The Space Between Promises (12 page)

Chapter Thirty
There is an unfamiliar whooshing sound in the hallway, followed by the kids' surprised yelps from the bottom of the stairs. In one swift motion the mother bird is flying erratically around the living room, having dive bombed Maggie and Sam from her protective perch on the nest over the door. They stand agape as the bird flies at top speed, banging into the ceiling and walls. It is not a pretty bird, a black and brown combination, and I wonder if she will knock herself out slamming into the walls. I let out a holler, and Gregory is out of his seat in an instant, attempting to herd the bird into the kitchen and out the open window.
The kids are laughing now, as feathers are flying and I'm frantically hopping around yelling, "Get out! Get out!" Gregory snaps on a pair of white latex gloves, ever conscience of safety, and he is standing in the archway of the kitchen, arms outstretched in V-formation, legs spread, sashaying back and forth blocking the bird's escape. Occasionally it slips by his guard and rests in the living room on the TV tables or the window sill. I grab a magazine, roll it up and start slapping the walls, attempting to scare her back into the kitchen, where the open window is located.
"Come on girl," Gregory is coaxing, "You're so close little birdie ... come on ... you can do it." This goes on for some thirty minutes, Gregory not once losing his patience. I am growing annoyed, and my voice is thin and raised. "Get! Get! Out the window!" I am banging every wall, countertop and piece of furniture, frantic to rid my home of this flustered, shedding intruder. Gregory is chiding me, chuckling as I hop around, as erratic as the bird.
I am beginning to doubt that we will coax the bird out of the window and visions of a last-ditch effort resulting in a BB gun and dead bird on my kitchen floor revives my efforts. Gregory stands back, amused, as I chase the bird around the kitchen with the magazine, desperately yelling now. As quickly and unexpectedly as she flew in, she also flew out. Jubilant and equally terrified that she would fly back in, I am struggling with the window lever and it is stuck. "Gregory! I can't get the window closed! It's stuck!" He is removing the gloves, one at a time, tucking one into the other. He is not alarmed by the open window, amused by my heightened state of nerves. He looks up at me, a smile sneaking across his stoic face. "Oh yeah, I'm sure that bird can't wait to come back for a visit."

I am quite rattled and fail to see the humor in his off-hand comment, but days later I will laugh, telling the story repeatedly as a conversation starter in the lounge at work and sewing circle at church. These are the times that I am immensely grateful for Gregory. It's in the everyday moments that I am reminded of why I married him. It's each winter that I end up in a snow bank and he arrives
, shovel in hand to dig me out, grumbling and muttering as I stand aside and giggle. It's removing a house mouse while I'm jumping and squealing beside myself at the sight of the beady eyed creature skittering across the hardwood floor. It's picking Nemo out of the kitchen sink drain where I accidentally drop him while cleaning his bowl. He is flopping around and I scream for Gregory, paralyzed, unable to touch his slimy, wiggling body. After two excruciating days of Nemo floating on his side toward the top of the bowl, barely breathing, it's Gregory who flushes him down the toilet.

I collapse on the couch, exhausted by the emotional strain of the bird, and he sits in his recliner shaking his head and chuckling. He talks the big talk about how he was close to "taking care of that bird," but I know he'd sooner suffer injury himself than harm any living creature, great or small. It is in these moments where a glimmer of his soul peaks through his rough exterior. His deep respect for the sanctity of life, the understanding of each being's role, the appreciation for the natural way of life, all point to a place within his heart where love is unguarded, and a tiny, frail bird is gently coaxed from a window by his gentle nudge.

***
I peel back the quilt, and follow with the tightly layered sheet, breathing in the clean scent of the freshly laundered linens. The room is dark, save the glow of the moon spreading in a diagonal beam across the bed. I open the window slightly, allowing a small stream of evening air to slip through, ruffling the valence overhead. I slide under the sheet, relishing the tight shroud it provides. Gregory's side is unoccupied, neatly tucked into the mattress. He won't be home for another few hours, so I turn on the TV and shift my body comfortably within the faithful embrace of our old mattress. It is certainly not ideal, but my body is grateful nonetheless. Gregory and I have not discussed my retuning to the bed since the incident when he asked me to come to bed and I pretended to be in a state of semi-sleep. He most likely feels that I am falling asleep on the couch and not wanting to relocate afterward. Either way, he has expressed an interest in my coming to bed, so I consider this the victory needed to return to our bed.
I am wearing a short nightgown, and I decide to slip off my panties because Gregory enjoys sliding his hand under my nightgown when we are sleeping. I often awake to the warmth of his hand between my legs, and when I turn toward him, I find him peacefully snoring, his mouth open, and I can see by the catch in his throat that he is in a deep sleep. I'll gently nudge his hand away so that I am able to fall back asleep, only to discover that it winds its way back not long afterward.
I can see fragments of the Big Dipper, or is it the Little Dipper? from the window. I'm never sure which. Either way, it comforts me, a reminder that love is age-old, that people have sought the meaning of life and existence for centuries, telling stories of heroism, valor, and the Gods, through the ages. It is in the quiet strength of the night sky that I feel the least alone. Perhaps it is because I feel that I can see God's hand stretching across the Universe, and I sense His presence most strongly when the daylight fades, giving way to night, where secrets seem to unfold.
The TV is turned low, enough for me to absorb a familiar family of voices, yet not enough to distinguish every word. I feel my eyelids grow heavy and I nestle deeper into the quilt, sensing my nightgown sliding up around my naked hips.

