The minute I say all this, I regret it. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he is embarrassed. I blush with guilt. I have made him feel worse. That wasn’t my intention. I guess I just needed to get it off my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He is rubbing his eyes and hair excessively, and I can tell he isn’t feeling well. The last thing I need right now is to scare him off, to make him run away again now that he is finally home.
No. I’m sorry, Ryan. I know you can’t help it. You’re not well. It’s just so…I will behave. You’re the one who’s in pain here. You’re the one suffering.
Those are the words I want to say. But I can’t seem to get them across my lips. Instead, I wipe the sweat off my brow and keep unpacking, putting cereal boxes away, annoyed that I’d forgotten those stupid Honey Nut Cheerios. The thing is, I had done it on purpose. I meant not to buy them—to cut down on the boy’s sugar intake. It's all he ever eats, sometimes straight from the box. It can’t be healthy. The kids are supposed to be eating healthier; the therapist told me, especially my daughter. Sugar isn’t good for her anxiety, which often torments her during tests in school. But who am I kidding? I’m not going to be Super-Mom of the year anyway. I just want to get past this week, heck even this day would be nice.
I finally get the courage to ask:
“Will you stay the night?”
He twitches and nervously touches the edge of his shirt.
“I should…I need to…”
My heart beats violently in my chest as he says the words. He can’t be serious. He can’t be talking about leaving already. I want to tell him please don’t go.
Stay, and we’ll make popcorn, we’ll watch a movie, anything you’d like, doesn’t have to be just for the kids. I’ll cook. I’ll make the lamb you love so much; you remember that? I can make that for you, every day if only you’ll stay with us. We can have a glass of wine; we can sit in the living room, holding hands, not saying anything if you don’t want to.
His eyes avoid mine, and he turns away. I feel the desperation rise inside of me. Did I do this to him? Is this my fault? Am I pushing him away?
“I…can’t. Not tonight…”
I have barely opened my mouth to try and talk him out of leaving before he runs off. The screen door slams shut, hard, and Damian comes out to me. He has just been in his room to put the bunny away.
Only gone for one second.
The boy stares at the door, then up at me. “Where is Dad? Where did he go? Did he leave again?”
I lean on the counter as I feel like the entire ground has been removed beneath me—the carpet literally pulled away.
What have I done?
“Did Dad leave again?” Isabella asks a second later when she comes into the kitchen too. Then she looks up at me, her eyes fuming.
“What did you say to him?”
Chapter 3
I don’t know what to do, where to go. I try to go to the bathroom to let the tears flow, but my son soon knocks on the door because he has to go—now—and I leave. I walk into the pantry, then sink to the white tiles, crying between cans of diced tomatoes and baked beans, water bottles, and pasta. I cry, feeling like an idiot. Why did I have to go off on him like that? Why couldn’t I have been more kind to him, make him feel more welcome in his own home? Why did I have to say all those awful things? The fact is, he can’t help it. It’s just too hard for him to get back to an everyday life with everyday problems and little—to him insignificant—things that need to be done.
It started after just a few days at home. I woke up because he was awake, walking around in circles in the bedroom. Sometimes, he was crying; other times, he was just restless and couldn’t lie in bed with me. One night, he wasn’t there when I woke up. He had left in the middle of the night and came home reeking of alcohol. That started a new pattern where he’d go drinking at night with his war buddies, the other soldiers from his flying squadron. Night after night, he’d be gone. Then the anger came. We still have punched holes in the doors around the house to remind me, and the kitchen chair he kicked was never the same even after he tried to fix it. No one sat in it after that.
Then, one day, a week earlier, he backs me into a corner and starts yelling at me, screaming into my face in front of the children. I get hysterical, and I am screaming, threatening to call for the Security Forces, the SP’s. He then grabs me around the neck and holds my throat tight like he wants to strangle me, his eyes piercing me. Everything is chaos. The kids are screaming at him to stop, and once he realizes what he has done, he lets go, then stares at me for a few seconds before he grabs a bag, fills it with a few things, and leaves. I beg him to stay and tell him it’s alright; I’m not mad at him. I want him to get better, and maybe we can get some help…that I know it isn’t him, but a disease that makes him do those things.
But it is too late.
“I don’t trust myself around you,” he says, then leaves.
I can’t believe he gave up on us that easily. I just want my husband back.
“Can I go to play with Joe?”
I lift my head and see Damian standing in the entry to the pantry. He doesn’t even wonder why I’m sitting on the floor, crying. He has seen it too much; he’s gotten accustomed to seeing me like this. The thought makes my stomach churn. Why am I such a wimp? Why can’t I just be strong for the kids?
I grab a bag of Oreos, then eat one and hand one to Damian. He takes it, and I nod. “Go ahead. I’ll pick you up a little later.”
Joe is the kid who lives across the street from us, and Damian’s best friend. Those two hang out every afternoon, biking in the street or skateboarding. That’s what I like about living on base. You can let your kid run around the neighborhood without having to worry about anything bad happening to them. Joe, Jr.’s mother, Sandra, was in Ryan’s squadron in Afghanistan at Fagrad Air Base on their latest deployment. I often think about asking her what happened to my husband…if she knows. But I feel like I’d be prying, asking her to share details she can’t or doesn’t want to.
What happens in Afghanistan apparently stays over there. That seems to be the mantra between them since I never hear them talk about anything, even when we have barbecues or hang out otherwise. They never talk about what they did or mention things they experienced. Not even the good stuff.
Damian smiles, then asks for a second Oreo, and I give it to him, then eat a couple more myself, thinking I deserve it, going through what I am.
Then, my phone rings.
It’s my mom who calls. And my dad. My mom always has the phone on speaker, so my dad can be in on the conversation, which I am actually very happy about. I find it a lot easier to talk to my dad than my mom. He’s less judgmental and doesn’t always tell me what I’m doing wrong and what I ought to do.
My dad used to be a pastor at a church up in the panhandle of Florida, where I was born and raised in a small town called Crestview. I grew up as a pastor’s kid in a very safe environment. We never had much money, but we never lacked anything either, and my parents were always around, which I liked a lot. They always believed in being close to their children, and since my dad retired, they too moved to the Atlantic Coast and live now in Dundee Beach, where they have bought an apartment close to the beach. They follow my life closely, especially now that Ryan and I are having trouble. They want to be there for me, which I appreciate, I truly do, but I just so wish I had better news for them.