So Much More (20 page)

When I do my chest still feels hollow, like Miranda took a blunt spoon to it, emptying the cavity of my life force and ability to love or see the good in anything.

Shedding regret like snakeskin

past

I’m standing in what was, up until an hour ago, my master bedroom. It belongs to someone else now. I shouldn’t be here. I signed the closing paperwork and handed over the keys this morning. But I kept one so I could come back and say goodbye.

The room is empty. There are indentations in the carpet where the four-poster bed and dresser stood. An imperfect reminder that there used to be life in this room.

Now it’s quiet.

And cold.

Like me.

The divorce is final. I’ve been in Seattle with Loren for weeks. Living my new life. The life I wanted.

That’s what I keep reminding myself—it’s the life I wanted.

Loren and I were married last night. He arranged for a minister to come to his house to conduct the ceremony. It lasted five minutes. I lied to Seamus and told him we were headed to Europe this morning for an extended honeymoon. There won’t be a honeymoon; we didn’t even go out for dinner afterward.

I close my eyes and let grief and loss and regret overtake me, something I never do. Something I never allow. But that’s why I’m here. It’s been eating at me, and I hate it. I feel like a snake trapped in skin I’m trying to shed, but it won’t fall away. It sticks with me, itchy and uncomfortable. I need to release it so I can move on.
 

I can see Seamus in my mind, so handsome. Hair as dark as midnight and eyes to match. Eyes that didn’t just look upon me, they looked into me. Golden brown skin he received from his mother and a tall, broad frame that could swallow me up when he wrapped me in it.

And now that I can feel his touch again, there are tears in my eyes. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with who made love to me. Even if I didn’t return it, he gave me all of him, his body and his heart, because that’s how he did everything. I took it for granted. I gravitated toward the physicality of sex with others because it was need driven, solely to satisfy an itch. I couldn’t reciprocate love driven. But I realize now how much I loved receiving it.

I traded in love for power.

It wasn’t a fair trade.

Not even close.

I always thought I was the one in control where Seamus was concerned. Fooling him to ensure he participated in our love. I told myself the attention I showed him was brokering. I gave an inch. I gained a mile. Disproportionate, that’s how our relationship functioned. He never noticed, or if he did he never let on because I married a giver, not a taker. He was content receiving a compliment here and there, or a loving touch when I could spare it, or the occasional deep conversation. Seamus was easy, quality over quantity. Presence enthralled him and he made the most of every minute. At the time, I thought I coaxed it out of him with skillful manipulation. Sitting in this room, mired in regret, I wonder if my skillful manipulation was nothing more than Seamus coaxing actual feelings out of me. While I thought I was inciting compliance with orchestrated attention, I was merely reacting to his attention. Craving it, however sparingly.

I’m going to sit in this room and I’m going to cry myself out.

I hate crying and the longer I cry, the angrier I become.

Angry with me. Angry with Loren. Angry with Seamus. Angry with feelings I don’t want to feel. Angry with depression that’s threatening to smother me. Angry with the helplessness and loneliness that’s become my constant companion.
 

Just fucking angry.

And I want everyone else to feel it with me.

Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair

present

Sometimes I drive to our old neighborhood. I never drive by the house Miranda and I owned. I go to the library and mill around. Or I sit in the park and watch toddlers feed stale bread to the birds. Or I go to the grocery store and buy a jar of pickles.

Today I’m doing all three because it makes me feel closer to my kids. I picture them so clearly in my mind when I’m in a familiar setting we used to go too often. I hit the library and park first, and I’m walking into the grocery store when a voice stops me, “Seamus? Seamus McIntyre?”

I turn and don’t recognize the woman staring at me until she smiles. It’s a smile that turns a puckered, sour, resting face into something friendly and warm. I nod. “Justine, it’s good to see you.” Justine was Miranda’s assistant for years. I talked to her a lot, mostly on the phone because she was the easiest way to relay messages to Miranda if I needed her while she was at work. Justine was audacious and outspoken, which is probably the reason she kept her job, Miranda recognized and liked another viper in the pit. The thing she failed to notice was that Justine had a heart behind the tough exterior. It wasn’t a soft, endearing heart that gained her friends and admirers; it was an honest heart that was selective about what, or whom, it showed concern. And that concern was hard-edged, sometimes hard to hear, but untouched by evil intent. She always asked me about the kids when I called. When I was diagnosed with MS, she fussed over me like a domineering mother during every conversation. And the last time I talked to her, the day after Miranda told me she was leaving me, Justine said, “Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair.” I was shell shocked by Miranda’s announcement and didn’t give Justine’s words much thought, but they’re echoing profoundly from my memory now.