***
The hallway is generous, an entryway serving as a small foyer into an open living room floor plan. It seems very white to me, airy. There is the happy noise of children in the background, the sound of party blowers and shuffling of small feet, accompanied by the chirping of adult voices in the space behind me. I am bustling about, transporting appetizers and juice boxes when the doorbell rings. I reach for the prominent gold door handle and pull open the officious white door.
He stands in the doorway smiling, sunlight resting on a spot of his hair which has become thinner over the years. He is handsome in an oxford shirt and faded jeans. His look is easy, and I know by his smile that we have been friends for a while. Dangling from each hand are two delightful children, just years apart, and the older one is carrying a bright gift bag with polka dot tissue paper sticking out in all directions. The younger one is clutching a stuffed toy, and appears a little hesitant to let go of her father's hand.
"Come in, come in," I say smiling at my friend, happy that he is here, motioning for the children to come in and join Maggie in the living room. There is the simple sensation we will fall into conversation once the children are situated. We will share summer adventures, how each child is progressing in swim class. He will extol the virtues of his new grill and we will share favorite recipes. We'll ask who is going into what grade, and can we believe it? I'll ask about his wife, who is working today, and he'll mention that she will call early in the week to set up a dinner date.
I know by his expression in the doorway, and by the way I feel when I see him, that all truths of the past have been resolved, and a new bond has formed. I don't know how it came to be, but I know we have moved past starlit evenings where we faltered in step together, making our way down dark streets in search of our cars, musing that the bartender had asked if we were engaged.
As his face seems to fade from view and I dissolve into the banter of children, glowing candles, perky party streamers, and the sounds of packages being torn to shreds, my soul make peaces with the past. It is as though, once and for all, my heart whispers a relieved farewell, and the words that I feel forming just outside of the dream are "Good-bye Nate. Good-bye."

Chapter Thirty
-One
It is almost a week before I see Walter again, when my part-time schedule sends me back into work, wearing a slightly longer skirt than usual. It is beige linen, one of Gregory's favorites, and it falls below my knee into a graceful A-line shape. Complete with a set of beige pumps and a button down white cotton peplum blouse, my hair swept into a soft bun, I resemble a Land's End advertisement. I'm wearing Gregory's favorite fragrance, a clean and crisp scent by Perry Ellis.
As Gregory stirs in bed, I brush past him to reach for the keys on the nightstand. His hand slides up my calf, just beneath my skirt, resting at my knee. He pats my leg and whispers, "Have a good day, baby." "You too," I say and lean in to kiss his forehead. "I love you," he says simply, his eyes closed. "Me too," I say and just before I slip out the front door I peak in at the kids, Maggie and Sam curled into delightful balls under twisted sheets, Tessa's diapered bottom sticking straight up, balanced by her folded knees underneath.
I had expected to feel on edge, unable to anticipate what would transpire between us. Oddly, as I pull into the parking lot, I don't feel anxious, ashamed, or reluctant to see him. I slide my car keys into the open style tote bag that hangs from my forearm while nodding a good-morning to co-workers passing by. There will be no way to avoid Walter, nor do I wish to, though I feel no eagerness to see him either. The only difference I feel is the sense that we share a liberating secret. My experiences with secrets thus far have been of a binding nature. Secrets have always been connected with shame in my life, accompanied by the dark fear that they will be discovered, and that with that discovery something of value in my life will be lost. Somehow, the kiss has been an exhilarating secret, one which has sparked a sense of who I could be, its conclusion serving as a reminder of who I am. It is a secret that holds promise of free-will, a roller-coaster ride into the unknown, but grounds me in the role that I have occupied for ten years. I am Gregory's wife. This beautiful secret has freed me to be whoever I want to be, and instead of stealing my dignity, it has strengthened it.
He is leaning against an open door frame, bopping his calf with his briefcase, cordially chatting with a co-worker. I do not hurry my pace, nor do I slow down. Steadily, I continue on in the hallway, knowing he will look up at the sound of my shoes on the laminate flooring. He smiles broadly, straightens his frame, and I notice for the first time how long his legs are. He nods in my direction. "Good morning, Mrs. Anderson," he says, winking. I do not blush. I smile, admiring the way he can completely disarm a situation with exactly the right thing to say. In a split second, he has recognized my status, and removed any necessity to discuss the kiss. His eyes are friendly and his body language loose. He waves as I pass by, and I return his smile with one equally as warm.
My body fills with the delicious excitement of romance. It is different than any I have ever known. It knows no outcome, searches for no resolution. It does not seek completion of a physical nature. It bears no urgency to communicate or to connect with a lover. It does not yearn for another body, another soul. It is a romance of self, sparked by a single kiss, awakening the woman within. The journey began as outward one; a few new skirts, nightgowns, panties. A flirty hairstyle, a splash of fragrance. And in the exact moment that soul and body needed to fall in love, a kiss came from an unexpected source. The feeling of past failures slipped away making room for the very thing that had sought refuge in my heart for so long. Forgiveness.
 

