therapist. She thinks it was good that I left the other night. She thinks it would be better if we met under her supervision.”
“Because, what, I’m going to hurt you? I’m dangerous?”
“No.” He picks up his bag again. “But it was volatile, and she thinks it would be wise to have a cooling-off period.”
“I can’t believe this. You act all calm, like you’re the sane, rational one. Can’t you see what you did to my life?” She digs her nails into the door frame.
“Look, I’m dealing with a lot right now. I feel like a bomb just went off at my feet.”
She digs harder. “You feel like a bomb went off? How does that make sense?” she asks.
“It’s how I feel,” he says, as if using the word feel means she can’t disagree.
“But you knew a bomb was there. I mean, a bomb really did go off in my life, because you threw it at me,” she tells him.
“You’re not making sense. I need to get going. I have a call scheduled with my sponsor.” He approaches the doorway.
She glares at him. She’s not about to move. He’ll have to push her out of the way.
“Please,” he says.
She grips the door frame with both hands. He retreats to the master bathroom. When she hears a few drawers open, she follows.
He’s taking the toothpaste. She lunges, rips the bag. White plastic clings to her fingers. She peels it away and grabs the half-filled tube.
“You can’t have this,” she yells, holding it close to her chest.
“Fine.” He bends, picking up the lumpy, torn bag from the bottom. In her rashness, she’s given him an opening. He scurries out.
She faces the mirror and looks at the aqua-colored swirls on the toothpaste tube.
Bridget
Bridget sprawls on the bed in her underwear. It’s Monday afternoon, and the May heat wave is unbearable. Her room is a hot box, and if she wasn’t so damned stubborn, she would have agreed to let Michael get her an air conditioner.
The damp washcloth on her forehead is no longer cool. She had hoped she’d be able to sleep an hour or so before going in to work, but since that’s not happening she sits up, deciding to head to the air-conditioned mall and eat orange sorbet.
She glances at her lacy yellow bra. Aside from her stomach, which pouches out, her boobs have grown the most. They’re barely contained, but she’s never going to get some huge contraption with underwire.
Standing in front of her closet, she looks for an unconstricting piece of clothing as the fan blows on her legs. She’s just about to take a cotton dress from the hanger when there’s a knock on the door.
“What,” she says, irritated, knowing it’s Michael.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“I’ve told you. I’ve had enough surprises from you in the past year. And you know what? Telling me everything doesn’t actually help me. Ever think of that?” She drops her hand from the dress and walks back to the bed. No way will she open the door. It’s like willingly allowing in pain. She’s done with that. The whole boundary thing is beginning to make some sense.
“Bridge, please. It’s not that sort of surprise. It’s a good one. You’ll like this, I promise.”
“If it’s that good, just leave it right there, and I’ll get it later.” Her stomach flutters.
“It’s really heavy. You can’t lift it.”
At least now it isn’t a surprise anymore. She knows it’s an air conditioner, and for that she is willing to break her no-Michael-in-the-bedroom rule.
“Just a sec.” She unlocks the bolt, opens the door, and smiles. Not at him, at the box.
“Bridge,” he says, standing in the doorway. “You look amazing.”
She glances at her small potbelly and bulging breasts. He hasn’t seen her in her underwear since the last time they had sex, which of course was the time she got knocked up.
“That window.” She points.
He walks in, places the box on the bed, and wipes his forehead. “No, really, you look amazing.”
It sucks that he looks amazing too—hot and sweaty, his eyes all lit up, ready to take her. Damn him. The worst thing she could do right now would be to cave. She turns away.
“Can you just put in the fucking air conditioner and stop gawking at me,” she tells him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and rips open the box.
Just looking at the packaging makes her feel cooler. “How long will it take?” she asks.
“Fifteen minutes, give or take a few.”
She waits in the computer room, which will soon be a nursery.
“It’s ready,” he shouts after about ten minutes.
She can feel the cool air from outside the room. It’s heaven. No need to go to the mall now. She’s going to lie down, spread her arms and legs, and enjoy.
Michael cleans up the packing. She waits for him to leave, but he stands in front of the box, tapping it with a screwdriver. Maybe he needs to cool off for a few minutes, and although she wants him out, she’s not a complete bitch.
She hovers at her dresser, moving a jewelry case from one corner to another. Still he stands there. “There something you need?” she finally asks.
“I just wanted to talk for a little.”
She guesses he wants to do more than just talk. He plops down on the foot of the bed, which gives a tired sigh.
“I need to rest.” She sits on her side with her back to the air conditioner.
“I love you. I love our baby. I know I totally, completely fucked everything up, and I’m not asking for your forgiveness. But I just can’t keep sleeping on the couch anymore.”