She shakes my hand. “It’s good to see you, too, Seamus.” It’s firm and professional, but she adds a pat on the back of my hand to soften it. I’ve always imagined the pat was her attempt at connection. Her no-nonsense temperament hinders physical interaction; it’s like a barrier to ward off the unwanted. Which makes the pat that much more genuine, because I have a feeling it’s hard for her to translate her heart into her actions. I think back to Faith alluding to growing up never being hugged. I wonder if that’s how Justine grew up too. “How are you holding up? You look like hell. Tired. You’re not taking care of yourself, are you?” There it is, the caring heart blended with no filter.

I shrug. I can’t lie to her. She can smell bullshit like a bloodhound.

She shakes her head. “How are the kids doing?”

“They live in Seattle with Miranda.” The words feel traitorous coming out.

She looks knocked for a loop; her face has never been one to hide a reaction. She blinks several times before her eyes go wide and she asks, “Pardon me?” The question isn’t asked to clarify the information I relayed; it’s an exclamation of shock.

I nod in agreement. “Yeah. She fabricated a nice little case against me and took my kids a few months ago. I haven’t seen them, and she barely lets me talk to them.” I swallow hard because I haven’t talked to anyone about this, except myself when I have too much to drink late at night.

Her eyes are still wide. “I could never understand why a man like you put up with a woman like her.”

“What do you mean?”

Her eyes have settled into the motherly expression she usually reserved for me. “You’re good. She’s not. Like water and oil, you never should’ve come together.”

“She did give me three beautiful kids.” I’m not defending her, not in the least, but it’s true.

She pulls both of her lips in between her teeth, and her eyes are looking just over my right shoulder like she’s thinking something over. Something important that she’s not sure she should share. When she meets my eyes again, her mouth is drawn into a hard line. “May I have your address, Seamus?”

My eyebrows draw together in confusion, and I question, “Why?”

There’s resolve in her eyes, but there’s sadness too. “I need to write you a letter,” she says it like it explains everything, so when I don’t react or answer, she continues, “There’s something you should know.”

I’m still confused, and I can’t deny the heat creeping through me, uneasy pulses generated by the twisting that’s begun in my stomach. “Tell me,” I urge her. My voice sounds stronger than I feel.

She shakes her head and the motherly smile returns, but it’s crestfallen and apologetic. “I can’t. My heart might be made of stone, but I have some compassion. This needs to be delivered in privacy, not standing in front of a grocery store for the world to see. You deserve that.”

“Tell me,” I plead again.

She takes a deep breath, and her lips drop into a frown that matches her eyes. “I don’t…” I think that’s where it’s going to end, but it doesn’t, “want to see your reaction. I don’t want to be the one who hurts you, Seamus.”

“But you’re just the bearer of bad news.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m the one who did the act, or I’m only the one informing you of the act—the bearer of bad news is always the unfortunate person to absorb the shockwave of intense emotion immediately after impact. I don’t do well with intense or emotion. I’m sorry, Seamus. May I have your address?”
 

I suddenly feel nauseous. I reach into my pocket and pull out a gas receipt, scrawl my address on the back, and hand it to her without another word.

She takes it from me, folds it precisely in half, sticks it in a pocket on her purse, and then extends her hand to me.

I take in the shake, hand pat and all. I know it’s an apology.

“Take care of yourself, Seamus. Your kids belong with you. See what can be done to make it happen. And have some faith.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. When her hands leave mine, she enters the store. I decide I feel too sick to look at pickles and turn around and walk to my car.

And I drive home and wait for a letter that I’m sure will break my heart.

Again.

Compressed wood pulp and bad intention

Present

Two days later I’m standing on the W…E mat, favoring the E half when I pull three items out of the mailbox next to my door.
 

The first is my cell phone bill.

“Next,” I say out loud, as if by flipping to the next piece of correspondence this phone bill will be erased from existence.

The second is a flyer for a Chinese restaurant down the street. My mouth waters at the sight of the sesame chicken photo on the front until I remember that their food tastes like shit and looks nowhere this appetizing.

“Next,” I say, swallowing down the rancid reminder of a bad meal I had weeks ago.

The third.

The third is...

I drop the papers in my hands as if their heart-wrenching contents, words written on compressed wood pulp, have already singed my hands with their bad intention.

My mail is now lying on the W…E mat, perfectly placed between the W and the E.
 

Justine’s handwriting is scowling at me. The letters each written deliberately, pressed deeply into the paper by the point of a pen with purpose. They scare me.

I know I should think of the mat as the unwelcome mat again, but the truth is, all I can think about is WE. Faith and me. I can’t read this letter without her.

So, without giving it any logical thought, because logic would tell my heart to shut the hell up, I pick up the letter and make my way downstairs to her apartment and knock on the door.