So while you’re wrestling with your demons—while you’re battling a disease that has sublimated your art as it has undermined your strength—I’ve been moping around on my side of the globe. Pouting about plane rides and craving silly things.
And as I write the inane details of my life to you, I realize again how slight and wan they are. You’ve chosen weight and vibrancy and I’ve fallen into this. That’s just one urge you’ve lit in me. To live more as you do. That and a desire, broad and mobile, for a face-to-face that fuels and frightens me. Twenty-two years without contact. Twenty-two years with only the faintest, occasional curiosity about where you might be. And then a rush of “this” and it’s as if you never left. Thank you for that. I miss you too …
I sat motionless, my elbows propped on the table, my chin on my clasped hands … as if in prayer. I listened to the crows fighting over something on the roof. Heard the strident honking of horns on the street just up the alley. My seething had slithered into a darker, safer recess of my mind. I felt it there, stirring ever so slightly when memories of Sam’s words revived it, coiled for a resurgence. Writing to Aidan had subdued it for a time, but I knew it would rush forth again if nothing in me changed.
I knew my resentment skewed my thinking, distorted my interpretation, and set my attitude on edge. I knew I needed to eliminate it. Not just ignore or control it. I knew the steps to take—prayer, repentance, apology, grace, reconciliation. But something treacherous prevented me from taking them, a strange hybrid of pride and guilt and juvenile insurrection.
Sullivan’s offer and Aidan’s illness had fused into a forward-straining energy that had felt indomitable until Sam’s quiet dismissal. In its absence, I felt hollowed out and miserable.
I sat at the table while the sun swept shadows from one side of the room to the other, impervious to the falling temperature and the dimming of the lights. I sat there long after they’d gone out completely. Waiting. Berating myself. Urging my mind to calmness and my heart to stillness. Tamping down the rebellion that surged, righteous and impassioned, if I lowered my guards for even a moment.
Sam entered around suppertime. And still I sat at the dining room table, hands clasped, mind unsettled.
“Honey?” I heard him call from just inside the door. He found me moments later. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” He located the matches and the candle in their designated spot on the window ledge and soft light filled the dining room. “Are you okay?” he asked when he could see my face.
He installed himself at the other end of the table and leaned back in his chair, head cocked, considering me.
“I need to accept those tickets,” I said.
Sam dropped his head.
I went on. “I realize that you might not feel the need to leave here yet. I also understand your concerns about the way an expensive trip like this might be perceived.” I congratulated myself on keeping my tone low and measured. “I realize that you’ve made promises to the villages and need to keep your rotation going until monsoon season. I know all that.”
He looked at me and frowned his confusion.
“But … I need to accept those tickets.”
Disapproval flickered in his gaze. He sat forward and leaned on the table. “Lauren …”
I put my hand up to stop him, surprised to see my fingers shaking. My voice was strained and low as I said, “I have fought you on nothing, Sam.” I locked onto his eyes and plowed on, determined to get this out now, while I still had the courage. “I didn’t fight you when this ‘calling’ turned our worlds upside down. I didn’t fight you when even our trusted friends tried to convince you that your approach to it was foolhardy. I didn’t fight you when our savings were dwindling and you stopped working anyway. I didn’t fight you when you bulldozed over our son’s emotions in your zeal to get us here.”
“Lauren,” he tried again. But I wasn’t finished.
“I didn’t fight you when you decided that I’d be a part-time teacher so you could be a full-time missionary. Or when you decreed that we didn’t need any of the luxuries other expats here call necessities. Or when you decided that your ministry required longer, more frequent absences. Or when that meant that I’d be left here for three weeks at a time, being mother and father to a disintegrating son. Or when you came back every time for seven days but started to drift out again after just two. I didn’t fight you on any of that. But I want to fight you for this. I want us to accept those tickets and get away from here for a while. Please, Sam.”
“We committed to four years—”
“Did you hear anything I just said?” I was appalled. “All I ask now, after years of getting here and two years of surviving here … All I ask now is that we accept a free gift and give ourselves a couple weeks away from a place that might have enthralled you, but has nearly destroyed this family.”
“Destroyed our family?”
“You don’t see it?”
“I know it’s been hard, but we’re doing okay.” He saw my disbelief. “We are.”
“I need to accept those tickets,” I said again. More loudly this time. It didn’t matter, in that moment, how he perceived the wellness of our family. All that mattered was getting away for a while.
He looked at me with a mix of concern and adamance. “Lauren, I hear what you’re saying. I do. It’s just … It’s not sitting right with me,” he said, as if he’d articulated an unassailable argument.
A shiver of anger ran down my spine. “I’m not asking it to sit right with you. I’m telling you this is something I need.”
He scratched the back of his head, let out a slow breath, and tried again. “Maybe if we pray about it, we’ll gain some more clarity.”
“Tell me the truth, Sam. Do you have any expectation that a few days of prayer are going to change your mind?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
I don’t know how much time passed as we stared across the table at each other. Sam’s gaze was assured and unflinching, while I knew mine was stubborn but wavering—conviction and desperation locked in a standoff.