***
"My helmet!" Sam excitedly reminds me. "On your bed," I call to him, wrapping Tessa in an oversized towel, and lifting her up to see her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her mouth spreads in a toothy grin and she points at herself, laughing. "She's a pretty girl," I say, smiling at her in the mirror. "She's perfect. She's beautiful. She's mine!" She gives a shudder of excitement, and I hope she hasn't peed in the towel. I whisk her into the bedroom, where she stiffens her legs on my bed, refusing to lay down, and I hold onto her naked waist so she can jump up and down on the bed, giggling. I manage to coax her into a set of pajamas after a series of frog hops, and hoisting her on my hip, I meet Gregory and Sam in the hallway.
"Have fun, guys!" I say, as Gregory is reaching for the door. It is to be Sam's first rock climbing adventure at the gym and he is beside himself with excitement. Gregory smiles and pats Sam on his tiny shoulder. "All set, buddy?" "Yep," Sam replies, nodding his head. "Got my water bottle, got my helmet. I'm set." "Okay, then," Gregory says, "Let's hit the road!" I wave as they head out, and Tessa is vigorously shaking her arm up and down, squealing as they leave.
I have promised Maggie that once Tessa is asleep we will have a girl's night, complete with the usual round of lotions, English Rose talcum powder, manicures and pedicures. She is passing the time on PBS, playing games, patiently waiting for her special time with Mommy. I run her bath water and sprinkle in the rose-scented soap petals, and she excitedly hops in, scooping up the foaming bubbles into her dimpled hands. I am tidying up the kitchen, with Tessa close at my heels. She is into the Lazy Susan, pulling out various spices. She struggles with the cap on the nutmeg, and she is growing frustrated. I know she wants to practice putting the cap on and taking it off, and realizing that I have no use for nutmeg until next fall, I do the widely impractical. I dump its contents into the garbage and give her the bottle and cap. She is elated and waddles around the kitchen twisting and turning the cap, which thankfully distracts her from the dishwasher which I am loading.
Maggie spreads out on the plush towel in her fluffy hot pink bathrobe and closes her eyes, stifling a giggle as I place the cucumber slices over her eyelids. We listen to music and I squeeze her tiny fingers and massage her cheeks. She chatters playfully until we remove the cucumbers and she sits up, ready to apply the body cream and powder. We finish off with a coat of clear polish on her finger and toenails.
"How about a special story tonight?" I ask, my voice promising a mystery of sorts. "What kind of a story," she asks intrigued. "Well, a different kind of book," I say, "a photo album, telling stories without words." Photo albums are dinosaurs as my children are accustomed to viewing all of our family albums online. "Oh, you mean like your wedding book, and my baby book?" "Exactly, I say," "but it's a story of mommy and daddy before we were married, when we fell in love with each other." "Yes!" She exclaims, and I pull out the stack of photo albums from the bookshelf. "Which one first?" I ask and she chooses the lime green album. "Good choice, Maggie." She opens the cover and it creaks a bit.
Gregory stands on my parents' front porch in a full black suit, his arm around my waist. I am smiling in my pale blue bridesmaid's dress, curled hair falling over my shoulders. We are squinting against the August sun. "You look like Cinderella," she says, and adds, "except for the long hair, and except that you don't have a crown. And except that you aren't wearing glass slippers. And she has puffy sleeves, and you don't. But, your dress is the same color." I laugh as she studies the series of pictures, comments on Clare's princess wedding gown, asks why Daddy had more hair then, and where did we live? And why were we at Pa and Grandma's house? I am reminded of how important family history is and I make a mental note to have an "album party" sometime with Sam and Maggie. Popcorn, soda in glass bottles, a favorite stuffed animal and photo albums to pass around. I know I have more tucked away in cabinets and drawers, easily an evening full of albums that have been idly stored for a decade.
I have hidden my love for Gregory within dusty shelves for too long, afraid to confront it, afraid to accept it for what it is; flawed, marked with bitterness, bittersweet and often angry, but a true and deep love, nonetheless. As Maggie slowly relishes each page of the chronicled thirty-five millimeter film, I feel the walls I have so carefully built begin to fold around me. I kiss her pudgy check, thankful that after five years, she still has them. She nuzzles up to me, and our journey begins. "Once upon a time," she says, and I return her smile, holding the very promise of a fairy-tale in the words that follow. I twist her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "There was a princess," I whisper. "Her name was Sarah."
