The Space Between Promises (4 page)

Chapter Eight

It was he who first confessed his love for me, which looking
back seems a bit ironic. Though we had known each other from our youth, it was in our early twenties that a friendship was formed.

I was grieving Nate, and dating the marine, but Gregory was my soft place to fall in between both men. Often we would lie down next to one another and find comfort in the warmth we shared. I would talk, and he would listen. A man of few words, his mere presence was a comfort to me. He was solidly built. Just shy of six feet, his wide shoulders somewhat disproportionate to his long torso. He was not long-legged, but his stance was sturdy, suggesting a man who could hold his own. His rugged appeal was refreshing to me. He wore an old leather coat, solid polo shirts, and well-worn jeans. His appearance was so unassuming, a contrast to my carefully applied make-up, neat little skirts and tights, and bouncy curled hair. Standing next to one another, we were disjointed. But we were not worlds apart. We connected in a way people could not understand. His unkempt appearance and my pristine appearance were both masks for the same condition; loneliness. And in one another, we found comfort.
"Gregory," I stop him in the hallway of his mother's house where I had waited for him to arrive from work. "Are you busy tonight?" "Depends," he says, and I sense his curiosity is peeked. "Let's go out. Let's go dancing!" I had only to state what I wanted and he quietly conceded, content to see a girlish smile line my face, and the flirtatious bounce of my shoulder-length curls.
We drive to a nearby town, walk the streets lined with pubs, sports bars and clubs, and stop into a popular pub. He settles into a corner table, and I make my way to the dance floor, smiling at him over my shoulder. 'You don't know what you are missing,' my eyes tell him, and he raises his Guinness as a blessing. I close my eyes and escape into the music. I leave Nate far behind, and know that I will survive him somehow. I am aware of my own courage, my own will to survive any pain, my ability to dance alone among strangers. Minutes pass, and the song fades. There is applause for the band and I open my eyes. I look in his direction and to my surprise and vain pleasure Gregory is watching me intently, smiling. I blush. Was there more to that smile than met the eye? This quiet man who seems to find pleasure in my happiness has begun to captivate me. His guarded emotions sparked a fire in me. I will wait for him. Many secrets will unfold in time.
The first of those was the night we laid next to one another, fully clothed, resting side by side on his mother’s bed as she pattered about in the room. "You know that I love you, don't you?" His whisper breaking the peaceful silence. I did not know this, but I do not say that. I was not unused to men falling in love with me. The only one who hadn't was in fact the only one that I had loved. I do not answer him, and for some reason, the silence is not awkward.
 

Love is not always a flood, sweeping us into its powerful current. Sometimes love is a deep water, filling us slowly, one kiss at a time. We are gently moved in its direction, unaware that in its depth, we will find a lasting love. And that this love has the power to hold us beneath the current above. It will steady us, and secure us. But this love is the most difficult to abandon. Because the real strength is not the flood, nor the rapids, but the deep, quiet waters that lie beneath.

Chapter Nine

I peek into the refrigerator and frown. I skimped on groceries this week and am out of meat. It's going to have to be pasta dinner. Because Gregory works evenings, any late night meal requires reheating, which is why I do most meals in the crock pot. I have perfected a beef stew, a spicy chili, a melt-in-your-mouth pulled pork, and I am committed to repeating pot roast and corned beef until I get it just right. I do reserve one night for seafood, which the kids love, and he despises, and one night for homemade pizza or stuffed bread.
After nine years of eating reheated pasta, he came home one night in an uproar, refusing to eat "leftover" pasta. I had assumed his mood was the result of a very bad day at work, so I went ahead the following week and made a pasta dish, as I had once a week for years. He went into a tirade. I never listen to him. I don't care about what he needs. I don't have a job, the least I can do is cook him dinner. Why does he have to tell me over and over that he won't eat leftover pasta? These questions and accusations do not require answers or defense, for if I attempt to speak, he becomes more irate, screaming over me. "Did I tell you?! Did I? Yes! Yes, I told you. Do you have a problem understanding? I wouldn't have to yell at you if you would listen in the first place. I yell so you will hear me." If I try to walk away, he yells, "Get back here. I'm not done with you yet."
I do have a job but because it is not full-time, he refuses to acknowledge it, and there is no point bringing this up. It was 11:30 p.m. and he was yanking open kitchen cabinets, slamming the refrigerator, and yelling. Reduced to tears, I offered to make him anything he wanted, apologizing profusely. I want to tell him that he has eaten leftover pasta for years and that this is an absurd and random personality change. But, somehow, I know this is deeper. It's not the leftover pasta he does not want. It's the leftover me. What is left of me at the end of a harrowing day with three children, balancing a part-time job, alone every night to juggle baths, homework, story-time, maybe a game of checkers? What is left is a pair of worn-out flannel pajama pants and a stained t-shirt, wet hair from a late-night shower pulled back into bun, a tired and drained expression, legs that haven't been shaved for a week, and absolutely no desire to wait up for him to return from work in whatever mood he may be in.
A small knot forms in my stomach as I peer into an almost empty refrigerator only halfway through the week. It is snowing energetically outside and I won't be able to get to the store today. A few years ago, I attempted a homemade macaroni and cheese, and apparently it was not very good, so he claimed he did not care for macaroni and cheese, which I knew was not entirely true because he had eaten it many times at church picnics. I never made it again. Knowing that Gregory's memory is extremely limited, especially when it comes to outbursts, I brave the unthinkable; macaroni and cheese, a pasta dish which will need to be reheated.
If I am clever I can disguise it into a new dish. I use a ziti noodle instead of a macaroni noodle, and I line the casserole dish with onions. I use condensed milk and toss in shredded cheddar, sprinkle salt and pepper, Italian bread crumbs, and bake it for thirty minutes. The result is an absolutely delicious dish. The cheese is golden brown, the sauce thick and creamy and the scent of onion wafts through the kitchen. I taste it, and I know it is worthy. Something out of almost nothing. This is a skill I have honed over the years. And it has served me well. If I have some courage, some kind of job, some hope, some faith, no matter how close to nothing it seems, I am sure I can find myself again. I can reinvent myself with a little of this and a little of that. He will forget the years of pasta and look at me for the first time.

