Five Years Ago
Even though there were glimmers of hope over the last few months, with every new day, Rosie felt more and more like she was existing underwater. When Asher cried to be fed, or Willow asked for crayons to color with, or Rex asked how the day was, Rosie only heard blubbering, echoing sounds. Even moving her legs to walk downstairs or her arms to pour water into a glass met with an unrelenting resistance. Blinking even felt like too much energy to muster.
And while Rosie was dull and listless on the outside, on the inside she was panicked. Panicked about the state of her motherhood, her marriage and her health. She knew the ugliness she saw in front of her was all a delusion, but she could not escape the rage she felt encompassing her whole entire life. Her life and her children and her husband.
Rosie’s brain and heart rattled inside her body. They clanked around in her skull and beneath her ribs until she hurt. She just lay in her bedroom for hours and hours staring at the walls and listening to the gushing sounds of her own syncopated heartbeat. She saw herself in her mind’s eye swiping the picture frames off her dresser, tearing the curtains off the poles, dragging her uncut fingernails down the walls until they were peeled to shreds. She hated these twisted fantasies. She was tortured by them and she wanted them to stop. She wanted them to stop so badly. But they were always there. She knew how lovely her life was, but she just couldn’t stop the dark visions from tearing the whole thing to the ground. And the more she tried to push the dark thoughts out of her mind, the more they crushed in on her.
One solitary afternoon, when she couldn’t endure the harrowing pulse of her organs any longer, Rosie picked up the bottle of Vicodin that had been sitting in her bathroom cabinet since Rex’s minor surgery a few months prior. She opened the orange tube, tapped a tablet into her hand, rolled the tiny white pill between her pointer and thumb. She remembered the feeling of calm that kind of white pill induced all those years ago on her couch. The tingling relaxation. The sinking tranquility of her bones. The quiet in her mind. The kind of peace Rosie yearned for. The kind of peace she needed.
And so, without hesitation, Rosie put that white pill plus one more onto her tongue and swallowed.
And within just a few moments, the tingling began.
Finally, her body and mind slowed. Finally they eased. There, lying alone on their king-size bed, Rosie felt like she had submerged herself in a warm bath. She found herself on the receiving end of a kind embrace. With Vicodin in her blood, Rosie felt safe in her own body and mind for the first time in months.
Still, though, the listlessness continued. And the hours alone in her bed extended. Because, now, instead of her depression, it was Vicodin melting her muscles, her bones, her mind. But at least she had a quiet mind and, though drug induced, she welcomed this state of being with open arms.
And surreptitiously, with equal openness, Vicodin welcomed Rosie’s affinity for her high. Vicodin coiled around Rosie and squeezed her so tight she was unable to move. Unable to parent. Unable to do much of anything at all. Except lie there alone and breathe.
Until she couldn’t even do that.
* * *
It was hard for Rex to see how much his wife tensed up in loathing at the presence of her son. And he didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand how sweet, kind, helpless Asher could fill Rosie with so much anger. He didn’t understand how her blond-haired, blue-eyed, cooing baby could fill her with so much sadness.
How could Rosie lock herself in their room staring at the walls when her two children were downstairs? How could she pull away from her children when they needed her? How could she pull away from her husband when he needed her?
Rex knew that his wife was overwhelmed. And that it wasn’t just with parenthood. It was with life. And Rex thought he understood that. Because Rosie had always breathed in every bit of life around her. It was what he loved so much about her. The acute interest in every single cranny. Her fixation on the invisible, infinitesimal, human-to-human forces flowing all around her. The need to explore the smallest, most seemingly insignificant things in the world. The things that everyone else just skipped right over. The image on the T-shirt the guy across the street was wearing. The detailing on the facade of a house. The mural hidden in the alley peeking out from behind a tarp. The smell of spring rain compared to fall rain. The way two birds in flight intersected one another. The orientation of the bow in Willow’s hair. The softness of the socks that covered Asher’s feet. All of those teeny, tiny things that stacked up on top of one another until they were all too much to handle. Because Rosie’s delicate lungs, her delicate body, did not have the capacity to take in all that life all the time. Nobody’s did. And so, as much as Rosie filled up in her life, she would have to empty it all out too.
And right now, the Rosie he was looking at was empty. Morning after morning. Night after night. But how much longer would it take until she filled up again? Until he had his wife back? Until his daughter had her mother back? Until his son could meet his mother?
