So Much More(77)

“My grandmother died.” This is me talking.

He looks at me thoughtfully, he’s never heard this story, and I’m sure he wasn’t expecting anything remotely close to this. “The one who raised you?”

I nod.

“When did it happen?” he questions. I know he thinks this is strange; I’ve always refused to talk about her to him.

“I was eighteen. She was sixty-two though I always thought of her as ageless. A woman with the wisdom time affords, but with the vitality and enthusiasm of someone much younger. An enigma. The type of person who should be able to dodge death, outsmart it, forever.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I killed her. It was my fault.” I’ve thought those words thousands of times. They’re loud and condemning in my head, but quiet and wounded when they dribble between my lips. It should worry me that this type of shock-worthy declaration is registering shock-free on his face. But I’m not worried about me for once. I’m purging. Purging all the bad. “We were in a car crash. Hit a tree. I was driving.”

“Sounds like an accident. Accidents aren’t anyone’s fault.” It’s still his concerned voice. I know that will all soon change.

I take a deep breath and when I do the sob climbs from somewhere deep in the bowels of me where I bury the ugliest of the ugly and erupts in quiet expulsion. “It’s my fault. I was in such a f*cking hurry. I needed the f*cking ricotta cheese, and that’s all I was thinking about.”

When I look at Seamus, his eyes are wide and disbelief is mounting in them, contorting his face though he’s fighting it. I watch it slowly transform into the grimace of hate. He knows I’m not talking about my grandmother. “What exactly are you saying, Miranda?”

I look away and turn my brain off because I can’t bear to hear the words, let alone say them. “I hit Kai. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.” My body is shaking, not in fear, but self-loathing. I’m preparing myself for the onslaught of rage.

He leans over and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and I watch his fingers curl into fists that look like they could punch through steel. His right heel is vibrating up and down like a jackhammer, ferocious and destructive. Quicker than I’ve seen him move in years, he leaps from his seat and strides roughly on a grave limp to the other side of the room. When he stops, his back is to me. He looks larger than his six foot four inches, filling up the other half of the room with his presence. Hands on hips, head dropped back so he’s peering at the ceiling, I watch his posture stiffen into something I’ve never seen before. He’s preparing for a fight.

Let me have it, Seamus, I think to myself. The kids are sleeping; say everything you’ve kept bottled up for years. It’s time. I deserve it.

He doesn’t hesitate and spins on his heel. Eyes blazing, he thrusts an accusatory finger at me. “You. Fucking. Bitch.” It’s a low, growling whisper.

I don’t respond. The truth pierces my nonexistent armor, and I let it wound me, breach my skin, muscle, and bone.

“Were you sent straight from hell to destroy my life, Miranda? Because that’s how it feels. Years upon years of destruction.” He’s spitting the words at me through barely moving lips and gritted teeth. “Is there anything you’d like to say before I continue because shit’s about to get real? Buckle up.”

“I love you.” It isn’t filler, it’s the prologue to the horror story that’s about to unfold. It’s my one ultimate truth.

For a fraction of a second he just stares at me; it’s outrage. “You don’t know how to love, Miranda.” His words are biting, bitterness and anger, a vicious pair.

Regret is leaking from my eyes and dripping on my folded hands in my lap. A year ago I called him broken. He’s not. I am. Always have been.

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath before he stabs me again. “You killed my baby. Without even telling me, before, during, or after, you killed my baby.” His voice cracks. “Why? Why didn’t I get a say?” He’s trying to hold his outburst to a whisper, but it’s strained. The veins in his neck are bulging with effort. “Why?” His lips don’t move when he says it. His words pry my ribcage open to get at the heart of me.

“I’m sorry, Seamus.” I have no idea how he knows about the abortion, and I don’t bother to deny as he delivers his truth.

He takes three steps toward me, leans forward and spews more truth, “Sorry doesn’t resurrect what could have been. Sorry does f*ck all to right your wrongs.”

The tears continue as I welcome his hellfire.

He retreats a few steps and takes a seat putting needed distance between us again. His hostile glare is frightening, not because I fear him, but because I know I created this fury inside this gentle man. “How many affairs were there aside from Loren? While I was sitting at home blindly loving and trusting my wife, how many men were sticking their dick in her?”

Shame, it hits me like a wrecking ball. “Dozens,” I answer honestly. The time for hiding is over. The admission is humiliating.

His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. “Dozens?” he questions.

My head weighs five hundred pounds when I nod. “Dozens,” I confirm.

Mouth still agape in shock, his head drops back and his eyes go to the ceiling, probably to avoid having to look at me. “Jesus f*cking Christ. Dozens,” he repeats to himself. “I’m so f*cking stupid.”