Past…
“MOM, I REALLY HAVE TO run,” I repeat for the third time, bending to pick up another piece of the ripped-to-shreds baby blanket that Thomas’ new puppy, Duke, must’ve torn to bits when my back was turned. “Really, I promise. Thomas and I are fine, but I do need to get off here and get dinner started before he gets home.”
“What you need is help, honey,” Thomas’ mother redirects, for the fourth time. “You can’t keep going on like this. I can hear how tired you are over the phone. You forget I’ve been married to Thomas’ father for nearly forty years. I know how difficult raising a child and taking care of a man with the Dyer name can be.”
“I’m not tired, Elaine,” I counter, this time using her name. “I’m busy and I’m okay.”
Since our youngest daughter, Averie, was born ten months ago, Thomas’ mother has called once a day to check the status of my chaotic home. She’s offered that she and Thomas’ father would pay for us to hire and keep on a full-time nanny. She’s even gone as far as to say she’d be an active member on the interviewing panel.
We’ll need a list of potential candidates, she insisted. This was before I cut her off, of course.
We don’t need a nanny. And if we did, Thomas’ annual salary is more than enough to afford us one. Not to mention, I wouldn’t agree with my mother-in-law’s choice of hire.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Elaine Ann Kelsey Dyer.
Until her, I’d never had any kind of mother in my life. But after Thomas and I broke the news we were expecting the unexpected with our first born, Amelia, I gravitated toward the woman who had a child of her own. I asked her advice on everything from decorating the baby’s new room, to what kind of safe laundry detergent I needed to buy to keep the baby’s skin protected.
So while I greatly value her position in my life, I don’t need her inserting herself inside of it every single day.
“Call me later?” she pleads, still worried.
“If I can get the girls to sleep early tonight, I’ll try.”
“Kiss them for me. Tell them Grammy loves them and I’ll see them soon.”
Our girls are very lucky to have the family they’ve inherited. My dad has taken to the growing family well. He’s here at least once a week to visit and calls even more often.
Thomas’ family is obsessed with ours—to the point of frustration.
Obviously.
“Always,” I return with a smile.
Hanging up and tossing the phone on the couch, I brave an agonizing look around our oversized front room. If this weren’t my house, my situation, I’d laugh.
Bottles, blankets, and toys, both the girls and the puppy’s belongings litter nearly every available surface. The stench of wet dog hair, dirty diapers, and baby vomit has invaded my living space, as well.
Thomas doesn’t notice.
Once we were married, which was only a few weeks after he proposed, he started working longer hours. He also started traveling here and there. He said he needed the experience before his father retired. I never told him that I assumed his long hours and travel were for the sole purpose of not having to be home.
In his absence, my life has fallen to routine. Up with the girls, spending our days muddling through an occasional doctor’s appointment or trip to the store, before bathing them and putting them to bed. I quickly became the ideal housewife, living only to ensure my family was taken care of as they should be.
Rather than ever spending what little time together we have enjoying a quiet dinner and a movie, Thomas and I have learned to expect what is actually expected.
Fevers.
Sleepless nights.
Cranky fits and tantrums.
The last time Thomas and I planned a night alone outside the house, Amelia came down with a high fever just hours before the sitter arrived.
We should’ve been disappointed, devastated our time together was crushed, or frustrated in not sharing company. We weren’t. I was happy to stay home. Thomas was happy to go out with his friends.
Between his long hours at the office, and my fluctuating between baby weight and loss, neither of us has cared much about being so close in the way a wife and husband should. Sleep seems to always be the savviest offer.
Leaning down to grab Averie from her bouncy seat, I catch an unwelcome glimpse of my reflection in the sliding glass door across the room.
I wince.
My dark brown hair, which needs a healthy cut and some color to cover gray, is falling out of my ponytail. And my standard white tee shirt is drooping low in the front. So much so, you can see my tan-colored maternity bra. I don’t wear this over-stretched material because I’m still breastfeeding, because I’m not. It’s worn in comfort only.
When a warm blast of soured milk hits my chest, I look down. Averie threw up again.
Hell and Damn.
