September 30, 2012
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Rescue…
Life steps in just in the nick of time and saves me. The kids and I spend a week trapped in the house by flood waters. I cook and we goof off on the computer. We get damned little done as far as organizing the house goes. Mostly we all stress about school being out for a week and me being out of work for a week. It’s not a vacation, and I sound sad when I call out every day. I miss work. The kids miss their friends. My oldest son gets a visit from a classmate who has a boat. He arrives with two girls he’s escorting home and picks up my son. The girls are cute and shy. I wave at them as they paddle away. My son will end up getting home long after dark, and long after being dropped off at the wrong road. His dad gets wind of it and is furious. I shrug. It’s a minor sin, nothing more than less than perfect judgement. No harm done. H screams at me over the phone, belittling me for being a bad mother.
I hang up.
I nurse a dental abscess while we’re stranded. It doesn’t go away. I end up at the endodontist who takes stereotaxic films and explains the “slices” in heavily accented English. The root canal that was done on the tooth was perfect. He points at ghostly fracture lines and pockets of darkness. The roots were fractured. An abscess formed soon after, “You have pain?” he asked, and is astonished when I relate that I only had mild pain. I mentally kick myself for not being a bitch about it and insisting that they perform more films. Hindsight is 20/20, of course. He explains that the tooth can’t be saved, but once the bone is healed I could consider getting a dental implant. I’m not at all pleased to lose a tooth. I’m horrified at the thought of having a gaping hole in that row of teeth.
When I get done writing checks, the dental office has $7000.
I take extra days and extra call. I offer to stay late. I work until I’m so exhausted that I doze off at traffic lights.
My dad treats me like shit. Pushing me to move my late mother’s things to my house. The stress and exhaustion leaves me pale and I begin to have arrhythmia. I finally refuse to do anymore. We’d been moving boxes in the rain. The kids and I had an emotional meeting with the family therapist. We stopped by the old place to get dinnerware and flatware. Dad stopped by and wanted EVERYTHING out. I carried heavy boxes out, wobbling on heels, my dress soaked see through in the pouring rain. The kids helped. One person had to stand outside with the vehicles to discourage the neighborhood thugs from stealing. We missed lunch, the reason why I was dressed nice. We hadn’t been out to dinner for over a month. We were all looking forward to it.
We came back and unloaded. Dad left to secure his storm shutters and load up his lawnmower. The new edger was stolen. That was hardly surprising. The neighborhood is seedy and down on it’s luck. What was surprising was that the bicycles and the lawnmower weren’t stolen as well.
I try to muster up some sympathy, but it doesn’t sound at all sincere. Mostly I’m just relieved when he drives away. I close the door behind me and look at the kids, “Change your clothes. I’m going to go dry my hair and change. We’ll go out to dinner.”
We do. I try to enjoy myself, and we do to a certain extent, but the heaviness of everything reclines on our heads. The therapist finally agreed that we had exhausted all avenues to get H to come in for a family session. The last one he attended was in April. Being validated isn’t so satisfying as I would expect. Instead, it leaves me heavy-hearted and sorrowful. There’s little that can be done about the fact that he doesn’t pull his weight financially. I’m not happy to discover that my dad talks to him about every other day. I get phone calls from both of them when I’m at work. At first I don’t think anything about it. It’s an inconvenience.
Devil me waits in the passenger seat when I get in my car, “It doesn’t bother you that he’s got your own father checking up on you to see where you are? He’s filling his ears with lies and fables. I can’t believe that your dad is such a rube, falling for his bullshit over and over.” I look at her wide-eyed. Then I start keeping track. A pattern emerges and the calls arrive in the early evening. Even more telling is the day my dad helps me with picking up mattresses for the kids’ beds. He checks my bedroom and bathroom for signs that a man has moved in to the house. It’s ridiculous. I shake my head at the idea. I try to imagine their phone conversation. I know he spends zero time defending me.
Of course, in the midst of all this, D sends me an email telling me that he’s lost his father, explaining that it was emotional, especially since he never told his dad that we weren’t seeing each other. It would seem that his dad approved of me, thought it was great that D had found someone to love, was happy that we were so affectionate (since L certainly wasn’t). I offer condolences, and briefly panic. He misunderstands my condolences and assures me that he’s fine, has all the support he needs. In fact, he’s handling it better than most. My face burned to think that he thought I was suggesting something. I sent a reply that dripped with icy sarcasm, rescinding any help I had offered and claiming that I was too busy for his games. I stopped short of saying, “It’s not my fault that you couldn’t be honest with your dad.” He replies, hurt and upset. This time I shrug and walk away
I left him with his dear friends and his girlfriend. I remind him that he has plenty of friends who can support him and cheer him up. He doesn’t need me. I remind him of that. Then I spend days/weeks reminding myself. I remind myself until the tears no longer come. I remind myself until I no longer dream.
The surprising thing is when the loneliness turns to apathy. I’m numb. A sleeping leg that feels nothing. H screams at me on the phone, but I don’t answer. It rolls off. Water from a duck’s back. It’s sad that he’s hateful, but I feel nothing for him. I could never go back. He resents my successes. It’s all threatening.
More later….after I sleep…
