I dream about boxes. They’re stacked in the kitchen, and when I take one and slip my fingers under the flaps, every one is empty. It’s a puzzling dream. I find myself worrying about the meaning of it. I don’t mention it to D, because it doesn’t occur to me to disclose something so ridiculous.
I creep over regularly, but it feels different now. When I arrive, I sit for a few minutes in his driveway, trying to put a label on the feeling I’m experiencing. Fear and dread come to mind. I sigh and glance over at Devil me, who sits in the passenger seat, looking prim and self righteous. “It no longer makes me happy…” She softens, but stays silent. I don’t talk as much when I’m there. I hold my tongue. It keeps the peace, and I lie to myself saying, “You’re giving him a chance, and you’re giving yourself a chance to change your own ways.” I find myself worrying more, relaxing less, stressing more.
Of course, my washing machine breaks down completely. I look at the baskets of laundry and sigh. I already have a dead flatscreen TV, a dying dishwasher, a sickly air conditioner and an ailing water softener. I sort the clothes, searching for a bright spot. My work week is horrendous and I have the kids until school lets out for the winter holidays. I could use a load of laundry as an excuse to get out and see D. I send him a text in the early morning on Friday, asking if I can wash a load of laundry at his house and hint that we can get cozy while it dries. He responds vaguely, “I guess you could. Call me later and let me know when.” I text from the dressing room at work, letting him know that I will leave work at 7:30 pm, that I’ll call when I’m heading out of the parking lot, and that I appreciate him letting me do a load of laundry there. I offered to pick up Sushi for dinner. He answered back, hours later, “Fine. call me when u r close and I meet u there”.
The text was that clear. The only thing I didn’t tell him was that the one load was my kids’ clothes. I slipped out of the door as the overhead chimed and the operator warned, “Trauma Alert, one by ground. Trauma Alert, one by ground.” I hurried to the car, fishing my keys and cell phone out of my handbag. I called the house first, but the phone rang and rang until the answering machine picked up. When I tried his cell, he answered on the third ring.
He sounded flustered and irritated, as if he had snatched up the phone and trotted off for privacy. He peppered me with questions, “Why don’t you feed the kids first? You never come over straight after work. Why is tonight different? I didn’t expect you until 10 pm, how close are you?” My stomach sank with the realization that he had better things to do than to cuddle up to me. I felt about an inch tall. I stammered that it sounded like it was going to be inconvenient for him, so why didn’t I just run the stuff to my folks’ old place and run it there. It really wasn’t any bother. He insisted that it wasn’t a bother, all but told me that I was foolish to suggest such a thing. I told him that I could use the washer at my folks’ old place, that he didn’t have to come home. He snarled into the phone that it wasn’t a bother…and then hung up on me.
I was at a crossroads. If I didn’t go, I’d piss him off because he left his friends for my load of laundry. If I did go, he’d certainly let me know how pissed off at me. Angel me and Devil me were no where to be found. I felt alone and miserable, like the biggest fuck up who ever drew breath.
When I got to his house, I tentatively tapped on the front door. No answer. I went back and sat in the car. I arm wrestled with my thoughts….LEAVE….NO STAY…..NO LEAVE. Then I called his cell with trembling hands. He snarled that I needed to wait because he would be there in 5 minutes and hung up on me before I could respond. He whipped into the driveway and pulled in the garage. He got out of his truck and went into the house without turning around once.
LEAVE.
I stared at the closed door for a few minutes. It suddenly flew open, and he yelled at me as I got the basket out of the back seat. I missed every word but the tone was unmistakable. I had fucked up big time, and he was certainly going to take me to task over it.
LEAVE.
I hauled the load over to the washer, and he pointedly slammed the door behind him. I looked at it, miserable, and timidly opened it and stepped inside. He was pacing, changing his clothes to a bleach stained t-shirt and boxers, all the while ranting and raving and listing my faults. He jabs me about not getting my washer fixed on the day he and I went to lunch (the day I had to call in at 9am to check in and then had to take call at 3pm); it was stupid of me not to get someone out to fix it. How could I be such an idiot? Among them were a few new ones: Apparently I ALWAYS ruined his plans by requiring his presence when he was out with friends. I also couldn’t be expected to be on time and expected EVERYONE to drop EVERYTHING to accommodate me. I played games to MAKE him want me. He accused me of staging the calls from work on the day we went out to lunch and I got called in. Oh, and he asked me snidely if I was going to call the police to have him arrested and accused me of verbally attacking his ex wife.
