So Much More(40)

She’s right.

I don’t want her to be right.

But she is.

Goddammit.

I stand up with her help. And we have a long conversation with our eyes. I tell her everything my mouth can’t say because words are futile and don’t have a future beyond her front door.

And then I ask her for another hug.

The embrace is everything we just said with our eyes. Every promise we couldn’t make. I don’t want to let her go. Her t-shirt is balled up in my fists in a desperate attempt to wring every last bit of Faith out of this moment and take it with me when I walk out that door. Her tears have soaked the front of my shirt by the time we part. And when I walk out neither one of us says anything, because there’s nothing left to say.





Jesus, Mary, and Joseph





present





My desk phone rings as soon as I unlock my office door.

“This is Mr. McIntyre,” I answer.

“Seamus,” Janet clears her throat, “can you please come to the office to see me immediately. I’m sorry.” The way she says it makes me uncomfortable. I like Janet, but I’m beginning to hate it when she calls.

I walk slowly as if the bad news will diminish or disappear by the time I get there if I take my time.

It doesn’t.

Janet waves me into an empty office to the right of her desk and closes the door behind us. I don’t know what she’s about to say, but I’m already thankful for the privacy she’s provided. She hands me a form. “They want you to take a drug test this morning, Seamus. You’ll need to leave right now to make the appointment.” She’s biting her bottom lip like she’s sorry she has to deliver the news, and she hopes I’m clean, all in one worrying gesture.

“Who’s they?”

She looks around like we aren’t alone and then she lowers her voice, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but administration called Friday afternoon to inform me of the screening appointment.” She stops and nervously licks her lips. “And earlier in the day, a manila envelope was delivered to Principal Brentwood from your ex-wife’s attorney’s office. It wasn’t sealed, only clasped,” she closes her eyes when she admits her wrongdoing, “and I opened it and read the documents inside. There was a letter stating your suspected drug use and a photo—”

I stop her. “Jesus.”

“Mary and Joseph,” she says under her breath. It’s a statement of solidarity. She knows I’ve been through hell with Miranda. “Seamus, this is serious. Any suspicion of drug use results in immediate testing, you know that. And if found positive, there’s a zero tolerance policy, you would be terminated.” She’s asking, without asking, if I can pass the test.

I hold her gaze and plead with her, “I don’t do drugs, Janet. You have to believe me. It’s not what it looks like.”

She nods her head in relief. “I believe you, Seamus. Now, take the test and prove it to them.”





I took the test.

I was clean.

Fuck you, Miranda.





No one measures up to a saint





past





True to my word I filed for divorce, and had Seamus served with papers Monday while he was at work.

He didn’t see it coming.

He’s waiting up for me when I get home late. The kids are already in bed, as usual. I should’ve gone to a hotel, but the house is big enough for all of us to live in and continue to avoid each other.

He’s sitting, facing the front door, in an armchair he’s dragged in from the living room, when I walk in. He’s clutching a bottle of beer in his hand. There are five identical, empty bottles lined up at his feet. “Who is he?”

I’m irritated that he’s not letting me set my purse down or take my jacket off, before he starts attacking me. I don’t answer him right away.

He waits patiently and takes a long pull from the bottle.

“Who is who?” I ask innocently.

“The man you’re leaving me for?” His voice is quiet, which worries me more than if he were yelling. And the white-knuckle grip he has on the bottle in his hand tells me anger is at the surface, barely contained.

“I just can’t do this anymore, Seamus.” I don’t know why I feel like I need to keep this vague. I’ve been waiting years for this day, working toward my destiny, and now that it’s finally here it’s harder than I thought it would be.

I have to trade in my get out of hell free card.

Fuck.

“Does he have more money than me? Is that it?”

Loads, I think.

“Is he better looking?”

No. Good looking, but no one’s better looking than you.

“Drives a fancy car?”

Someone drives him around in a fancy car.

“Buys you expensive gifts?”

Not in years.

He’s firing questions at me, his voice rising. I’m not answering any of them out loud. And then it turns personal, his voice biting and accusatory. “Does he love and care for your children?”

He doesn’t want children. Not even his own.

“Does he look after you when you’re sick?”