by Kelly Rimmer
“We’ll need to get the house ready either way,” I say slowly. I skip my gaze around the table, but this time avoid my husband’s eyes. “We can get help in for the painting and the gardening, but sorting through Dad’s things is going to be the hardest part. Maybe I should take that on, since you’re all so busy.”
“Wait—aren’t you going back to work soon?” Jeremy asks. I knew that lie was going to come back to bite me.
I clear my throat and say noncommittally, “Soon. But not quite yet.”
“You can’t do the whole house, Beth. That’s not fair.” Tim frowns.
“I...” I glance quickly around my siblings, then back to my plate as I shrug. “I’m the only one of us who can make time. And I kind of want to do this. For Dad.”
“You’d have to let us all help around work,” Ruth says. I glance up at her, and find she’s staring at me. I don’t like it. She’s too sharp and it feels like she’s looking through me. I pick up my fork and begin to push the food around on my plate, just so I can avoid her gaze. “And of course, when you need contractors, I can arrange them.”
“Good,” I say, still looking down.
“Are you sure, Beth?” Tim asks, very gently. I nod firmly then force a smile before I raise my gaze to look at him.
“Noah is five months old, guys. I’m ready for a project.”
Now everyone is looking at me. I feel my cheeks heating.
“It’s just...you’re sure you’re up to this, Beth?” Jeremy says eventually. The words drip with awkwardness, and I scowl at him.
“What? Of course I am.” Oh, God, please let me do this. I just want to feel useful again. “I had a baby, Jez. I’m not the one with the terminal diagnosis here.”
“Hunter?” my sister prompts carefully, and I gape at her.
“Seriously, Ruth? Did I time warp back to the 1950s? Did you seriously just ask my husband to give me permission to do something?”
“Of course she didn’t,” Hunter sighs. “Let’s talk about this later.”
“No, Hunter,” I say flatly. “Let’s talk about it now.”
“Talk about it all you want, guys, but I’m too jet-lagged to watch you two battle it out tonight, so can you do it at home?” Jeremy interjects.
“Like you can talk,” Tim snorts. “You’re the one who’s been picking fights all night.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ruth groans, rubbing her eyes wearily. “If this is how family dinners are going to be without Dad, can we just forget about the tradition altogether?”
The reminder of that empty chair is the slap in the face we all needed, and the squabbling stops immediately.
“Sorry,” I whisper, after a while. Around the table there are echoes of me, too, except from Ellis. I’m pretty sure he’s actually reading, because although he’s still sitting with us, he’s been silently staring at his lap for a long while now and every now and again I hear the faint rustle of pages. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s mentally checked out of a family function to disappear into a book, and I guess that’s what Ruth gets for marrying a librarian.
“So the plan is that we clear out the house, tidy things up...then decide what to do with the property once it’s all done?” Jeremy asks quietly.
“In the meantime, we can all think about whether or not we can chip in to cover Dad’s health care bills,” Tim suggests.
“Andrew’s confirmation service is at St. Louise’s next weekend,” Ruth says suddenly, speaking about her eldest son. “Let’s have one last family lunch here after Mass.”
“We can bring Dad back for that, if he’s ready for a day-leave by then,” Jeremy says, and that reminds me...
“Ruth, you left me off the roster this week. When do you want me to go visit Dad?”
My sister stiffens again, then offers me a thin smile.
“I thought you might like a little break before you dive right into all that.”
“What? Why?” I ask blankly. It was deliberate? That makes no sense at all. If the doctors are right, we don’t have much time left with Dad. And even if they’re wrong, I’ve seen how fast he’s declining. God only knows what his condition will be in two weeks. Besides, Dad and I are incredibly close. He’s going to notice if I don’t go in to see him.
“We should get going,” Hunter says quietly as he rises. “We said we’d pick Noah up from Mom’s by nine.”
