The Winner's Game(8)
DAD
Oh, now I’m being selfish? Really? Did you really think I’d be able to stay all summer at the beach? I have a job, Emily. Is it selfish to want to stay gainfully employed? My job—and the insurance that comes with it—is the only thing keeping us afloat.
MOM
(whispering)
You don’t even want to come. Admit it…
DAD
(shakes his head in disbelief)
I’ve got to get out for a little bit. We’ll talk about this later.
MOM
(fresh tears welling up)
Where are you going?
DAD
(glances at us, then at Mom)
Out.
I hate hearing them talk like that. I wish I could just get up and run out the door myself so I wouldn’t have to witness the crumbling of their marriage. But I am held in place by the worst kind of fear there is.
The fear of the unknown.
The fear of not knowing what the future holds for our family.
Chapter 4
Emily
A TUNNEL. That’s how Ann described her near-death experience—like heading down a very dark tunnel, with no end in sight. She said she knew what was happening—that she was dying—and she was looking for a light on the other side. At length, a sliver of light crept into view. At once, she felt complete peace and she knew that all would be well. Then, without warning, she was thrust back into the bitter jaws of mortality, where light was plentiful, but so was pain.
She doesn’t talk about the experience anymore, but I think about her “tunnel” all the time. Maybe that’s because right now, on the worst days, I view myself in a similar tunnel, looking for the light. There is darkness around me so often, born of worry and fear and frustration at all of the things in my life that seem to be going wrong. All I want is a little light at the end, to know that everything is going to be OK.
What have I done…?
I lean against the door for a full minute after Dell leaves, staring at the ground, not saying a word. I know the kids are all watching me—Ann and Cade on the couch, Bree at the top of the stairs—but I can’t bring myself to look at them. They must be so disappointed.
Isn’t marriage supposed to be about love? Don’t we love each other? Why, then, is it so hard? Why am I so weary? And sad? And lonely? And heartbroken?
And guilty.
I take a deep breath, feeling my chest swell, then retract. The air fills my soul with a tiny shred of hope that somehow, some way, this will all pass.
We’ll make it. We have to.
I finally stand erect and lift my gaze to meet my audience. “I’m sorry, kids.” My voice is still shaky. “Especially to you, Ann. But please don’t worry about your father and me. This is just a little misunderstanding.”
“Sure, Mom.” I can’t tell if Ann is agreeing with my comment or sarcastically expressing doubt about it. I guess it doesn’t matter.
I lift my chin and announce, “Tomorrow will be a better day.” Slowly, but deliberately, I begin moving in the direction of my bedroom. As I pass by the couch, I silently mouth the words, “I hope.”
The bedroom is warm, but the bed is cold. It’s been like this for a while now, and I don’t just mean tonight. Gone are the times when we kissed good night, then slept as one, wrapped together, sharing each other’s heat. Nowadays, we turn out the lights in silence and retreat immediately to the lonely edges of our mattress, lying awake, neither of us venturing so much as a toe across the unseen middle divide. We’re more like boxers in our corners awaiting the bell to fight than lovers wishing for a small sign of tenderness. I know he could reach me if he tried—and I him—but of late, neither of us have been willing.
Tonight, I stretch my arm as far as I can across the cold bed, wanting to touch his broad shoulders…but I know the act is a lie. If he were here, I would not be so bold. I would keep to my side, to myself, waiting for him to want me…and he never would.
It is almost one in the morning, and Dell has still not returned home.
I can’t sleep when he leaves. I worry about him. I want him here with me, even if we’re fighting.
Fighting is infinitely better than ignoring!
And resolving our differences…well, that’s infinitely better than fighting.
I wish I knew what to say or do to get us out of this rut.
I wish I knew how to show him that we’re not broken, just bent.
I wish he would come home, walk into the bedroom, take me in his arms, and just…love me. Like he used to. I would apologize, I swear it! I would love him back.
At a quarter after one I hear the front door open, then close. Then footsteps across the floor. They stop outside our bedroom. The door opens, and Dell’s shadow enters.