Cool air blows on her back. She shakes her head. He has the balls to ask if he can sleep in their bed again? No way. “So you got an air conditioner because you want to sleep somewhere comfortable? Well, it sure as hell isn’t going to be in here.” She pauses. “Ever. Not even if you take one of those fucking polygraphs every week.”
“I know.”
He sounds defeated. He should be making promises, telling her that he’ll go twice a week if that would help.
“So if you know, why the hell would you ask if you can sleep with me again?”
“I didn’t ask that,” he says, too calmly.
She turns and looks at his wide shoulders, feeling as if she’s getting zapped with some sort of cattle prodder. Still, she’s going to keep playing it tough. “Then what are you saying? We should move? I’m not about to pack up and leave now just because you need a bed.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She doesn’t like that he’s so unruffled, that he’s not getting angry or begging to sleep with her. Her heart feels as if it’s that pebble again, pinging in its tin can.
“That would just take the cake,” she tells him. “With everything else we’re dealing with, let’s just throw in a move.”
“Bridge, stop,” he says. “You’re not listening. I’m not asking you to do anything.”
“Yeah, right.” She points to the air conditi
oner. “I know what you’re trying to do. You think you’ve been punished long enough, and it’s time to come back to your bed.”
“I don’t think you’re punishing me. I know you’re only trying to take care of yourself.”
“And the baby,” she adds. She wants to fight, to yell and cry, to show him that what he did still hurts, but she can’t seem to get a hook in.
“Yes, and the baby. You’re going to be a great mother.”
Cool air streams in, yet she sweats. “So get to the point.”
“I think it would be best if I moved out.”
Her heart pings in its metal canister. Move out? After everything he’s done, she doesn’t even get to kick him out?
“You…” She gets up and moves to stand in front of her dresser again. Brushing her fingers through a small dish of jewelry, she asks, “Who will you live with?”
“I’m going to stay at my brother’s for a while.”
“That’s an hour away.” She turns and faces him. His forehead is so furrowed that his eyebrows nearly touch.
“I’ll be here whenever you need me.” He looks sappy and honest. And more than that, resolved.
“What about when I go into labor? You want me to call a cab?” She’s grasping.
“That’s not for a long time.” He looks as if he’s about to stand, to walk to her, comfort her. But he doesn’t get up. “We really don’t need to worry about that yet.”
“Right, once again, push off responsibility.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m trying to be responsible. Give you time and space to heal. When it gets closer to the baby’s due date, I can stay on the couch.”
“And if the baby comes early? Then what?” She puts her hands on her hips.
“Bridge, if it happens that fast, which it probably won’t, you can call an ambulance.”
“Easy for you to fucking say. Just call an ambulance. Nice. Real nice.” She flings out her arm.
“I understand you’re afraid, but right now I think you’re just coming up with disaster scenarios, and those aren’t going to happen.”
Finally, something to grab. “And why do you think I come up with the worst-case scenarios? Think it might have something to do with what you’ve put me through?”
“I get it, already.” His back arches. “Really, I do. I did irrevocable damage to our marriage. I know that. I can’t take it back. I can’t fix it. I can’t fix you, and I can’t fix us. I’m just working on fixing myself. That’s the best I can do.”
Her hands lock back on her hips. “Typical. So typical. Just worry about fixing yourself. You learn that in your twelve-step group?”
He stands, and although he has his head lowered, she’s struck by his height. “This is why I have to move,” he says. “I just can’t keep doing this. I’ll get polygraphs, I’ll still be your husband, but every time we’re together, it just can’t be this contentious.”
“What’s with the big words?”
“Look, I know it’s easier to be angry. I know that helps you, and if you want to call and yell at me during the day, I’ll listen. But I need to be able to sleep on a regular bed at night.”
“When?” Her eyes fill.
He walks to her and holds her. She lets him. He smells like deodorant and soap and a hint of sweat.
“It’s going to be all right,” he assures her.
“What if we try? You sleep in here with me … We…”
“You know we can’t do that right now. You need to take care of you. And I have to be out of the way for that to happen.”
She steps away. “Stop being so fucking understanding. It sounds condescending.”
“Can you see what you’re doing?” he asks.
Of course she can. She can see all the messed-up things she’s doing. Trying to get in a fight. Trying to win. Trying to get him to stay, so she can kick him out and tell him to come back. Trying, most of all, to get control.
“Just go. Take your stuff and get out.” She knows she sounds like a total bitch, but it’s all she has, a tiny bit of power.
The second he’s gone, she slams the door as hard as she can. She hates him. Hates him because she loves him. Hates him because he understands that she needed to slam the door on him, needed to feel like she was getting rid of him.
She slides to the floor, keeping an ear close to the door, listening to see if he’s really going to go. He wouldn’t leave her when she’s so upset, but the house shudders when the front door shuts. She curls into a ball.