“I want to go see Dad,” I say stubbornly. No one says anything, and I sigh impatiently. “Look, I’m going in with or without your approval and I know you’re all busy so you may as well swap.”
“Go on Wednesday in Alicia’s place,” Tim says eventually. I nod at him curtly, and then rise beside my husband. I glance at my sister again, and find she’s staring at her wineglass.
“I’ll start straightaway on the house, but I’ll pack up this room last,” I say with a frown. “In case he comes home for lunch with us next week, we should try to keep things nice and normal for him.”
“It’s settled, then,” Ruth sighs, resigned. “You start the process, but promise me you’ll call us for help when you need it.”
“Fine.”
I glance at Hunter, and I’m wholly unsurprised to see him staring into space, his face set in a grim mask.
“What are you thinking, Beth?”
We’re on our way home. Hunter is driving, his face set in a stony mask as he stares ahead at the road. It’s raining heavily, and now isn’t the time for an argument because he needs to concentrate on driving. I keep my tone mild as I reply.
“It’s just that someone has to get the house ready, that’s all. The others are all so busy—”
“And so are you.”
“Not really,” I say. “Not compared to them.” I pause, then can’t help but frown as I ask, “And what was all of that about anyway? Since when does everyone treat me like I have leprosy?”
Hunter sighs heavily, then runs one hand through his hair. His hairline has just started to recede, something he’s philosophical about. When we first noticed the hair loss eighteen months ago, we were in a very different place. I remember tentatively raising the issue as we were getting dressed in the bathroom one morning, and, shirtless, he’d flexed his muscles and told me not to worry, he’d still be just as irresistible once he was bald as a bowling ball. When I laughed, he chased me into the bedroom, his cheeks still covered in shaving cream, cornering me near the bed and kissing me playfully. I washed my face and reapplied my makeup but I smelled like his shaving cream all day, and between appointments with my clients, I’d pause to enjoy the scent and think about him.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asks me hesitantly.
“Better than what?” I scowl.
“Beth. You haven’t been yourself for months, and whenever we ask if you’re okay, you change the subject.”
“We?” I repeat, eyebrows drawing down. “Who is this ‘we’?”
“Me and Ruth. And the boys. Everyone can see it. Is it your dad?”
“Is what my dad? I just had a baby, Hunter. I’m allowed to be tired.”
Hunter doesn’t reply. Instead, he drives in silence for a while. Part of me wants to argue more, but I’m not sure I want to delve into this too deeply. I’m not myself, but I’m definitely not ready to explain to him where my mind is at. When we’re a few blocks from home, he speaks again, so suddenly that I startle.
“I assume, since you’re so keen to sort out your dad’s house, you really think a project is going to help?”
“There’s nothing to help,” I sigh impatiently. “I’m fine. But I do want to do this for Dad and it’s not a big deal. It needs to be done, and if someone doesn’t take it on, the task will linger for months.”
“I’ve been thinking that maybe you should see someone.”
“See who?”
“See a psychologist, Beth,” he sa
ys. I gape at him.
“Do you want to ruin my career?” I ask him incredulously.
“Do you?” he fires back.
“If the directors knew I was in therapy, I won’t have a job to go back to.”
“Come on, Beth. That’s hardly—”
“That’s the reality of it, Hunter!”
He pauses, and I think he’s going to try to debate with me about whether or not there’s a stigma around mental health professionals seeking mental health treatment. I’m getting ready to point out to him that he’s a lawyer, and what would he know, but he draws in a sharp breath, then asks very quietly,
“So if your career wasn’t a factor, you would talk to someone?”
The question catches me off guard, and I stare at him, momentarily unsure how to answer. My problem is my circumstances, not my thought processes. And maybe I’d love to talk through the tangled mess of worries I’m drowning in lately, but I just don’t have the energy, and even if I did, I can’t bear the thought of admitting aloud to another human being some of the stupid things that have been going through my head.
“No,” I say stiffly. “You’re wrong about this. I don’t need therapy. I just need time.”
