Chapter 9
Daniel
I kick the door closed with my shoe and set Sebastian down on his feet. The little boy tears across the room, diving headfirst onto the makeshift bed shoved into the corner. Giggling, he buries his snotty face in the rumpled sheets and then crawls across the mattress. He climbs into standing position and promptly begins to jump in the middle of my bed. Rain boots and all.
I should probably stop him. Scold him. Tell him how dangerous it is to jump on the bed. But I like the sound of his laughter. The only time this place ever feels alive is when he laughs.
Or when he cries at the top of his lungs like some homicidal psychopath is brutally extracting his teeth one by one with no painkillers.
But personally, I prefer when he’s laughing.
When we lived under the same roof, I took him for granted. But now, I only get to have my son every other weekend. I had to wrangle this agreement out of Grace. The last thing either of us wanted was having a judge decide how much time we get to spend with our child. Anyway, I’m determined to make the most of tonight.
Setting down the diaper bag and dashing across the room, I throw myself onto the bed and that causes the toddler to bounce a few inches into the air. Manic giggles break free of his little body and he collapses on top of me, snuggling for only a second before his jumping spree recommences. This kid is my life.
I pull him to me and start tickling him like crazy. He shrieks and flails, setting my heart ablaze. But when he tosses his head back in a frantic move to escape, I don’t see it coming. His little skull smacks hard into my chin.
He freezes and for one tense moment, I wait for his reaction.
And then, bam! He starts wailing loud and shrill like the siren of a fire truck.
Playtime is over!
I do my best to comfort him, using every trick in my toolbox. Kisses and snuggles. Silly faces. Offering him a bottle of milk. I even start singing that Boyz II Men song he likes. He just looks at me like I’m an idiot and continues to howl.
Only Grace knows how to calm him when he gets like this. Frustrated, I leave him thrashing about on the bed. I crack open a can of ravioli in tomato sauce and stick it in the microwave. When I offer it to him, he rejects it and I collapse at the foot of the bed, just staring at him and feeling completely helpless.
Sometimes, looking at my son is painful. He looks so much like his mother. With his blonde hair and his chestnut eyes. It makes my chest go tight. It makes me miss her even more.
This isn’t what I imagined when I planned my life with Grace. We were going to have a herd of babies and we were going to raise them under the same roof. And yes, they would cry, they would throw tantrums, but we would face it together. We would be a family.
Instead, we’re…this.
Living apart. Unable to be in the same room for more than a few seconds without fighting about the most inane things.
I bury my face in the mattress, Sebastian’s wails hammering into my skull.
And because my night isn’t shitty enough just yet, that’s when the banging starts. And when I say ‘banging’, I mean ‘banging’ quite literally.
Moans penetrate the thin partition and the headboard slaps frenetically against the drywall as the people next-door unleash their sexual frustration on each other. It sounds downright savage but I only expect the ruckus to last three to four minutes. My neighbor is a broad, little man with an angry mustache and a frightening resting bitch face. He walks around in a white wife-beater and overlong pants held up by suspenders with his chest puffed out like he owns the place. He has the confidence of a Hollywood heartthrob thanks to the trashy little brunette who’s usually clinging to his arm. Gratefully, he doesn’t have much stamina.
Anyway tonight, the banging just keeps going on and on and on. Well beyond his standing record of five minutes. My puzzlement is solved when the woman screams out. “Oh baby! This Viagra has you on fire tonight!”
Of course…
I thump my fist against the wall for the better part of ten minutes. I finally give up and call the police station to report the disturbance. Some officers turn up next door and get my nymphomaniac neighbors to give it a rest. Sebastian eventually wears himself out from all that crying and dozes off.
Mentally and emotionally drained, my gaze flits around the barren room. All I have in here is this bed, a fridge, a microwave and an armchair. I could have gotten a much nicer apartment. Something with a closed bedroom and a decent-sized bathtub. Something where the scent of half-cooked hamburger meat and wet socks didn’t seem to seep through the floorboards. Something that doesn’t look like the perfect location for shooting an episode of Murder, She Wrote. But when I signed the lease on this dump, I thought it was a short-term thing. Renting a shitty place made my separation from Grace seem a little less real, a little less permanent.
But now it’s definitely permanent. Fuck!
The pile of papers on the seat of the chair catches my attention. That’s the divorce petition. It’s been there since the day I lugged it back from that embarrassing incident at the courthouse. It looks like a rather innocuous stack of pages but it weighs a thousand pounds and it has claws that dig into my soul. I won’t go near it. I don’t have it in me to accept that my wife is really done with me.
Lying on my back, I stare up into the darkness and I try to hate her, I try to despise Grace for what she did. But the truth is I'm hurt and I'm scared. I wish that she were here on this uncomfortable little bed with Sebastian and me.
She’s my wife. My best friend. My baby mama.
She's the other half of me and I don't want this to be over. Please don't let it be over.
I try to hate her but I love her more than anything.