Chapter Ten
Terra
While Michael worked yet another late night, I cried. I cried for my father, for my mother, for my future, and for my family’s future. I cried at the thought of my children never meeting their grandfather outside the confines of a prison’s walls. I cried for Michael’s return, and along with it, that some resemblance of normalcy would return to our lives.
Yet, I knew better.
The severity of the crime, the permanency of the punishment, and the fact that there was little hope of changing the outcome came crashing down on me like it had been dropped from the heavens above.
For a while, I second-guessed my willingness to support Michael in his day-to-day activities. In the end, I decided supporting him was exactly what I needed to offer, as the man I fell in love with was the one who took risks, walked with his shoulders raised, and had so much confidence that it was absorbed by those around him.
The man I fell in love with was the man behind the ornate desk.
The man who never gave up.
The man who fought fights that so many other men would simply walk away from.
It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was going to be necessary.
Hoping I didn’t look like a raccoon by the time Michael was done showering, I alternated a package of frozen peas from one eye to the other as I attempted to cook breakfast. With a spatula in one hand, and the frozen vegetables in the other, I waited for the eggs to solidify.
When the bedroom door opened, I tossed the peas onto the counter.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I glanced over my shoulder and tried to smile. “Cooking breakfast.”
“No.” He chuckled. “With that sack against your face.”
I liked hearing him laugh. It was something that it seemed we had lost when my father was taken from us.
“Just trying not to look like a raccoon,” I said, my tone slightly apologetic.
He walked toward the refrigerator. “Why would you look like a raccoon?”
“I was crying last night.”
He pulled the foil from a cup of yogurt, tossed it into the trash, then sat at the bar. “About?”
“About Dad. About everything.” I plated the eggs and slid the plate across the counter. “It’s hard.”
“I’m sorry, babe. And, you’re right. It is hard. I’m exhausted,” he said. “Can you get me a spoon, please?”
Over the last few months, we’d become all but immune to each other’s emotions. Michael was upset, fearful, exhausted, and often sat with his head in his hands, staring off at nothing.
I burst into fits of crying, often for no real reason. Well, other than I was sad about my father.
Such happenings had become so frequent that it was almost as if they were expected. A part of the grieving that was required to prepare us for what was to come. At least that was what I told myself.
Our lack of participation in consoling the other was what bothered me the most. But I was as guilty as he was. I had no idea of how to fix myself, therefore I knew I wouldn’t be able to resolve Michael’s concerns.
The result was slowly crushing me.
I handed him a spoon, poured two cups of coffee, and then took a seat at his side. While I picked at my eggs, he sipped his coffee.
“Have you found anything yet?” I asked, hoping he’d at least found something.
“Nothing earth-shattering, no.”
I looked at him. “Anything?”
The look on his face gave all the answer I needed. My heart sank a little deeper into my chest.
He cleared his throat. “No.”
I poked a chunk of eggs and debated on whether I should try to eat them or not. While I watched the yellow blob balance on the end of my fork, he lifted his cup of yogurt and studied it.
“When did you buy this?” he asked. “Is it old?”
I had no idea. Lately, it was as if I had no sense of the passage of time. I couldn’t even remember when the last time I went to the store was.
“I don’t know, why?”
He glared at the container. “It tastes funky.”
I shrugged. “Don’t eat it.”
“This shit’s outdated, 11 November,” he said. “The day after—”
His gaze shot to me midsentence. His eyes widened as if he had a revelation. In a flash, he dropped the yogurt, jumped from his chair, and ran to the bedroom.
“What?” I shouted. “What happened?”
He bolted out of the room and rushed toward the front door. Halfway there, he paused, ran back into the kitchen, and gave me a kiss.
“I may have something,” he said excitedly. “I’ve got to go take another look.”
“What kind of something? Something good?”
“I think so,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know.”
I forced a smile and nodded.
I knew better than to get my hopes up. I needed to try to maintain a realistic outlook on what the future held.
But I wasn’t sure on what was realistic, and what was wishful thinking.