There’s a terse, awkward pause, then I relax as Hunter softens his tone and changes the subject again.
“So you’re going to pack your father’s house up this week? And next, I guess. It’ll take a while.”
“Yes, I think that’s for the best.”
“And are you taking Noah with you, or were you planning on asking my mom to babysit him for days on end?”
I turn to stare out the window, embarrassed that he’s seen right through the reason I was so quick to volunteer for this arduous and painful job. I like it when Chiara takes Noah for a few hours. She’s an amazing mother and she’s incredibly comfortable with him—so much more capable than I am. I feel like he’s safer with her, but there’s no way I’m going to admit that to Hunter. Now it’s my turn to fall silent, and I stare sullenly out the window, planning a hasty retreat into the bathroom as soon as we get home. I’m not much of a crier, but I feel pressure and heat behind my eyes, and maybe I do need to leak a few tears tonight.
When we pull into our driveway a few minutes later, Hunter reaches across and rests his hand on my forearm. I’m not sure the expression on my face won’t entirely give me away, so I don’t turn to face him.
“Just think about talking to someone, babe. It seems like you really don’t feel like you can talk to me,” he murmurs. I open my mouth to deny this, but then I close it again. Once upon a time, I had no filter when it came to Hunter. I’d share any thought that crossed my mind, and I’m pretty sure he felt the same way. There’s no denying that’s changed since Noah was born. Hunter’s hand contracts around my arm, gently squeezing. “If you’re worried about your clinic finding out, I’ll help you find somewhere you can be anonymous. Whatever you need, we’ll make it happen.”
“I don’t need therapy,” I whisper insistently. “I know exactly what a therapist would say, and I can say those things to myself for free.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and then Hunter asks, “Well...what would you say to yourself, then?”
“Time,” I croak automatically, as, at last, I turn to face him. “I’d tell myself to just give it more time.”
Hunter nods, kisses me on the cheek and leaves the car. As I swing open my door and step out, I force a brutal moment of internal honesty for the first time in months. I don’t treat adult patients anymore but I did early in my career, and I can easily picture a client sitting in my office voicing my recent struggles. I see myself as an impartial third party, listening and mentally planning my response.
My gut drops when I finally admit what I’d actually say to that client.
It sounds like you’re totally overwhelmed and out of your depth. It sounds like you’re struggling with your dad’s situation, but that’s not the biggest issue you’re battling. It sounds like you’re actively looking for excuses to avoid your son, and you’re not coping at all when you are alone with him. You’re terrified that having Noah was a mistake you can’t undo. Is avoidance really the solution here, though? Let’s talk about other strategies you can employ.
On the porch Hunter and his mother embrace and then I see them talking quietly. As I step out of the car, Chiara flashes me a warm smile and a wave, and I wave back, fixing my brightest smile in return. I’m certain it’s convincing, despite the fact that I’ve just dropped a mental bombshell on myself and my gut is churning. I’m so desperate to get behind that locked bathroom door it’s all I can do to stop myself from sprinting for it. Luckily, the one thing I am quite good at these days is putting on my game face.
“Sweetheart,” Chiara greets me as she takes me into her embrace and kisses both of my cheeks. “Hunter was just telling me you’re going to pack up Patrick’s house over the next few weeks. Of course I’ll watch Noah for you.”
Hunter is watching me closely. Is this some kind of trap? Even if it is, the offer is too enticing to refuse. So much for changing strategies from avoidance.
“Chiara, that would be amazing. Thank you so much.”
Once Chiara is gone and Hunter and I are alone in our living room, I turn my gaze to him.
“I got the impression when we were in the car that you didn’t want me to ask your mom to watch the baby while I’m at Dad’s.”
“You said you need time,” Hunter says, cheeks coloring. “I told you, Beth. Whatever you need, I’ll make it happen.”
I guess if eleven years with Hunter should have taught me anything, it would be that he has my back at all times.
