Part 13 (1/2)
”Nicki isn't wrong,” I said. ”There is something there. I mean, some of these kids, Jenny-we're talking twelve, fourteen. Sentenced to hard time for a pair of Percocet? Two years in a juvenile detention center? I took Chris to one of these places once. They are the real deal. Behavioral modification. Like hazing. They have one goal: break you down to build you back up in their image. You know how stark raving everyone up here gets when the subject of drugs comes up. I mean, I know I'm not unbiased, but, d.a.m.n, you should see this North River-”
My wife shook her head, and when I tried to talk louder, she shook harder.
”This,” she said, ”this is what I am talking about.”
”What? I'm doing my job. I thought that's what you wanted. Me to give a s.h.i.+t about something?”
”I want you to move on! With us! With me, your wife. With your son! Your family! Not with some college girl gone wild.”
”So you are p.i.s.sed about Nicki!”
”No wife wants to come home and find her husband standing without his s.h.i.+rt on in the middle of the kitchen with a hot young girl. No, Jay. Big f.u.c.king surprise. Yes, it would p.i.s.s off any wife. From here to Nebraska. Okay? But that's not the problem. You say you're not sleeping with her-”
”I'm not sleeping with her-”
”And I said I believe you! But you're not here, either.”
I feigned surprised, panning around. ”I'm not here? So where am I? One of Saturn's moons? Because this sure looks like my f.u.c.king kitchen.”
Jenny hopped up. I did too.
We stood toe to toe. Another knockdown, drag-out. How many of these we'd had over the years, I'd lost track. I readied for the attack, like any wild animal, most dangerous when cornered, wounded, pitted for survival. But I was also tired. Too despondent, too disheartened to will outrage and win this time.
Now my wife saw my ribs. ”What happened?”
”I fell.”
”How much are you drinking?”
”I wasn't drunk. There's, like, ice everywhere. I'm fine. You b.i.t.c.h about communication. You complain I'm shut off. But you haven't returned a f.u.c.king phone call in three days.”
”I needed s.p.a.ce.”
”Yeah? And I need my son. Who you took. Across state lines. And then you don't have the courtesy to pick up a telephone? I'm still your husband. More importantly, I'm still Aiden's father.”
”I know. You're right. I should've called sooner. And I shouldn't have kept Aiden from you. I didn't know how else to navigate the situation. I didn't want to hear your voice.”
”Well, ain't that f.u.c.king wonderful. So while I can't see my son because you can't stand the sound of me I've got your mother whispering in your ear.”
”I know you hate her but-”
”Bulls.h.i.+t. She hates me. Always has.”
”That's not true. Believe what you want to believe. But even if it were true-and it's not-have a little faith. I wouldn't be so easily swayed, okay? I'm not this delicate flower, too nave to make up her own mind. People talk s.h.i.+t. They always do. What is going on with you and me is between you and me.”
”And what is going on?” I looked around the depressing setting, afternoon skies dampening walls, throwing a dark blanket over furniture and floor. I hated the way the northern wilds could do that. Draw all light, suck it up like soda through a straw. ”Because here you are, without my son, after not returning calls, with none of your things. Obviously you're not planning on staying. So what's the deal, Jenny? You're moving out? That it? Want a divorce?”
Jenny didn't respond right away. Then again, I didn't give her much a chance, jumping right back in.
”Just f.u.c.king great.”
”I didn't say anything about a divorce.”
”Hey,” I said, ”I mean, who could blame you? You gutted it out, tried marriage for almost, like, a whole f.u.c.king year. Makes you f.u.c.king Mother Teresa, right? G.o.dd.a.m.n martyr, stay married to a monster like me for twelve months. Actually . . .” I pretended to do the math in my head. ”Not quite a year. More like nine months. But, still, I mean, close.” I clapped my hands in a juvenile display. ”Wow, just wow. Should f.u.c.king pin the medal to your chest. f.u.c.king heroic.”
”We've been doing this dance a lot longer than a few months. We've been at it since high school. And the problem now is the same as it was then.”
”Which is?”
”Your brother.”
”What the h.e.l.l has he got to do with any of this?” I stopped and pretended to think. ”You mean my dead brother, Chris? The junkie who's been gone for over a year? And truth be told, a lot longer than that. The same guy I barely saw the last five years of his life? The drug addict I avoided like the f.u.c.king plague? That brother?”
I meant the barb to be a stinging indictment of how ridiculous my wife was being.
Instead all she said was, ”Yes.”
”I'm seeing Dr. Shapiro-Weiss again,” I blurted.
”That's good to hear.”
”She says I have a PTSD thing going on. Because of Chris. So, y'know, I'm dealing with stuff.”
”That's good,” my wife said.
”I don't want to lose you, Jenny.”
”I know.”
I waited for rea.s.surance, my heart flipping inside its cage, desperate for release, blood pressure surging; I could hear the swells rising in my ears, riptide threatening to drag me from sh.o.r.e for good, surrender me to the undertow. I thought admitting I needed help-telling her that I was getting that help-would be some magic elixir. But I was too late. We'd run out of time. I felt my chest clutch up. The pills the doctor had given me were in the other room. Right on the dresser. Relief ten feet away. But I didn't want to risk moving from that spot. I had this sudden, all-consuming fear that if I took a step away from her right then, let her out of my sight for even a second, she'd be gone forever.
”Tell me what you need me to do,” I said. ”How do I get you and Aiden to come home?”
”I don't know.”
”Why did you even come back here?”
”To talk,” she said. ”And I needed clothes for Aiden. Some of my things.”
”So you're moving out?”
”No. Not moving out. Just taking s.p.a.ce. Time.”
”Until what? What the h.e.l.l are you waiting for?”