The Space Between Promises (7 page)

Chapter Eighteen

There are at least three of them, discreetly tucked into the eaves surrounding our "L" shaped farm house. From the kitchen window, I can see the roof that spreads over the living room. It is sort of a funny thing to look out one's window and see another side of their home staring back at them. But, in the corner where two sections of the roof meet, there is a small bird's nest. There is also a hefty one on the front porch overhang, a remnant from last year, where we held our breath as we gazed at three pairs of tiny black eyes bulging from the nest. All we could see were three beaks and those surreal looking eyes. I remember feeling excited knowing that our home had in a sense given birth to
spring. Something beautiful to behold, life coming from a place whose walls had known such sorrow. This year, the front porch nest is twice its original size, and we wonder if more baby birds will be born to us.
It is warm today, and the sun is shining. I slip on a sheer mint sweater. It is angora, I think. Very delicate and feminine. I am wearing a nude colored tank-top underneath, which gives a modestly sexy look, requiring a second glance to ensure that in fact, there is a layer of covering underneath. I have recently discovered the color "nude," in clothing and have woven it into my wardrobe, glimpses here and there of masked nakedness. I pull out my hair dryer, which is so old that the coils turn red sometimes when I use it. That can't be good, I think, but I haven't bothered to replace it, since I rarely use it. I begin to brush my long acorn colored hair. I hate when people call it dirty blonde, or worse, brown. My hair, completely natural in its color, does look darker pulled back into a damp bun, but when conditioned and dried, it shines with a mix of browns, reds, and hints of my childhood blonde. It is a pretty color, I think, and never seems to warrant attention.
I am feeling younger today, a little prettier than usual, and I begin to give my hair some curl and wrap it romantically into a messy low-ponytail, pinned back gracefully with a few bobby-pins. I look in the mirror and I wonder why I don't wear my hair down more often. I guess because there is always the eager fingers of a toddler waiting to tackle it, or the fear it will fall into a cooking pot, or in general, because I feel too old to wear my hair down anymore.
Gregory loves my hair down, and as I examine my new look, I can see why. Instantly, it seems, a few years have disappeared and my face seems softer somehow, with little wisps falling about in intentional chaos. I am wearing a new skirt, and I pull out a cute pair of bronze sandals. I am only going grocery shopping, like any other Saturday, but unlike any other Saturday, I look forward to being seen. I don't feel like rushing through the store, hiding behind my cart, happily averting any glances, and feeling as though I have disappeared entirely behind a seasoned ensemble, an unflattering knot at the nape of my neck, and cracked hands, screaming for lack of attention over the harsh winter months.
I scoop Tessa up and button her into a delightfully cheery bright yellow polka dot jacket, and marvel, again, at how absolutely beautiful she is. Fat in all the right places, a tiny sprig of strawberry blonde hair popping up, slate blue eyes that change to grey when she is angry, and pale blue when she is sad. She is a rare beauty, of that I am sure.
I turn to see Gregory watching me. He says nothing, but he is quietly interested as I move about, gathering the grocery list and an envelope with cash with my free hand. I wonder if he notices that I am wearing the perfume he likes. It was a perfume I discovered two decades ago at a discount novelty store. I wore it faithfully as my signature fragrance for years. Light and airy, it sings of unfettered romance. It was not an expensive fragrance, nor was it popular, but I never received so many compliments on any fragrance I had ever worn. Sometimes, I would find a bottle on a shelf in a little discounted store, and I would pick it up. I have an unopened bottle tucked in my drawer. It had been years since I had worn it last, hiding it away, more often than not, wearing nothing. On special occasions, I would spray a bit of Coco Mademoiselle Chanel, which Gregory never cared for, but I loved. Today, I am wearing Gregory's favorite, and as he moves closer to me, I am sure he notices.
He is clutching the loose coins from his pant pockets which he has just changed out of. He has that look in his eyes, and I know he is about to get fresh with me. His eyes are sparkling and his lips are tight, desperate to break in laughter. He steals closer and rolls the coins to the tips of his fingers, which he is now inching down the front of my flimsy sweater, trying to find their way into the fitted tank top, where he deposits the coins, delighted to have fingered my cleavage. He laughs and walks away as I dig out loose change from in between my breasts.