***
He is very quiet tonight. I do not hear him come home, and I don't hear him exchanging war threats over the headset. Most nights, I remain asleep on the couch for several hours, waiting until I hear the bathroom door open and close and know that he's on his way to bed. I will follow him in to bed. Tonight, I turn on the couch and open my eyes. He's staring at the television, not engaged. Thinking.
"Hi babe," I say in a small, groggy voice, one that he thinks is adorable. He returns the greeting. "Is there any dinner?" He asks quietly. "Yes," I say casually, holding my breath for a split second. "Macaroni and cheese. It's on the bottom shelf."
"Oh, I didn't see it." He doesn't refuse it! I breathe a sigh of relief. I go into the kitchen to reheat it, and I pretend to fall back asleep, listening for the sound of his eating. He polishes the entire dish clean, and sets it down. When he stands up and stretches, a sign that he is ready for bed, I pretend to wake up, and I say, "Did you like the macaroni and cheese?" "Yeah, it was good. I liked the onions in it."
I follow him to bed and he wraps his arm around my waist. I listen for the sound of his steady breathing, and I feel the calm that shrouds his body. This is the man I married. Content. Grateful for whatever I cook for him, grateful for a roof over his head and food in his children's bellies. Quiet and unassuming. Appreciative of the small things. He likes to chase me in the kitchen with a towel and smack my rear end with it. He likes to sneak up behind me with an ice cube on my neck. He lives for moments when I bend over to get a dish out of the dishwasher and he can grab my "bum bum,” as the kids call it, since "butt" is not permitted. He loves to tease, and he requires very little of life's acquisitions. He doesn't turn an eye toward another woman; he is not crude or vulgar. His words are few, and they are significant. He is intelligent and prudent.
I live and flourish for this man, yet I die, over and over, for the other, crushed beneath the weight of disapproval and fear, never knowing when his anger will erupt from deep within his core, melting my hope, searing my trust. Changing, always changing, the landscape of our love.