And then …
I felt myself concede even before my mind admitted its defeat. Everything I knew to be true about my husband pointed to one conclusion: he wouldn’t give in. His verdict would stand. Despite my desperation—despite the validity of my arguments and the urgency of Ryan’s need—I again succumbed to the tyranny of submission. Frustration hardened into hostile resignation. I released the reprieve.
I tried to curb my anger as I looked across the table to where Sam sat. My wedding vows taunted me.
“All right,” I finally said, depleted by surrender. I saw relief flash in his eyes. “We’ll stay here because you want us to. Because you command us to.”
My fingers were stiff with anger as I opened the laptop in front of me, pulled up Skype, and typed in Sullivan’s name.
“You do realize it’s six in the morning, right?” Sullivan’s sleep-roughened drawl. She clicked the camera off before I could see her.
“I’m sorry, Sullivan,” I said stonily.
“Lauren,” Sam began, but I put up a peremptory hand.
I could hear bed linens shifting. “Lauren?” There was concern in Sullivan’s voice. Sam ran a hand over his face and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
“Sam and I are sitting here, Sullivan,” I said, hearing how the hardness in my voice contrasted with the lightness of my words, “and we thought I should call you right away to tell you how much we appreciate your offer, but we’re going to have to reject it.” Reject. The word jarred with the rest of the sentence. Sam winced a little.
“I … okay?” Sullivan sounded confused.
“Please tell everyone how grateful we are. It’s just that we can’t have anyone thinking we’re being frivolous. Same reason we don’t have a car and a bunch of other things that aren’t really necessities. We’re missionaries after all. Saving the world one sacrifice at a time. That’s our motto and we’re sticking to it.” I look
ed at Sam as I went on, allowing Sullivan no time for comments or questions. “So that’s it from here, Sullivan. We’re so sorry for waking you up and we hope you can get back to sleep.”
I clicked to end the call, shut the laptop, and headed for the roof.
The tears came, rough and ragged, while I paced on the roof. But guilt now outweighed anger and frustration—not about my attitude or the way I’d spoken to Sam. I knew my resistance was warranted and protective, and I felt no qualms about it. But I had realized, halfway through my call to Sullivan, that I’d never really stood up to Sam. I hadn’t ever fought for myself or my son, not with the intent of seeing it through and not in any of the crises and turning points that had fractured our family. I might have balked and doubted, but I had never stood my ground.
Looking back, I saw milestone after milestone when I could have challenged Sam, pointed out the holes in his reasoning, or contradicted his conclusions. When courage might have lent clout to my convictions. And now it was too late. I’d surrendered the right to stand up for myself and Ryan by failing to exercise it. I’d let my vows enslave me and my cowardice define me.
Now I was lost to this straitjacket reality in which even righteous rebellion had no place.
When Sam joined me on the roof, his shoulders were hunched and his eyes hollow. Surprise and sadness mingled in his gaze. I’d never believed more clearly that he loved me—nor had I ever resented it more.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
“I hate myself,” I said.
“Lauren …”
I went over to the edge of the roof and stared into the darkness. “I should have fought,” I said. “I should have fought you the moment I noticed Ryan slipping away. I should have stepped between you and your … your divine appointment with Nepal at the first hint that it was sucking the happiness out of our son.” I swiped at the traitorous tears undermining my courage.
“What are you—?”
I turned and leaned back against the railing. “It’s been over two years. Two years.” My own laughter startled me. It was humorless and pathetic. “Two years of hell in this place you call home.” I shook my head at my own inadequacy and raised my hands in a gesture of defeat. “I didn’t sign up for this, Sam. I signed up for you—and you were supposed to be the man who protected me and looked out for me and stood like a—a fortress between our son and anything that could possibly harm him.”
Sam turned tortured eyes toward me. “I—Lauren, I thought … I didn’t know.”
“How could you not?”
“You never told me.”
“Sam … I did. I did.”
He cleared his throat. “When have you ever told me you were this unhappy?”
“What?” I was dumbfounded. “After the monsoon, for one! Have you forgotten the monsoon?”
“You were sick,” he said. “I thought it was your illness speaking.”
“And every other time?”
He grasped my shoulders and looked into my face with concern, but no trace of concession. “I thought it was just part of your processing.”
I turned out of his grasp and wiped my tears with shaking hands. Took a couple breaths. And wondered how it had come to this. Aidan’s voice rose out of the tangle in my mind: “Love the ones you’re with.” I hated the words. I hated the conviction they shoved to the forefront of my thoughts. Love, at the moment, felt like the enemy.
I stood by the bird feeder and waited until I was sure I could speak. This was the life I had chosen—and rechosen—at every turn. This was the life to which I had committed. This was the man to whom I had submitted.
My loyalty to this marriage convicted and dismantled me.
“It’s okay, Sam.” My voice was thin but calm when I finally spoke. “I want to take those tickets Sullivan is offering with every cell in my body.” My guilt receded as my grief increased. I seized the shreds of the commitments I’d made before discomfort, before displacement, before dissatisfaction. For better or for worse. Vows like a vise. I squeezed Sam’s hand as I brushed passed him on my way to the stairs. “If you say we shouldn’t take them,” I said, “we won’t.”