I am not quite sure if it is the outfit, the hair, the perfume, or the look in my eyes that Gregory finds relief in, but somehow, his step is lighter as he walks out the door, and as the kids and I head out for a routine grocery trip, I notice a gentlemen in the car to the right of me smiling into my window as he watches me turn my head toward the girls in the back seat.
***
It is probably time to switch the cardinal painting on my kitchen wall now that spring is officially here. I nibble on a piece of toast and consider what I will put in the frame instead. Each spring, I replace the cardinal painting with a butterfly portrait that I had taken at a local garden. It is a beautiful image, folded bright red butterfly wings resting on a lush green leaf, giving the illusion of praying hands. But I am bored with it. The cardinals however, I love. Painted by Sam in art class, three jaunty cardinals sit on a painted brown branch against a background of blue construction paper spattered with dots of white paint. I have always loved this snowy scene, the contrast of the red against the pale blue paper, soothed by the droplets of white, three bright yellow triangular beaks greeting the subject's eye. All at once it comforts me, the bit of red a sign of cheer in a dark winter. Life in the midst of unbearable cold. Three cardinals, like my three children, sustained, alive, beautiful, no matter where they are placed. Bringing joy, a song, to the small naked branch where we live.
When Sam had brought it home, gently folded into the curve of his backpack, I unfurled it and immediately fell in love with it. Imagining his little hands working out the symmetry, color and balance, my heart skipped. How was it that something so simple, so innocent, could easily become an object which would bring me hope and cheer over the long winter months to come. That week, I had purchased an ornate gold frame, with a raised embroidery design. The combination was perfect. Child-like simplicity coupled with feminine elegance.
I look at it now and I am hesitant to remove it. As glad as I am that winter has come to an end, I can't seem to part with his beautiful painting. Several guests at one time or another over the past few winters had inquired about it, not realizing that it was a child's work. Not because it was the work of a prodigy, certainly not, but because it seemed to have a look of polished roughness, as though the artist's intent was to produce a primitive image. The irony is that Sam does not enjoy art class in the least, but as with everything he is asked to do, he does so with a willing heart and his best effort. How could he ever know that this little winter scene would soothe my spirit and bring me joy each year that it graced my kitchen wall.
My thoughts wander and the familiar fear that I will lose him someday engulfs me. Not today, not tomorrow, but the fear that one day my sweet boy will be taken from me never leaves me. He is not a strong boy, plagued with various physical constraints, none of which pose a serious threat, but hang over us like a dark cloud, waiting to become saturated enough to burst. I am aware that I have been walking under one cloud or another for many years, each one threatening to spill over me, washing me away completely in one drift of grief or another. I am certain, though, that losing Sam is a flood that would drown me completely. Gregory reminds me that we control what we can, and we give to God what we cannot. I can neither control Sam's destiny, nor can I wholly give it to God either. I am locked in fear of his fragile existence, never truly believing that he was a gift I was meant to keep.
I feel myself slipping into that dark place, and I want to find my way out. It is a place where I feel unworthy to be a mother, a place where I feel weak and fearful, where I feel sad for no reason. And when I come into this place, I keep things as they are, in hopes that I will find security in the familiar.
Sam is not going anywhere. He is going to be a missionary with a toy shop, and I am going to Africa with him! I brush the crumbs into my open palm, rinse my hands in the sink, and without a second thought, I remove the painting from the wall. Another long winter will come again, plenty of time to show off Sam's birds. In the meantime, he will be hiding in closets, sneaking under kitchen tables, writing about his discoveries in his journal, and I won't miss the birds. Sam is my winter cardinal, my blue-jay, my dove. He is here to stay. I have to believe that. I pull out an image of bright pink peonies that I took in my yard and put it into the frame. It looks beautiful, and reminds me that they will be in bloom in a few short months.