Chapter Ten

They were royal blue, with white-walled tires. Old-fashioned handlebars, no extras. They were perfect.
"Gregory, look!" I gesture excitedly in the sports store. "They are matching bikes! Male and female. I want them! Oh, please say yes!"
There they stood, the perfect shiny couple, new and in love. Matching. Pretty. Bright. Identical vintage style bicycles. In an instant, I envisioned picnics in the park; backpack lunches, cloud-gazing on a blanket. And matching ... yes, matching bikes! They were stunning and impractical all at once, not to mention expensive. But we were young, without huge financial responsibility, and had outgrown our childhood and teenage bicycles long ago.
He stands in front of them, studying them, no doubt imagining himself, a rugged individualist, on one of these sissy blue and white bikes. I wrap my arms around his waist behind him, stand on tiptoes and plead in his ear. "Please, I just love them!"
"Whatever you want, babe. If it makes you happy." "Yes, yes!" I squealed like a child wheeling around to face him. He pats me on the back, not convinced. "Okay, then, let's buy us some ... blue ... and white ... bikes."
I jump up and hug him, and this reaction always seems to melt him. How could I find happiness with any other man? He loves seeing me smile and whatever is in his means to bring me happiness, he gives it.
"Okay, stand right there," I direct, later on. "Put one hand on the handlebar ... Yeah, yeah, like that ... Put your other hand on you hip. Okay, good. Wait, move to the middle a little bit. I want to get both bikes in the picture. Perfect. Smile."
The house is quiet. I am dusting. One by one, I pull out the outdated photo albums that catalogued our three years of dating. I have to give this shelf a good cleaning. For too many years I have dusted around them, without any interest to peek inside. They seemed to hold a certain magic that I had forgotten long ago. Who were these people? I imagined it would be painful to remember, so I neatly file each one on the shelf. The strange thing is, the heart doesn't forget, and I know that in the ivory floral album are the pictures of a devoted fiancé in a knight's costume, kneeling before his princess as a prelude to a harvest party. I know there are pictures of sunny afternoon hikes in the forest. A hand crafted spud gun he was so proud of. And pictures of those frivolous, shiny bikes. Each album holds some key to happiness. Along the way, I seemed to have forgotten how to unlock that door. My heart is sealed. I do not want to open them. It will hurt too much to see our love, raw, unharmed. These are my "ever-after" albums, and the magic remains tucked inside. I push back the thought. I am not ready for it. It will cost me everything. The key is forgiveness.

Chapter Eleven

Margaret Catherine-Clare had come wiggling into the world on a summer evening, following an uncomplicated and routine delivery. I nearly snatch her from the nurse's clutch and put her immediately to my breast to nurse. She was absolutely perfect in every way. I remember thinking she wasn't quite as refined as her brother had been at birth, but she was in fact, perfect.
Everyone peeked, cooed and sighed, and she was back in the custody of the nursing staff. I hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, and just before I drifted into sleep, I felt the warmth of his body as he leaned down to kiss my cheek. "You did great, baby," he whispered tenderly, and I remember smiling and sinking into slumber. He brushed my hair off my forehead with a gentle touch, and I knew that he was once again, feeling that immense pride, relief, joy and beauty of becoming a father. And this time, to a girl. The girl I had always dreamed of. My Maggie.
I spent two blissful days in the hospital with her, interrupted only by a few visits. Gregory and Sam came both days to see us, and then happily retreated to the man-cave they were enjoying in my absence.

All I had wanted to do was hold and nurse her, stare at her and touch her. The feeling of joy was immeasurable. I couldn't believe this was my baby girl, stripped of the hospital attire and clad in pink and lavender ruffled pajamas that arrived one by one in stiff, bright gift bags.
The months that followed were dreamy. I was no longer working, and I was able to nurse her and be there for each miracle of growth as it unfolded. I was the happy mom of two precious children, the "million-dollar" family as it's often called, and somehow, I failed to notice that weekly expenditures such as groceries and fuel for the car were habitually being put on the credit card, and the mounting bill, worse still, did not frighten me.
I would go to work eventually and the first thing would be to pay off the debt. My place was in the home, I reminded myself. It would all work out. Gregory was happy that I was home, caring for the children. Dinner was on the table every evening. He was working day shifts. I would sing while folding laundry. I painted the living room and bedroom while the kids napped. He called me his little squirrel, bustling about the place, nesting. For the first time in a few years, our lives were happy. And I was determined to keep it that way, no matter the cost.
In this case, the price was deception. He never knew about the mounting credit card debt. I would keep it secret as long as I could. I could not imagine anything shattering our happiness. But that day would come, and it would seem that the damage was irreparable. Gregory's tolerance would take a nose dive, and what had been a handful of angry outbursts would become more frequent, fueled by resentment and betrayal. And the Gregory that I loved would fade into a distant backdrop. The curtain would close and a new scene would unfold. I would lose my resolve, shrinking under the weight of his bitterness, and Nate would enter my world again, in my mind, where I had a voice.

