The Words We Leave Unspoken(63)
I open the bottom cabinet and slowly bend down to retrieve the waffle iron. My vision turns dark and I sit on the kitchen floor immediately, afraid that I might pass out. I close my eyes and wait for the dizziness to pass. When I open them a moment later, I realize that the waffle iron is not in the cabinet where I keep it. I swallow back an overwhelming sense of anger.
Is it too much to ask to put things back where they belong?
I grip the edge of the counter and pull myself back on my feet and begin to open one cabinet after another, slamming each one harder when I discover that it does not hold the waffle iron. By the time I get to the last cabinet, I slam it so hard that it wakes John. I hear him thumping down the stairs, two at a time. He steps into the kitchen while I’m slumped over the cold marble countertop, trying to catch my breath. My frantic search has sucked whatever energy I thought I had.
“What are you doing?” John asks quietly as I hear him approach.
Without turning to face him, I say rather calmly, “Making breakfast.”
“Come back to bed, Gwen,” he says, stepping closer. I feel his hand on my shoulder. I recoil at his touch and am shocked at my cold-hearted reaction. John flinches and removes his hand immediately, as if I physically shocked him.
“Come on, honey,” he whispers.
“I’ll be up in a minute, I just want to make breakfast,” I say through clenched teeth. I’m so angry. I feel it pulsing through my veins but I can’t seem to rein it in. It’s spreading, consuming me like a raging fire that I can’t contain.
“I’ll make breakfast, Gwen.”
I turn and face him, leaning back against the counter for support.
“I think I can manage to make breakfast for my kids, John. If I could just find the fucking waffle iron, everything will be fine.” I hear the tension in my voice, I’m not quite yelling but I want to. I want to unleash the fury. I look at John, standing in front of me in only his black boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, his hair unruly. A look of disbelief and pity on his face, which only fuels my anger even more. I almost hate him in this moment. Almost, I think. The way he’s been hovering over me all week, asking me what I need every five seconds, like I’m some kind of invalid. The way he’s been creating a buffer between Olivia and Max and me, like he needs to protect them from their own mother. I’m not dying, not yet anyway. It all makes me so angry. My heart is beating erratically in my chest as John and I stand in the kitchen staring at each other, like a showdown in an old western movie, each of us waiting to see who will draw their gun first.
Apparently, he’s braver than I in the moment, because after what feels like forever, he points to something beyond my right shoulder and says in a clipped tone, “It’s on the counter, behind you.” And then he turns and walks away. I hear him thud back upstairs and then I slowly collapse on the floor. Angry tears fill my eyes as I sit in my own pool of pity, feeling so much resentment toward John. His bitter last words taking what I wanted; he won’t even give me the satisfaction of telling him off.
I hate him but I hate myself more.
A week later, after Charley and my mother have gone home, the kids and I are curled up on the sofa in the family room, watching Saturday morning reruns of iCarly while John cleans the breakfast dishes in the kitchen.
After a while John steps into the room and tells us that he’s going to take a shower. Olivia is the only one who acknowledges him verbally. Max is too absorbed in the television and I’m still too angry to break my silence. The tension is palpable. I can hardly stand to be in the same room with John. I’ve been snuggling with Max and Olivia in our bed most nights, forcing John to sleep in Max’s room. I feel like everything is spiraling out of control but I don’t know how to stop it.
Max shifts around on the couch when the episode ends and knocks over a bowl of dry Cheerios in the process, spilling them all over the floor.
Max looks at me hesitantly and says, “Uh-oh.”
“It’s okay Bubs, I’ll get it,” I say without a moment’s pause. I slide to the edge of the sofa and stand slowly, make my way to the hall closet and retrieve the vacuum. I plug it in on the far wall and push it closer to the couch. It takes all my strength to push the ottoman out of the way which leaves me frustrated that such a small task has left me breathless. I stand and catch my breath and then say, “Feet up,” and watch the kids pull their legs up underneath them on the couch. I flip on the vacuum and start to push it back and forth over the carpet. It feels much heavier than I remember, but I concentrate on the puddle of Cheerios on the carpet and the ping of each one being sucked into the vacuum. My breathing becomes ragged and before long, I can hear my own wheeze as I struggle to drag in a decent breath. My vision blurs and I feel the room begin to spin. I slide down until I’m sitting on the carpet, the vacuum still running.
I can vaguely hear Olivia as she says, “Mom, Mom, Mom,” repeatedly. I try to reach my hand up to her, to reassure her that I’m okay, but I can’t muster the strength. I hear her yell, “Max, go get Dad, hurry.” The vacuum is still whirling away as I’m still struggling to breathe. Slowly, the air comes and my wheezing fades, the room stands still once again. I see John and Max walk in and John immediately flips the vacuum off and the room is suddenly bathed in silence.
“Gwen, honey, are you okay?” I hear John ask, his voice frantic with worry.