He’s been waiting to say this for months. What about me? What about me? I’ve been feeling him not say it, I’ve actually felt it cross his mind when I’ve interrupted him watching rugby or asked him to give Johnny a bath after work. He’s said it finally. But I don’t care.
I stand in the doorway of the kitchen, pull at my T-shirt so it doesn’t cling to my belly, my breasts. I feel exposed under this light so I bend down to start picking up toys, throwing them at a basket, each toss punctuating my fury.
“What’s changed, Harry? You leave the house, go to work, talk to adults, eat whatever you want whenever you want to, your clothes fit, you don’t pee sideways, you go to drinks at the end of the day with other men who have wives at home taking care of their lives too. Oh, and you get paid!” I’m screaming now, throwing toys like grenades.
“Have you ever once—ever once—thought about packing Johnny’s bag for school? Washing his uniform socks? Labeling his shoes? And now there’s a baby. Do you know what formula we use? What size diapers? You never once thought about it, you’ve never had to because I’m here—I AM HERE—I am here washing your boxer shorts, feeding your children, trying not to disappear. All you have to do is go to work, just like you did before. So what’s changed so drastically for you? What’s so different about your new life?”
Harry exhales. He speaks quietly. “You. You’re gone.” He unclenches the sides of the table he was holding on to before, no longer needing the support.
I stop short. If I speak now I’ll break down and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right so that he can comfort me when I cry. I don’t want to be comforted. I say, “So you’ve noticed.”
Sarcasm is a weak defense. Of course he’s noticed, he loves me. I know that. I know that I make things worse when I get angry and defensive and refuse to acknowledge him and refuse to acknowledge him acknowledging me. But I don’t want to share this space.
This is mine—this pain, this anger. I just want him to say—anyone to say—yes, it was terrible, Gigi. What happened to you was the worst. You have a right to be mad and sad. No one has been through as much as you. I gave up my body, my work, my friends, my home—all of it for this man and these kids. They can’t have my trauma too. I pull out a chair and sit down at the opposite side of the table because I’m too tired to stand or leave the room. Just too tired.
Harry looks at me across the table. The light above him shows the patch on the top of his head where his hair is thinning. His stubble is flecked with gray. That’s new; I haven’t seen that before. The collar of his work shirt is frayed at the corners from too many dry cleans. That’s not like him. He’s so meticulous about his work clothes; even now, at this late hour, in this argument, he’s still wearing his cuff links. He looks at me with his velvet framed eyes. I haven’t seen his face for months.
He says, “What you did, how he was born—I’ll never discount that, I’ll never say it doesn’t matter or that you should get over it. I thank God you survived it. But it happened to me too. I was there. You’re not the only one struggling. I lose my place in my presentations. I lost three clients in the space of two weeks. My last review was a warning. I haven’t hit my numbers for the third month in a row. While you’re sleeping in a separate room I’m working on our finances into the night to make sure we can still pay for Johnny’s school in case I get fired. Yes, you sleep less than me, no, I don’t get up with the baby, but do you know that Johnny crawls into bed with me at three every morning? And whispers to me for an hour about all his worries? That he won’t go back to sleep unless his arm is around my neck and he’s holding my hand? You don’t see any of that either.”
Any goodwill he built up with his frayed collar and his flecks of gray evaporates. “No, I don’t. So what, you want credit? I’m sorry you can’t keep your head together at work. I’m sorry I never considered the impact on you of everything that happened to me. And Johnny’s gotten into bed with you about three times, but you know what, your efforts with him are heroic. I don’t know how you’re managing.”
“Gigi, I…” Harry says as I leave the table. But then he gives up. He’s thinking it’s not worth it. He’s right, it’s not.
He stays in the kitchen with his laptop open to the sports pages, luxury car websites, triathlon videos. His world that has nothing to do with me. Or that hasn’t for a long time.
As I get into the guest bed on the floor above I hear a dish break against the stainless steel when he throws it in the sink. An accident, of course. He’s not hot-tempered or volatile, he doesn’t throw things. But maybe that would be better. Preferable to what I know he’ll do in the aftermath of this dish breaking. He may leave it there, another mess for me to clean up, claiming ignorance of how to handle this chore, claiming that he didn’t bother because I would just tell him he did it wrong anyway. The mess will be my fault,