***
The interesting thing about a secret is that you fear both the secret itself and you fear its discovery. You fear the lonely prison that comes from keeping the secret, never knowing when you will be discovered, only to feel a moment's freedom before you are delivered into the prison that waits. And so it was for me. Two years I would awake every morning and wonder if this would be the day Gregory would ask for a credit card bill, or ask how many cards I had taken out in his name without his knowledge, or ask how much debt we were in. And one day, when Maggie was just over a year old, he did.
On his way out the door, he stands on the stairwell and casually asks, "Exactly how much debt are we in?" The weight of his words strikes me quickly and painlessly. In a moment's time, I would feel a single breath of freedom, and I would exchange the shackles of the secret for a new prison. I would not waste my moment deliberating, excusing, or attempting to explain. I take that single precious breath and say clearly, without hesitation. "Ten thousand."
He doesn’t say a word, and when he walks silently out the door, I know it was the last brave thing I would do. All credibility, trust and faith were lost. It was out now, no longer my private burden to bear, although he would inflict the worst sort of punishment, and assume none of the burden.
The months that followed were a blur. I couldn't eat or sleep. I would hide when he was home, and shake all over when he entered a room I was occupying. He would ignore me for days, refusing to speak, and those days were the blessing. Other times I was not so fortunate. On those days he'd back me into a wall by inching closer and closer, and he’d scream at me, never touching me, but breaking my spirit just the same. "You're lazy! You refuse, absolutely refuse to obey me and get a job. We are sinking, drowning, and still! ... Still you refuse to work."
Within a few months I take the first job I can find, but it is only part-time and barely pays for groceries, so he is not swayed. Still, I keep the job for more than two years, pretending that the little money we were putting into a debt program was going to free us. It was not. But what else could I do but try to pacify him. He would go into quiet hibernation for a month or two where he would be docile, and then, he would emerge again, raging about my failures as a woman and a wife. "You call this a pizza? Throw some sauce and cheese on it and stick it in the oven? You can't even set the timer? Zero effort. That's what I get? That's what I'm worth to you? Throw it away. Make me some real food. Now. Comprende? I said, COMPRENDE?" "Yes, I understand. I understand you completely," I whisper, making my way to the kitchen where I would stand at the sink, feeling my chest tighten.

In many ways, I already knew it was over between us. His contempt for me was profound, and his behavior toward me equally unforgiving. How could we ever get back to the place where we once stood? It's not as if words can be undone, or threats can be forgotten. It wasn't the debt that killed us. We never really had a chance from the beginning. He brought the anger into the marriage, and I would ignore the isolated threats and tirades once or twice a year. But this time, I was guilty of wrong-doing and because of it, he was free to unleash the beast he silently carried since he was a boy.
"You are not my wife anymore. I want nothing to do with you," he said one day, removing his wedding band. "I will look for an apartment. Until then, I will stay with Finn." I begged him to stay, kneeling at his feet, thinking only of Maggie and Sam. I refused to accept that our marriage was over, and he made no promises. He remained, as I knew he would, but when I asked if he still loved me, his answer was, "I don't know," and from those three simple words, I never quite recovered.

***
It would be the first of many secrets I would keep from Gregory, and not the first that he would discover. During those horrific months, I lost all feeling as a woman. There were no adoring touches, no compliments, and no love-making. There was the occasional, emotionally disconnected consummation, which generally ended with unbidden tears that were quickly wiped so he would not discover them. The only thing worse in my estimation than being crushed by the one you love, is that person knowing that they have succeeded.
 

It was my sheer stubbornness and will to survive his battering that gave me strength to pretend that I felt nothing. And some times, what frightened me was that I didn't have to pretend at all. Sometimes I felt nothing. And in a way, I guess I was grateful.
Loneliness is quiet enemy. It first wraps you in a deceptive shroud of self-pity, which is an ointment to the wound. Then, it blankets your mind with endless possibilities, giving you a sense of false freedom to pursue them. And finally, it girds you with a heightened sense of courage, layered with justification to act on the very thing you have concocted to do. This is how I came to search out Nate.
He was in fact, merely a click away on any given search engine, but it had been years since I had imagined who he turned out to be. I had known he was married, as there had been a brief time over e-mail that we connected and shared the knowledge of our newly-married status. I was told that she knew who I was and that he and I had communicated, proving to me what a marvelous and faithful husband he was, apparently. But since that time, the children came and I had been at the business of family and love.
Heavy loneliness consumed me and when Maggie was in for her nap, and the house was quiet, I sought him out. I considered messaging him, but to what end? My marriage was a wreck, and the picture of him hugging two small children led me to believe that his was not. I stared at the picture for a long time, wondering how it is that some people find happiness and others do not. And deciding that attempting contact was both an embarrassing and exceedingly poor idea, I abandoned all thought of it, giving Loneliness a good, swift kick. Beating it back, one moral battering at a time.
Oddly, my innocence was misconstrued as absolute proof of guilt when Gregory happened upon the recent search on the computer. He would have no reason to believe me, after all, given I had essentially stolen ten thousand dollars of his credit and by omission, lied about it every single day for two years. He was sitting in his recliner, staring straight ahead when I entered the living room.
"What's wrong?" I ask innocently, the grave suspicion that he has discovered yesterday's indiscretion sinking into the pit of my stomach. "Think about it. You're a smart woman," was his passive response. How typical. When I am the one to confront, direct, to the point, no room for gray. Not Gregory. He loves the game, the agony and mental anguish that come from guessing which one of your crimes he has discovered and what your punishment might be. And if he is especially lucky, you might admit to the wrong crime and it's a bonus for him. Two punishments, two excuses to spend more time at Finn's, two reasons to feed the growing anger inside him.
I refuse to play. "Well, I have no idea what you are talking about," I respond flippantly as I turn on my heels. "Don't you?" is his casual reply. I ignore it, and leave the room, steadying my shaking hands by wiping down the kitchen counter, busying myself in the kitchen.