Maybe if she would have knocked on wood the way Gail did last week, this wouldn’t be happening. She was the idiot who said that it was possible one of them would be next. It wasn’t supposed to be true. It was just the nice thing to say at the time. To help Lizzy. What really sucks, though, is that Hannah might be right about her percentiles. What sucks even more is that Hannah is the one person Bridget wants to call.
Hannah
Tuesday morning, Hannah is up at six. The day promises to be hot and humid. She pulls on a pair of jeans and a sleeveless navy blue blouse. The morning routine has changed. They now eat breakfast as a family. She brushes her hair and puts on a dab of lipstick and some cover-up under her eyes. Granted, they are miles from being whole again, but she’s determined to show Alicia no one is giving up.
In the kitchen she squeezes oranges for fresh juice. Sam and Adam like to eat scrambled eggs and bacon. Alicia still has Cheerios, trying to keep up the act that eating breakfast with her family is a new sort of torture. Every once in a while, her posture isn’t so hostile. Progress, as expected, is slow.
Sam’s feet swing happily under the table. The eggs are just about done. Hannah puts three strips of bacon on Adam’s and Sam’s plates. She gives the eggs a final swirl.
“Thank you,” Adam says as Hannah serves him.
Sam breaks his bacon into small pieces. He likes to make a design before he eats. Alicia pours milk in her cereal and rolls her eyes at her brother.
“Let’s be grateful that Mom got up and made us this nice breakfast,” Adam says.
“Like she made the box of Cheerios,” Alicia snaps.
Hannah looks at Adam and shrugs.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he says.
She nods and sips her orange juice.
“Guess what?” Sam asks, legs still kicking under the table.
“What?” Hannah replies, just as Adam’s phone, sitting on the kitchen counter, starts screaming the “Chicken Dance.” She hasn’t heard that ring since the day in the mall.
“Bawk, bawk,” Sam shouts.
Adam makes a move to stand, but Hannah is already at the counter. She recognizes his sponsor’s name and shuts off the phone.
“Who was it?” Alicia asks.
One of the stipulations at meals is that there are no electronic devices.
“Someone from Dad’s work,” Hannah tells her. “He can return the call after breakfast.” Then she looks at Adam quickly, nastily, just enough to show him it wasn’t work. She knows she has no right to be angry that his sponsor is calling, yet she is. Is it too much to ask that she get through one meal, one day, without having to think about her husband sneaking around with other men?
“So, slugger.” Adam nudges Sam’s elbow. “What were you going to tell us?”
He sticks a piece of bacon in his mouth. “I get to take home Izzy for the summer.”
“Who’s Izzy?” Alicia tries to sound as if she’s not interested.
“Our class iguana.”
“Gross. I’m not living in the same house with one of those.”
“He’s not gross. You are.”
“Sam,” Hannah says, still feeling annoyed about Adam’s phone, “we need to talk about this before you make a commitment to watching him.”
“I already told my teacher I would,” he whines.
“You’re an idiot,” Alicia tells him. “You can’t tell your teacher until you get a note from your parents. That’s the rule.”
&nb
sp; “No it’s not.” He holds his fork as if it’s a weapon. “And you’re a dumb face.”
“Stop with the names,” Adam says. “We’ll work it out.”
Hannah picks up her glass and takes it to the sink. She’s irritated with herself for not being more patient, for not being able to sit and enjoy breakfast with her children. Adam hasn’t done anything wrong, yet she wants to throw something at him. She hates his platitudes—We’ll work it out. She used to have faith in his It’ll be fine and Everything’s okay. But he was lying to himself as much as he was lying to her. And she was a moron for believing him. The glass slips from her hand and breaks in the sink.
“You okay?” Adam asks.
“Fine. Everything’s just perfectly fine.” She gives him another dirty look, then glances at Alicia, whose eyes are squinted. She hasn’t missed the nasty undertones.
Hannah throws out the broken glass. Alicia finishes her cereal. Sam has a bite of scrambled eggs.
“Time for school,” Hannah tells them.
She clears the table. Adam grabs his cell phone, then helps them gather their things.
When he returns from taking them to the bus stop, he comes toward Hannah.
“Sorry about my phone going off,” he says.
She turns on the dishwasher. The whooshing noise is comforting. “Not exactly the best way to role-model no electronic devices.”
“I thought it was off.” He pours himself another cup of coffee and stands next to the counter, his head tucked down.
She detests her irritability, his submissiveness, their worn, tired rhythms, the steps that don’t seem to change.
She sits at the table. Her shoulders slump. Her brain feels like it’s slumping too. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. I thought the group would help, but it turned into a freak show.”
“I’m sorry,” he tells her.
“Bridget said that I push people away. I don’t talk about the specifics of your addiction or the fact that my daughter is a mess and urinated on the floor. The truth is I haven’t been able to talk about much of anything. I just can’t, and I know it makes me seem cold and withholding.” It’s the most open she’s been with Adam in ages.