It was like fighting with someone who was armed with a chain gun. I couldn’t get a word in. I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and pulled up the information of the calls received from work. He bellowed that he wasn’t going to look because I was a liar.
Because there was no way to defend myself, I picked up my basket and walked through the garage. A bird, trapped since darkness fell, fluttered along the door. I exclaimed in surprise, and he bellowed, “Don’t HURT my bird! Don’t kill it!!” Ridiculous, but hurtful and humiliating, like a child trying to get another in trouble by hollering false accusations for the grown ups to hear. I hollered back, “Fuck you. I work on babies, you silly asshole!” Equally ridiculous, but comforting to prove to the eavesdropping neighbors that I wasn’t killing birds.
When I drove away I said aloud, “I’ll never return there again.”
“Good,” came the voice from the backseat. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Devil me sat next to the basket. I didn’t ask where she’d been. She couldn’t have helped me anyway. “I WAS trying to help you. I was the one who kept telling you to LEAVE!” she snorted, disgusted.
I should have. I fish out a packet of tissues and begin to cry. I’ll carry a small pile of damp tissues inside when I get home. I lie to the kids and tell them that the stress of the day has finally gotten to me. I’m not myself anymore. The kids and I meet family at a diner. I can barely eat, and spend my visit playing with my niece’s little ones. It’s the only part of the day that I will relax. I have to work a 3pm – 11pm shift that day, and when I get in it’s slow. I’m entertaining going upstairs to PICU and NICU to check on the heart patients, when the perfusionist walks into the lounge. He updates me. The baby we worked on Wednesday passed away Friday night. The baby we spent 20 hours working on was being transferred to a facility that could do a transplant. He looked at me sadly and shrugged. There was nothing to say, just sadness. He continued, “The mothers of those babies, young and completely clueless. Neither of them realized how sick their babies were.” I nodded.
A familiar chime, “Pediatric Trauma Alert, one by air. Pediatric Trauma Alert, one by air. Pediatric Trauma Alert, one by air.”
It’s bad. The child has head and chest injuries. He’s got a broken wrist and odd patterns of bruising. He’s a little over a year old. It’s an abuse case. We do our best to save him even though we know that it’s likely that he’ll die. His tiny fingers are blue and cold. I gather the dark curls we shaved from his head before we prepped the skin. They go with him to PICU, and later to the morgue. He leaves us barely alive.
There are more emergencies, and a gun shot victim. We learn of that when the chime is followed by, “Trauma Alert, ER STAT! Trauma Alert, ER STAT!” He was dropped off by a friend, bleeding and in shock. They didn’t wait for an ambulance. I leave, tired and sad, in the chilly night. As always, I check my tires to make certain that none are flat. When I drive away I check my gauges – a habit that proves to be my salvation tonight. The temperature creeps upward…too quickly. My engine is overheating. I turn into the only 24 hour gas station on the road.
My worst nightmare: breaking down at night in the unsafe neighborhood that I work in. The rapidly dropping temperature is an exquisite touch. The cracked out homeless guy pounding on the glass door of the gas station mini mart is unnerving. I pull my thin sweater around me and dial up the auto club. They’ll send a wrecker to tow me home. He should be there by 1:30am. I sit in my car and people watch. The Indian man working in the gas station peeks out of the door to check on me every half hour. When the wrecker comes, he opens the door and steps out. I tell him that I work down the road at the hospital. He gestures west, “At C Hospital?” I shake my head, and he says, “Oh, that IS the better hospital! My sister was there and they saved her. I should have known that you worked there.” A curious thing to say, seeing as he’s only just met me. The driver takes me home and drops my car in the driveway. I thank him and hand him a tip, and wish him happy holidays. It’s 2:30am.
I still toss and turn in my sleep.