Rex was getting tired. He needed Rosie. And he needed help. Help changing diapers and cutting up chicken into teeny, tiny pieces that his daughter could handle with a fork. He needed help cleaning Lucky Charms off the floor when Asher would adorably sweep them off his high chair. He needed help remembering to freeze Asher’s favorite Batman-themed teething ring. He didn’t know how to braid Willow’s wild hair. Or that he should always have three extra pacifiers on hand. Or which brand of mashed bananas or pureed yams Asher would like best. He didn’t know to arrange Willow’s vegetables in the shape of a face on her plate to get her to eat them. Or which spots under her arms were the most ticklish. He didn’t know which scent of bubble bath calmed Willow down before bed. Or which Mozart composition would soothe Asher before a nap.
Those were things mothers were supposed to know. Those were the things that Rosie had been so good at. Throughout her whole life. And with the birth of his daughter five years ago. And Rex was trying. Really trying. But he was not a mother. And he was not Rosie. He would never be in tune to these things. These little details of life that Rosie was always so in touch with. These little details that would make his children feel so loved. Rex couldn’t do it like Rosie could do it. No matter how much he tried.
With the little he could offer his wife while she was in this state, Rex just rubbed Rosie’s back tenderly. He kissed her good-night lovingly. He didn’t call for her to help him even when both Willow and Asher were crying. He didn’t act frustrated when she refused to have sex. Or talk. Or even blink. And he didn’t protest when she said she wasn’t going to join the family for dinner once again.
But when Rex saw that Rosie had made her way through his bottle of Vicodin, he knew this was bigger. Bigger than that one joint Rosie smoked in front of him back when they were in Manhattan. Bigger than his brand-new house with the front lawn for the kids to play in. Bigger than not coming down for dinner. Bigger than his marriage. Bigger than any choices he had ever made in his whole life.
Every fiber of his body ached with sadnesss for the wife he may have lost. But every synapse of his brain fired simultaneously with determination for the father he wanted to become. A father that would do anything to protect his children.
Rex dug deep into his soul before pulling one of the keys to 299 East 82nd Street out from the back of his drawer. He held it tightly in his fist and walked delicately into his and Rosie’s bedroom, where he knew he would find his wife wrapped in stillness lying on their bed. He gently knelt beside their bed on one knee and pulled Rosie’s hand into his chest, pleading for some acknowledgment from his wife. Pleading that she might surrender to help.
“Rosie,” Rex whispered. “We need you.”
Rosie stared at the ceiling.
“I know you are in pain here. There are places we can go.”
Rex’s throat tightened as he placed the key to their apartment in New York into Rosie’s palm. She slowly curled her fingers around it and turned her face toward Rex. Rosie’s eyes met Rex’s deeply. There were tears climbing onto her eyelashes, not yet ready to slide down her cheeks. But still, her face and body were still. Rex willed Rosie to sit up and kiss him. Willed her to sit up and say, “Let’s get out of this place.” But she said nothing.
“I kept our apartment, Rosie. I kept it for us. I kept it for you.”
Rosie’s tears were falling now onto her otherwise motionless cheeks. His cheeks and chin were wet with them. But there were still no words.
“Please, Rosie. We can go. We can all go.”
Rosie turned her eyes back toward the ceiling and slowly uncurled her fingertips to drop the key back into Rex’s lap.
Rex’s chin sank into his chest as he felt the slight weight of the key hit his legs. As he felt the overwhelming weight of his circumstances hit his heart. He realized that he had been crying too.
Rex didn’t want to accept Rosie’s refusal for help. Refusal for optimism. Refusal for a happier future. He picked up the key, stood up and looked down at his wife, his Rosie whom he barely recognized. His Rosie who didn’t want any of the things she used to want out of life.
Rex placed the key from his lap on Rosie’s bedside table so she would know the apartment, her old life, a better life, would always be there for her. That he was always there for her.
Rex walked toward the door and without even turning back to Rosie, he said, “Then it has to be rehab.”
Rex walked out of the room, closed his eyes and exhaled before reaching back to close the door behind him.
As he did, he heard Rosie speak. Her voice was weak but clear.
“I won’t go, Rex. I can’t. And I won’t,” Rosie said.
And as Rex shut the door, he knew she was right.
* * *
Rex walked down the hallway away from their bedroom; he felt his hands and ears and belly warm. A new fire, a new anger, grew inside of him. He wanted to shake his wife. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake every ounce of hurt out of her. He wanted to put his face in hers and yell at the top of his lungs. Tell her to move. In any direction at all. He wanted to grab her wrists. He wanted to grab them tightly and tell her that she had to try. Had to make a sacrifice. Any sacrifice. In any direction at all.
But Rosie had told him plainly that she couldn’t. That she wouldn’t. And Rex wasn’t capable of tugging it out of her. He was never capable of tugging enough out of her.