Chapter Nineteen

It had seemed an eternity since I had cried over Gregory. Tears were not scarce. I shed them in abundance when I was overtired, or when I would drive through a beautiful neighborhood, wishing for a home that came with a garage and a promising attic that could be transformed into cozy loft style bedrooms. I cried when money ran out, which was often, or when I stubbed my toe. But over the years, I had trained myself not to cry over Gregory. It was a wasted effort. There was little hope that his overnight visits to Finn's would come to an end, and even less hope that one day he would wake up and realize that online games were for teenagers, at best, and that everything he should ever want was inches away from his grasp, right here, in our small home.
There were occasional moments of weakness where I would become teary-eyed as he stepped through the door, and sometimes I would quietly weep as I watched from the window as the Jeep pulled out of the driveway and headed to its second home. But tonight was different. And I vowed it would be the last of its kind.
I shuffle Maggie and Sam in and out of the bathroom, one at a time, because when they brush their teeth together, they generally make a small commotion, waking up Tessa. They cheerfully make their way into their shared room, chatting and poking one another, burning off the last of the day's energy. Then it comes. The familiar and dreaded creak of the recliner, followed by the sound of it snapping back into original form. Gregory is going out. Again. He would work the next several nights in a row, and I'd be asleep when he got home. This was his third evening off in the last week, and the third one that he would not be home for. I would face the quiet darkness of three sleeping children alone. Again. Always.
He follows the kids into their room, hugs them, chats with Sam for a few minutes, and gazes out at me from the doorway of their room. There is a moment of weakness. It is tangible. His eyes soften. He knows I am disheartened. Unlike the many nights I would turn my back, refusing to acknowledge him and he would slip out the door, or the nights when I would voice my displeasure and remind him, as if he needed it, that we haven't spent time together and I would try to pin down a night for a movie together, and he would storm out. Tonight, I step close and gently plead.
"Why, Gregory? Why do you leave when you could stay? What is it that pulls you there night after night? Why don't you want to spend time with me?"
His answer is soft, though not unfamiliar. Work is stressful. He needs to get out. What do we do? Watch a movie ... and I fall asleep. He loves me, he says. But the bottom line is always the same. I could scream, cry, ignore or beg, but he would never change his mind. My feelings do not matter. He will go to Finn's tonight, and in minutes, he will forget the sadness in my eyes, the taste of my tears that have traveled to my lips in time for him to brush them with a tender kiss. There is no trace of anger or defense in his voice. No justification, no guilt. The door gently closes behind him, the gravel obediently parts under the authority of his tires, and I turn to go into the kitchen, where a full garbage can and dishwasher await emptying. I make it to the entryway, peer into the dimness, and crumple to the floor, sobbing.
With my knees curled into my chest, leaning against the frame of the doorway to the kitchen, I surrender to the grief. There had been years of denial, thinking that our marriage would miraculously transform. There had been years of anger when it did not. But never grief. I could not allow that. I had to believe in my own happy ending, somehow. I could not grieve something that I had not lost. Tonight I do not have a choice. Grief washes over me and I surface for a gasp of air, and then go under again. My marriage is not over. But it never was what I had hoped it would be, and it never will be. And the enemy that I had been pushing aside for so long would not be held back. Grief does not discriminate. Where there is loss of any kind, it awaits at the door for a single moment when the heart allows something to slip in or out, and when it does, Grief pushes the door wide open and floods the unfortified heart. As snot runs onto the knees of my pajamas, I wipe my nose with the back of my forearm. I let out a few sobs and then stop, determining to stand up, and another sob overcomes me. I remain paralyzed, as the tears come, reminding me with each helpless choke that I am powerless in this marriage. Gregory would always do what he wanted and needed, and he would love me in between. In the spaces between his needs and desires. I would never change that.
I pick my head up, refusing to fall into the self-pity that waits for Grief to ebb away so that it can squeeze its way in. There is a way to find happiness in these spaces, and I will find it. I will create my own space. He would come to respect it, to revere it, to seek an invitation. He would tip-toe around it, not abuse it, not soil it. I would be happy there and when I call for him, he will occupy it. And feel honored. For this to happen, there would be no more parting tears, no more speeches dripping with guilt, no more turning my back and pretending that I do not care. There would be no more kisses good-bye. But there would be good-byes. I would smile, say good-bye, and he would wonder how it was that I seemed bright and content, but not come forward for a kiss.
I would save my kisses for dreams. Spaces he would never occupy.