“Lauren …”
“It’s okay, Sam. Really. It’s okay.”
bit of a downer today. equilibrium is off. headache. taking it easy until we figure out what’s going on. scan coming up, if i can get myself downtown. not until 10:30 a.m. that helps. no art for this boy right now, though, since being upright makes me nauseous. trying to get to the bottom of that and hoping new meds kick in. so … that means more time on the laptop. i’m okay with that.
sullivan. she sounds like my kind of people. i read about your free tickets and my mind flew all over the board. you coming to new york. showing you my favorite dives and haunts. slow-drinking a bottle of cabernet in a smoky bar i found off a back alley in brooklyn. talking. that’s what i’d want. just—talk. no screens. no time zones and busyness. face-to-face and voice to voice. i’m telling you, i was cheering for those tickets.
then i read on. i’ve got to preface this by saying that i have no right to say it. all i know of sam is what you’ve told me. so i may be way off base here, but … what has he been smoking? (kidding.) i’m sure he’s got enough compelling arguments to convince a grand jury, but to this guy lying on a couch in a city on the other side of the world, the thought of free tickets to see friends and family and, well, ‘moi’ sounds like a pretty appealing thing. tell me what time sam’s school lets out and i’ll go beat him up.
sigh … take yourself into consideration too. that’s my cancer-brained advice. you’re just as worthy as the dimwits you care for. me included.
i’m sorry you’re hurting, ren. i wish i could make it right. would you consider skyping sometime? your call. i know it might be weird. if ever you feel the urge—you know where to find me. i’m artist.aidan, fyi.
remember the question we always had to answer at the beginning of creative writing class? what is the current color and texture of your mind …
mine’s wedgewood blue vellum right now. with a faint ochre light shining through.
what’s yours?
still …
a
I let Aidan’s affirmation smooth a spirit wearied by emotion. If he was ochre-glowed blue vellum, I was the scabrous surface left behind by a lumbering glacier. I felt crushed, plowed, raked over. Pulverized sandstone.
I went downstairs, slipped on my shoes, and headed for the gate. Then I realized there was really nowhere to go. I craved quiet and order. A place to hide away. Until now, I’d found a pale facsimile inside my home—mostly quiet, mostly orderly. But now even it felt hostile and unsafe, inhabited with a good so stark it left no room for need.
A hammock swung between two trees in the far corner of our yard, hung there in the early days when we’d dreamed of an inner-city oasis bursting with marigolds and jasmine. But Sam was the gardener in our family, and with his frequent absences, our oasis aspirations had turned dull and modest. A few sweet peas here. Some pink makhmali there. And a hammock that swayed, deserted in a corner, the vestige of ambitions past.
I installed myself in the hammock, my eyes on the tangle of branches intersecting above me. I wanted to pray. I wanted to seek counsel and solace as I had since childhood in the swells and silences of communication with God. But somewhere in the last few weeks, I’d lost the words. To some degree, I’d lost the inclination too. I feared the loss and cheered it. Feared it because I felt bereft without it. Cheered it because it forced me somewhere new—somewhere uncharted. The danger felt liberating.
Sullivan’s eyes were wide and anxious. “What was that?” She stared at me through the screen.
I didn’t even try to laugh it off. I lacked the energy for subterfuge. The last couple of days had been a testament to that, and I’d resorted to saying nothing, the poor man’s version of self-control.
“Everything’s okay,” I said to Sullivan. “I just wanted you to know. We’re fine. Hit a rough patch there bu
t … we’re fine.”
“Chickadee …” Botox fought the frown trying to draw her eyebrows together with concern. “You need to put in some time practicing your facial expressions in front of a mirror. What I’m seeing is a lot of things, but ‘fine’ isn’t one of them.”
I hung my head. “We’re going to be fine,” I amended.
“Anything I can do from eight thousand miles away?”
I shook my head. “I think we’re just hitting the two-year mark and responding differently. That’s all.”
“You realize those tickets weren’t a package deal, right? You need to get away for a while, just say the word. Or you and Ryan.”
“I’m just tired,” I said to Sullivan. I tried for a courageous smile. “It’ll pass.” The optimism in my voice sounded genuine even to my ears. Practice makes perfect.
“Lauren …”
I thought a change of topic might steer us in a less precarious direction. “Everything okay with you? And Dudley?”
She laughed that deep-throated, rich laugh that spoke of Sullivan’s less public side. “That’s an obvious deflection, my friend, but yes, we’re doing well.”
We talked about sunny things for a few minutes, then the conversation drifted to her efforts to secure the thousands of dollars still missing from our water fund. That was something else I’d come to resent—that blurred line between ministry partner and friend. I needed the latter, on this day more than others, and as Sullivan caught me up on her fund-raising efforts on our behalf, I felt again the sting of something stolen from me.
“My friend is dying,” I blurted when she took a breath during a soliloquy about the hypocrisy of the rich. The words came out in spite of me and with no warning. Panic coursed ice down my spine.
“Come again?” She squinted at the screen in front of her and I knew she saw my fear. “Lauren?”
Of Stillness and Storm Page 18
