Part 14 (2/2)
No one's home when I finally make it in. Kennedy's in school, EJ's at daycare. I'm sure Eric's at work getting an earful from Michael.
My legs move up the stairs slower than a snail sliding across the moon. Once I make it to the bathroom, I fill the tub with water so hot steam rises. Sitting in a cold hospital in wet clothes wasn't a good idea. Being sick is the last thing I need.
I don't soak long. Got two showings before noon and I'm already behind. I hop out the tub with a little more pep in my step. What will be will be.
On my way out the room I almost trip, have to hold onto the wall to keep from falling over. Inhale. Exhale. Do that three times. Calm my nerves. Life has taken an unexpected turn, nothing to lose my composure over. It's not like I'm sleeping with the man.
I look down to see I wasn't tripping over this morning's events, but a pair of shoes I haven't seen or worn in years. I pick them and just as I'm about to toss them in the closet, my attention is pulled to something lying on the bed. The shoes fall out my hand and I pick the envelope up. It's addressed to Eric scribbled in my handwriting.
It's the letter I wrote him the night before our wedding.
Work was torture.
Every second was spent thinking about what was going through Eric's head. From the moment I laced my sneakers and put one foot in front of the other, things have been like h.e.l.l. I should've known today would be crazy after getting caught in the rain. Usually I find running in the rain to be liberating. But something about the calm drizzle should've been a sign that today would be unexpected.
Never did I imagine what life would be like if Eric found out the truth about my feelings for him. It's funny how you want something so bad and when it finally happens, you want to take off like a dog trying to chase down a fly.
I was watching an episode of Army Wives a few weeks back. One of the wives on the show said something that comes to mind. ”More tears are shed over answered prayers.” That statement resonated so deeply, and at this moment, it's so close to the truth it's unsettling. For years now I've wanted a way out of my marriage, a way to go back to a life of just me. Now that that opportunity may have come, I'm finding myself not so sure.
I've been avoiding going home since I left earlier this morning. Lollygagged in the grocery store after picking the kids up. They were antsy and so was I. Trying to create a last-minute meal was futile. I'd take them out to eat instead. Figured the longer we stayed out, the more time Eric would have to simmer down. My phone rang not once from him. No text message, email, nothing. There's no telling what Michael's beefed his head up with, and the letter... Oh, that darn letter. Why have I still been hanging on to it?
One can never avoid the inevitable.
I'll just have to deal with that after dinner.
I watch as a mother looks at her child with vacant eyes. She looks at her as if she doesn't exist. Her son is normal. Her daughter is not.
She watches her four-year-old child terrorize their section in Olive Garden with such a numbing emotion I feel for the child more than the mother. The kid kicks at her chair, screams as four crayons fall to the floor. No one at the table moves to pick up the crayons, no one even moves to calm her from her tantrum.
A mom and her unwanted child. The father digs into his ravioli and sausage like this is an everyday occurrence. The mother's food is untouched. She continues looking at her child as she runs circles around the table with her napkin folded around her head. For a second, our eyes connect. When I look deep into her blue eyes, I see she desperately has regrets. Wishes that night she had just told her husband she had a headache. Deciding not to forgo her hormones and oblige her lover, she ended up pregnant. Had she known she'd end up with a child whose energy was never-ending, she would've ran to the kitchen and stuck a turkey baster inside her womb and sucked out every abnormal sperm before it contaminated her normal egg.
”Mommy.” EJ pats at my leg.
I'm so caught up in this woman and her life that I forget I have my own kids and life to worry about. ”Yes, EJ?”
”I gotta pee.”
Grateful for the break from Terror at Olive Garden, I take my son's hand and lead him to the restroom. My reflection in the mirror catches me off-guard as EJ does his thing in the stall. A look of regret stains my irises. Other than a few minor issues with the kids, they haven't been a burden on me. So why am I regretting their existence? Why do I feel as hopeless as that woman in the dining room looked?
The toilet flushes, brings me back to reality. ”Did you shake?”
He nods as he comes out of the stall pulling on his s.h.i.+rt instead of stuffing it back in his jeans.
”Stop wiping your hands on your s.h.i.+rt and wash your hands,” I tell him and hand him a paper towel to cut the faucet off with, then dry his hands on another one.
Back at the table, I'm relieved to see the family is gone. From the faces of the surrounding patrons, they're glad to be able to enjoy their unlimited salad and breadsticks in peace and quiet. Kennedy tells me she's ready to go home. For once we're on the same page. I flag the waiter to bring a to-go box for my barely-touched lasagna.
Apparently, the kids caught a little of the rambunctious child's spirit, because as soon as we get in the car, they start bickering over mint-flavored chocolate.
At the red light, I turn around, tell the two, ”Knock it off.” The car behind me lays on his horn. By the time I turn my attention back to the traffic, the light is yellow. Mr. Anxious skids around me while still laying on his horn and gives me a look that says I made him miss the last call for alcohol. ”Get a life,” I mumble in his direction. All of my energy for foolishness has been zapped.
My mind drifts back to the regretful mother at the restaurant. The way her husband just sat there void of words reminded me of Eric. No, he wouldn't have let the kids cut up like that little girl, but when it comes to dinnertime or any time conversation is expected, he usually just sits there and has a one-on-one conversation with his food. It's those moments when I wish I had cut things short after our first date, and definitely wish I had given him the letter when it was fresh in my hand. Wish I had listened to my instinct to keep it moving where he was concerned.
Not listening to my gut has me here.
26.
SYDNEY.
I dropped the kids off at my mom's house before heading home. It's been at least eight hours since I've heard from or laid eyes on my husband. This would not be a battle the kids need to be a part of. It's a battle I'm sure I don't want to be a part of.
”But all is changed with time, the future none can see. The road you leave behind, ahead lies mystery.”
The words of Stevie Wonder slap me in the face when I walk through the door to my home. Volume is on one hundred. There's no denying I'm being sent a message.
It's dark in the house. My sight's diminished, other senses heightened. I smell a madman on the loose. A movie scene pops in my head and all I can see is Wesley Snipes taking a hammer to anything within reach in Sanaa Lathan's brownstone in Disappearing Acts. I knew I wasn't ready for war, but this takes it to a different level.
No fear, Sydney. No. Fear.
A flicker of light leads me to the living room. I can see a bundle of fur nestled by the unlit fireplace. Forrester. Can always depend on him to be where he's supposed to be. That makes me smile in the midst of all of the above.
A large shadow moves on the wall. I look over by the speaker, see Eric standing by the stereo. The lit candle on the mantle helps me see everything clearly.
I walk over, cut the music down. ”Can we talk?”
”Should've done that years ago.” He cuts the music back up.
I hit the power b.u.t.ton. ”Let's be adult about this, Eric.”
”Be adult about this?” My husband turns around, his face contorted like I've disrespected him in the worst way. ”Let me get this straight. You wrote me a d.a.m.n letter to call off our wedding less than twelve hours away because you couldn't face me like a woman and you want to be adult about this now?”
Instead of defending my actions, I turn around and bolt out of the living room and up the stairs.
<script>