“Mama!” Amelia cries, walking toward me with her arms extended. She’s spinning one of her dolls in the air. “Look! I painted Jessie’s fingers.”
Shit.
The little cloth doll’s hands are covered in chocolate. Amelia’s small clutches are smothered in it, as well. The streaks of the sugary snack don’t just coat her hands, but her wrists, neck, and face see some chocolaty goodness, too.
I was occupied on the phone with Thomas’ mom for all of five minutes.
Five minutes.
Maybe my meddling mother-in-law is right. Maybe I need help.
“Come help Mama, will you?” I ask, and she turns her big, beautiful blue eyes to mine. “Grab Averie’s blanket and follow me upstairs so we can get you both cleaned up.”
When the front door unexpectedly opens, I lose Amelia’s focus and she squeals. She drops the blanket and takes off toward Thomas, who’s setting down his briefcase on the foyer table as he enters.
Checking the clock over the fireplace mantel, I note it’s only four thirty. He’s home hours early.
“Hi,” I greet, eyebrows furrowed. Averie struggles in my hold. “Why are you home?”
Thomas takes a look around the room, then down at Amelia standing at his feet. Her dirty hands claw his business pants. In reaction to her adoration toward him, he pulls her tiny fingers away and steps back. He takes a look at me, eyes my body up and down and sighs.
This is different.
Thomas, when relaxed and home, adores his girls. They never have to ask or want for his attention. If they’re all not camped together on the couch, he’s got Amelia in tow with whatever errand he’s running.
Looking at him now, staring down at his first daughter with concern, the room shifts.
Something is wrong.
Though it’s been months since my husband has touched me. And he’s never looked at me the way he is now.
As the unwelcome stranger in his home.
As the unwanted fossil he can’t seem to bury.
As the constant reminder of the life he never got to experience.
My stomach sinks with worry.
“Thomas, honey? Are you all right?”
“Daddy, up!” Amelia exclaims, lifting her tiny hands in the air and waiting for her father to do as asked.
“Thomas?” I call again. “What is it?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he says first. “I just—”
A twisting chill runs the length of my spine, stabbing my scalp with an eeriness I can’t control. Through our last few years together, there have been many moods to my husband. I know them all. He’s sweet when he wants to be, short with others when he’s tired, but mostly he’s honestly content in whatever he’s doing.
The expression on his face now is as unexplainable as it is troublesome.
With concern, I hold Averie closer to my chest and prod, “You didn’t mean to what?”
“I can’t do this to you anymore,” he tells me.
What?
“You can’t do what to me anymore?” I push.
If he’s changing his mind about our marriage, family, and plans for a future, I never saw it coming.
“You need to know I don’t love her. I never loved her.”
Oh, my God. Please, no.
My voice cracks as I parrot, “You don’t…love her?”
“No.” He shakes his head then points to the kitchen. “Can we talk?”
My voice is shallow, my heart breaking beyond measure, but now my breathing is uneven as well. “You want to talk?”
“Katherine, please. Let me explain.”
He means to confess.
Looking around the living room, suddenly everything is only a shadow compared to what it had been five minutes ago. Rather than noticing the light colors in blankets, bottles, and toys, I see only dark-shaded tones of ruin and betrayal.
The rows of family pictures that hang on the walls surrounding us, now hold faceless images. The flowers Thomas had sent last week to ‘cheer me up’ appear dead.
Were they sent in guilt?
“Are you leaving me?” I ask, turning to face him again.
“Fuck no,” he returns. “Baby, that’s why I’m here.”
Baby.
Thomas doesn’t call me anything but Katherine. Kat, if a jovial mood strikes him. The fact he uses the endearment now, adds to my siege of loss.
“Let me get the girls fed, bathed, and put to bed,” I insist.
As I pass him on my way to the stairs, Thomas grabs my wrist. His touch burns, but I allow it. My vision is hazy from unshed tears.
Turning to him, I don’t recognize Thomas as the man I married. Nor the father of my children.
I see only the bane of my young life’s betrayal and regret.
“I don’t love her,” he says again, as I start to pull away.
As if that matters at all.