I just can’t help but wonder if he’d still be Mr. Supportive if I told him the truth: that we spent half a decade trying to become parents, and after just five months, I’m convinced it was the biggest mistake of our lives.
Grace
November 2, 1957
I don’t know what I intend to achieve with these little notes. The first time, I actually sat down to write a letter to Maryanne, just as I’d done so many times before. This time I was going to do something new: I was going to tell her the truth. I’ve painted such rosy pictures of our life here over the years, but in this new slump, I was determined to reach across the divide with something real...something raw.
The problem was that when my pen hit paper, I couldn’t bear the thought of my sister knowing. Even after all of this time and even after all of my failures, I’m still proud enough to want her to think I made the right choice in Patrick. I suppose that’s why what came out of my pen that day was more like a letter to myself. I’ve decided it’s for the best. I don’t doubt that if Maryanne knew how bad things are for me, she’d blame him and him alone—she does so love to blame men for everything. In this case, she’d feel he’s proven her right, because she tried so hard to warn me against this life.
I chose Patrick anyway, and that decision has forced a distance between Maryanne and me that I’ve never figured out how to close. In some ways over the past few years, that distance has been a necessary evil. If she knew, she’d probably try to intervene, and I might not have much these days, but at least I have my pride. Plus, I love that Maryanne thinks I’m a good mother. I can’t bear for her to know the truth.
Even so, I had the urge to write to her because although there have been so many things about the past few years that have been difficult, the isolation has been the hardest. The irony of course is that I haven’t been truly alone in well over two years now, given I haven’t had so much as an hour without some company since the twins were born. It’s not even silence I crave. I’m starving simply to be present with someone who doesn’t want something from me. I have reached the point where I don’t fantasize about making love or relaxing or even sleeping anymore. Now I daydream about sitting down with someone who will listen to me—who will understand me.
And, these notes have somehow tricked my brain into thinking I’d been heard by someone, at least for a little while, and I have been doing so much better. Ordinarily, it takes me a few months to rise out of the funk, but after I wrote those notes, something immediately felt a little lighter inside.
Until today, that is. This relapse hit without warning, and it took me back to my very darkest months. Ruth has a bit of a cold and kept waking up because her nose is blocked. I got even less sleep than usual, and maybe that’s what triggered it. All I know is that I was buttering the toast for breakfast and Jeremy and Ruth were fighting and the noise rose all around me like a tidal wave until it took up too much air and suffocated me.
I asked the children to be quiet. I told them to be quiet. I shouted at them to be quiet. I shouted at them to stop. And then I screamed at them to shut up.
That’s when the thoughts came back.
I looked at the knife in my hand and I pictured myself dragging it across the smooth white skin of my wrist. I imagined the dark red blood bubbling up and the silence rushing in. I don’t know how long I stood there, but when those god-awful thoughts finally cleared from my mind, I was standing beside the table in front of my four babies, who were all sitting in terrible silence, staring at their breakfasts with the kind of desperate intensity that only comes from being completely petrified.
I didn’t actually hurt myself this time. I’ve never done something as drastic as cutting my wrists, except for that one night when I—no. I don’t think about that night; it’s too dreadful and too hard. Instead, these days when I feel this stretched, I have developed a coping mechanism, as awful as it may be. I sneak away to the bathroom and I scratch myself, as if breaking the surface of my skin will let all of the frustration bleed out. I always scratch beneath my clothing because I have no idea how I’d explain such a thing. It was bad enough when Patrick saw a mark on my breast and I had to lie and say that Beth had done it when I was feeding her. I was lucky that time, because it was just the smallest little thing. Other times I’ve scratched so hard and so long that my breasts and my belly have been speckled with blood and black-and-blue with bruises. Anything to let the frustration out. Anything to let the sadness out. Because if I bottle it up inside, it finds other ways to burst out of me...like that moment today in the kitchen.
