So Much More(60)

“And it all ended with a hate letter, divorce papers.” I take another drink and then tip the neck of my bottle in her direction. “Oh, and you f*cking someone else because he wasn’t broken. Let’s not forget that.”

She swallows back some more red. It seems we’re trading drinks and words. “I was wrong. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” She’s still scaring me with her levelheadedness.

“You sure as hell have.” I can feel the muscles in my neck tighten when I say it. I want to hurl the word abortion at her. My insides are shaking with rage. I’ll save it for a time after we negotiate custody.

She blinks a few times, probably trying to ward off shock, but doesn’t respond.

I turn my head and look at her, really look at her, and I’m disgusted. How can a woman be so ugly on the inside? I don’t know what else to say because everything running through my mind are curse words and insults and condemnation, none of which will change anything. I shake my head, and my lips move without my command. “What the f*ck, Miranda?”

The tears start rolling; it’s a silent, unnerving, trail of emotion. She never cries. Miranda’s always been stoic and unfeeling. “I’m sorry.”

I blast her with my anger. It’s a biting whisper, “Sorry doesn’t change anything.” I hate arguing quietly, not that I’m a yeller, but it would give me an outlet for this fury. Subduing this exchange downgrades its intensity and feels like it skews things in her favor.

She shakes her head. “Don’t you think I f*cking know that, Seamus?”

I’m stunned. I don’t believe her, and I have to laugh. “No. No, I don’t think you do.”

“I’m taking depression medication,” she says to illustrate her point.

I shrug. “You f*cking devastated me, Miranda. Annihilated me. You don’t get my sympathy.” I pause. “And you sure as hell don’t deserve my empathy.” I pause again and then continue with the verbal blitzkrieg, because I can’t hold this in any longer, “Fuck you and every single one of your piss poor choices.”

She’s still crying and was taking the assault on the chin until that last insult. She sniffs and wipes her running nose with the back of her hand. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”

I can’t listen to her for one more second. I stand. “You need to get out. Go home. Wherever that is.”

“I can’t drive,” she counters.

I know that. “Call a cab. My kids stay here where they belong.” I don’t wait for her to argue. I walk to my room, and I grab my pillow and blanket, and I lie down on the floor in front of the kids’ room and sleep just in case she tries to get crafty and sneak them out before I wake up. I know I’m paranoid, but I just got them back. There’s no way in hell I’m losing them again.





Sick and tired of feeling the ugliness





present





“Sorry, Daddy.” Wakefulness is instigated by these words coupled with a little girl’s socked foot stepping on my cheek.

I open my eyes to a fuzzy image of Kira’s sweet face inches from mine. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

I smile at the concern in her wrinkled forehead and drawn eyebrows. “I’m okay, darlin’.”

She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes. “You shouldn’t sleep on the floor in the hall.”

I wrap my arms around her, and my body seconds her words. “I know, I shouldn’t.” I’m too old to sleep on the floor, and my body aches.

“It’s dangerous.” And then she releases me. “I gotta pee. I’ll be back. We can watch cartoons.”

“Sounds like a plan.” And just like that, everything’s back to the way it used to be. To the way it should be.

Until I put the blanket and pillow back in my room and walk to the kitchen.

And Miranda is sitting at the table drinking a Starbucks coffee, eating a bagel, and reading a newspaper. Like she belongs here. She’s wearing different clothes than she was last night and she looks wide awake. Sleep was always something she could do without; she thrived on four or five hours a night. I always envied that. “What are you doing here?” I feel like I need to walk back out into the hall and walk back in and hope this is all an illusion.

She takes a bite of her bagel and talks tightlipped through it, pointing to the counter behind me. “Breakfast.”

There’s an Einstein Brothers Bagel box with enough food in it to feed an army, three tubs of flavored cream cheese, six bottles of fruit juice, and a large Starbucks cup. I can’t remember her ever buying food for anyone but herself. As I pour the contents of the lukewarm Starbucks cup into a mug from the cupboard and walk it to the microwave, I say, “I thought I told you to leave last night.”

She shrugs as she swallows another bite. “I fell asleep. Then I left. Then I came back. With food. Your food selection is pathetic.”

Punching buttons on the microwave, I defend, “Oatmeal is good for lowering cholesterol.”

“I hate oatmeal. It tastes like wet sawdust.”

I know she doesn’t like oatmeal. I know she thinks it tastes like wet sawdust. And I don’t care. I shake my head. “Why are we talking about oatmeal, Miranda? What are you doing here?” I ask again.