This would go on for a few days, neither of us relenting. He refuses to ask me any direct questions, and I refuse to continue to ask why I am a victim of his brooding silence. Both of us know why. And so, realizing I have nothing to lose, and actually gain the credibility of not caring what he thinks, I say, "This is about Nate, and there's no sense in either of us pretending." I see that he is surprised by my open, casual admission, and he quickly works to gain composure. He tries to appear satisfied that he has wormed the information out of me, but as he quietly shifts his gaze from mine, I see something in his eyes that is unfamiliar to me. Pain.
 

***
Although I feel as though I have no reason to feel guilty, given the maltreatment I am suffocating under, I feel a stab of regret for having inflicted a fresh wound to the man I still love. I have no idea why, or how, but try as I might, I cannot fall out of love with him. And the knowledge that I have caused him pain is bittersweet. With it, comes the knowledge that he loves me. He can say that he does not, he can question his own heart, but the truth flickers in his eyes like a single match's flame in the midst of the storm. There is no denying what I see. He loves me, I am sure of it.
In a few days I would softly approach him, and I would sincerely apologize for what I had done. I would assure him that I had not attempted any contact with Nate, nor did I intend to. He would balk at my apology, pretend he was not hurt by my omission, contend that my intentions were dishonorable, and I would leave it be, knowing that in his heart, he knows the woman he married. She is loyal, she is his alone. There was never another man that she made love to, and there never would be. He would take comfort in that, all the while maintaining that she could never hurt him. What I didn't foresee was that I addition to all of this, he would tenderly look me in the eye and say, "I understand. I know he is your first love." And I would be speechless. There was a saying that I happened upon one afternoon, "I married the one my soul loves." And it is true. Gregory is the one my soul loves, so deeply, nothing can separate it. But Nate, he was the man who unknowingly stole my heart. And so it would be, that I would say to him, "Gregory, you are my whole world. You and the kids are everything, and it is you that I love."
This is the moment that some healing will begin. It will prove to be an excruciating and slow process, riddled with doubt, unanswered questions and hateful words splattered along the way. It will stop entirely at times, and we would function in an ambivalent bubble, unmoved by time or space. And then something will spark within us, and that bubble would break. We will feel free to love in the moment, leaving the mess behind. And in one of those very moments, a few years later, Tessa is conceived.

***
I am positive this baby is a boy, and we agreed readily on a name; Charles. But on the off-chance it was a girl, we were stuck mid-way between my choice, Cordelia, and Gregory's choice, Theresa, after his mother. The gap was hopelessly wide and having felt as though I had lost so much leverage over the years, I remained silent on this issue, believing it would have been an argument in vain.
It is an interminable pregnancy, grievously endured, as one form or another of infection yields discomfort and difficulty. Repeatedly misdiagnosed and advised that discomfort was inherent to pregnancy, I was shooed from office visits, only to end up hospitalized with yet another infection.
She was finally delivered; a day I thought would never arrive, and only after the doctor succeeded in manually breaking my water, a process which drove me straight up to the head of the bed screaming.
"We'll call her Tessa," I inform him, as I lay her in the bassinet. He squirms a bit, as I recline in the bed, content to have her rest in her little plastic palace.
"Aren't you going to hold her?" He asks. "She's fine," I respond, avoiding his intent stare. He waits a moment and reaches into the bassinet, and it was in that moment, I believe, that she became forever his.
My heart aches for Maggie, my beautiful girl; spunky, smart, cute as anything. Her life will change. It will always be shared with a sister. Her successes will be measured against Tessa's, her beauty, her personality; every part of her will stand in comparison. And Sam, so sweet in every way, had won the hearts of all whose lives he touched. No brother or sister would take that from him. But Maggie, my Maggie, she stood to lose so much. She is quiet as she enters the room, and is it sadness that I see in her eyes? Sam swiftly and gently approaches, eager to see his new baby sister, but Maggie remains aloof, occupied with a little toy she had brought with her.