Somehow I get my dad out here to dump some antifreeze in my radiator. He tells me the hoses look bad. I can’t argue that I need a mechanic. My ex is pissed to have to pick up the kids. He’s a little grouchy that I know about his new girlfriend, but the kids tell me that she’s nice to them. That’s all I need to know. She has kids of her own, is a heavy smoker, and looks older than me (although that may be a bias on the kids’ part). Her kids are the same age as mine. They’re boys. I like her already. H has her stay overnight when the boys are visiting. They don’t appreciate that but I point out that since their dad doesn’t drink much around her, he isn’t so prone to argue with them. I like her for that. I entertain a fantasy that he’ll change his ways for her and be a better dad.
“Do you think he’d change for her?” Angel me asks. I shrug and wipe a tear, “Just because he couldn’t change for me doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t for someone else.” She pulls me close, “You were important, too. You were the mother of his kids.” I shrug again, silent.
It all weighs on me and comes home when I have a quiet moment. I finally give in to it…to lay out the cards. It’s a brutal task, but my eyes stay curiously dry. I dissect the argument with D. Devil me takes notes. Angel me looks pained, “Must you torture us so close to the holiday?” I remind her that she can check out and go see Christmas lights.
I sit back and close my eyes. It’s painful to recount the incident, to tally the sins, but it’s necessary. Because, I’m certain that it all needs to end. My voice becomes soft and monotone. I outline those things he accused me of being. He doesn’t believe anything I say. He believes that I’m playing games with him to string him along, to make him want me. It all smacks of dishonesty. He accuses me of trying to pull him away from activities he wants to do. He accuses me of being tardy always. He doesn’t believe that I get called in to work. He’s accused me of having excuses: deaths, trauma, kids needing me.
He’s never going to believe me. There’s no need to argue that. It doesn’t matter that I’m not lying. He’s never going to believe me. Never.
He tossed my past in my face. I called the cops on my ex during a pounding when I couldn’t take the beatings and the broken bones any more. He snidely asked if I was going to call the cops on him. Why? Because he didn’t believe that my ex was that bad, because he thought I deserved it, because it was a way to hurt me deeply. It worked. I looked at Devil me, “I’m tired of being penalized for asking for help. I’ll never tell anyone about my past. No one should have that kind of ammunition.” She smiled ruefully, “Normal people don’t use your past as a weapon against you.”
To summarize, I must have pulled him away from people who meant a great deal to him for him to go off on me. I resolve to walk away for good this time. I had said before that I wouldn’t be competing with time with his friends, so it’s time to walk away. He values his friends more than he does me. That’s neither good or bad, it just is. As for my past, I can’t change it, can’t take it back. Obviously it’s always going to be a problem. There’s no talking about it. He believes that I’m dishonest, and that will never change. He will never trust me ever. He will always find fault, and that’s too familiar. When he fights with me it’s a no-holds-barred event that leaves me empty and in tears…and feeling worthless.
I can’t live like that.
I script it and rehearse, because he steamrolls me when we talk. After that crazy outburst I’m convinced that we’re completely done. His hatred was unmistakable. I have no trouble staying away from him. No apology will ever come of this. I give thanks for busy days. I shy away from the social networking site except to check in quickly with family. I don’t check to see if he’s removed me from his contacts. I was convinced that he had. I’m also convinced that I’ll never see him again. I wonder why I need a script.
The message comes hidden in a glut of early holiday greetings from well-meaning friends. He’s VERY sorry and feels VERY BADLY about upsetting me. He didn’t want to break up with me. He offers to help me with the broken appliances. He closes with a statement that pledges that we communicate better. I stare at the screen, amazed. I resist the urge to reply, “Upset me? No, you devastated me. I’ll hire out help for the appliances. I communicate just fine, asshole. Please, never contact me again.”
I let it rest for a full day before responding neutrally, “Happy Holidays. I hope you enjoy the gift I got you.”
The response comes when he returns from work, “Merry Christmas, _____! I’ll open the card and the gift when you are here.”
Fuck.
Why can’t he just open the fucking thing and say thank you? Then I can say that I’m glad he likes it and by the way, I don’t want to date someone who treats me the way he does.
No. Now I get to say that to him after he opens his gift. Face to face.
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