***
The first-born, I was named Sarah, meaning "princess," but that would not be the reason my name was chosen. I was named for Sarah, Abraham's wife. He, the founding father of faith, the friend of God, was a man riddled with doubt. Afraid to admit that the beautiful Sarah was his wife, he passed her off to kings as a sister, loaning her to their desires, rather than risking his life for her. Unable to believe God's promise, he sired a son through her handmaiden. Sarah's life was no doubt wrought with pain and promise, and there were times, it could be assumed, that she would struggle in the space between them. Though she would be the one to laugh at God's promise of a child in her old age, she would nonetheless obey Him, and she would submit to His plan, bringing forth the son of promise. It was for her strength and dignity, her loyalty to her husband and God's plan, her beauty, and her courage, that I would come to bear the name Sarah.
I see traces of that same courage in Maggie, who is not afraid to question authority, but nonetheless obeys. I see glimpses of faith in Sam, who accepts whatever authority is over him, unquestioning, and obeying. I see stubbornness in Maggie, the kind that will cause her to travel her own deserts in life, unwilling to let go of her promises, a fierce determination to claim all that is hers. I see patience in Sam, willing to wait for what is rightfully his, quiet in his tent, while others entertain angels. Listening for the sounds of promises to come. In Tessa, I see hope and healing. Eyes that brim with joy, an easy smile, a hearty giggle. She is the bridge between us all, linking us with the hope that each dawn brings with it a new promise.
She tugs at the tiny ivy branch, and I gently urge, "No, no Tessa. Mommy has to hang that in the window. Careful, careful baby," I say, coaxing the vine out of her balled fist. She squalls at me, but is pacified by a package of scouring sponges that I retrieve from the unpacked grocery bag. She squeezes it, enjoying the sound of the crunching plastic. I survey the outcome, pleased with the tiny ivy leaves peeking from the white birdcage. "There," I say, satisfied. I stand there for a moment, and turn to Tessa who has miraculously managed remove the packaging, and has bitten off a small chunk of yellow sponge underneath the dark green scouring surface. "Heavens to Betsy!" I say, attempting a trade. She digs into the open bag of goldfish, and I hope this will keep her occupied while I finish with the groceries.
I look out the window, and I see Sam holding up his Star Wars Lego alarm clock, timing Maggie as she runs circles around the swing set in her ruffled cotton skirt and untied sneakers. Her hair is blowing behind her and she has the intent look of running a race. He is casual, looking like a miniature coach, urging her on, calling out her times. Watching her chipmunk cheeks turn bright red, and observing his mature reenactment of that day's gym class, I lose sight of all else.
What is before me in this moment was formed by what is behind me. And what lies ahead is also forged by my past. Every tear of sorrow and joy is linked by promises that are mine to hold. It is all inextricably woven together. I know I cannot have one without the other. I cannot have joy without knowing sorrow, hold to hope without moments of doubt, exude faith without having faced fear.
I put the remaining groceries away and scoop Tessa into my arms. We join Sam and Maggie outside. My bare feet are embraced by the warm grass, and Tessa studies it between her toes, alternately lifting one set up at a time, peeking underneath. She is chasing Maggie and she tumbles. "Uh oops!" She says, looking up at me. She gets up and starts running.
I sit down on a soft patch of grass under my favorite tree and watch my children, suspended in time, feeling after their spirits. Soon, Gregory will be home. We will grill homemade burgers and he will toss a ball between the kids. He and Sam will polish off the remaining daylight hours with some archery practice; perhaps climb the large oak in the field.
At times, I feel as though I have lived under the promises of God and man. I haven't always felt the comfort of them coming to pass, but have dwelt among them. It is as though they have lingered above me, as clouds heavy with the prospect of rain. I have followed after them, feeling their presence, anticipating them. And I have lived in the spaces between them. Believing.
The End