Bigger (The Nicky Beets series) (13 page)

Maybe Chuck was right; maybe he wasn’t the same person any more. He
certainly wasn’t acting like the same person.

Eventually I stood back up, wiping my nose with the back of my hand, and
locked the bedroom door.

I was starving, but there was no way I was going back out there. I
decided to take a shower, and lingered under the water, as hot as I could stand
it, for a long time. Finally stepping from the shower in a cloud of steam, I
wiped the bathroom mirror down with a towel and observed my red-rimmed eyes and
skin pinkened from the hot shower. I leaned on the bathroom counter and just
breathed for a few minutes. I slid into my pajamas and fell quickly into a
disturbed sleep.

Later, a clicking noise woke me from my deep slumber. Blinking sleepily,
I realized Chuck was turning the handle to our locked bedroom door. I assumed
he’d figure out it was locked and go away, so I turned my head back into the
pillow and closed my eyes.

“Nic?” Chuck was tapping lightly at the door.

“What.”

“Can you open the door?”

“No,” I answered. “It’s your turn to sleep on the couch.”

I heard him sigh impatiently.

“Nic, can we talk about this?”

I looked at the bedside clock, which read three a.m. Why had he chosen
the middle of the night to do this, knowing I had to be up in a few hours for
work?

Wrath suddenly swept over me and I shouted, “I said no! Go sleep on the
fucking couch like I did last night and leave me the fuck alone!”

A huge blast of noise erupted as Chuck suddenly punched the door with his
fist. I sucked my breath in. I heard him walking away down the hallway, but I
was frozen to the spot. Chuck was never violent. He’d never hit me or broken
anything in the house, so I was shocked. I lay quietly, listening for his return,
but he didn’t come back.

SIX

The next morning, I unlocked and opened our bedroom door with
trepidation. There wasn’t a noise to be heard in the house. I examined the hole
in the door left by Chuck’s fist and marveled momentarily at the rage that
would inspire such an act. My wonder was soon replaced with irritation, though
– the door would need to be repaired or possibly replaced. Also –
who punches a door? It seemed like such a childish, out-of-control thing to do.

I walked quietly throughout the house before confirming that, yes, Chuck
had already left, again. I wondered: Had he left the night before, or early
that morning? All of his clothes were in the bedroom I’d locked him out of, so
wherever he was, I assumed he was still in yesterday’s outfit.

The kitchen was a mess, the pot containing last night’s uneaten dinner
sitting cold on the stove. I finished my morning routine slowly, feeling the
effort of every movement as though I was walking underwater. Exhausted, I managed
to gather my workout gear and a salad for lunch before locking the door behind
me and driving to work in a daze.

Chuck didn’t call, e-mail, text, or send a carrier pigeon. I stubbornly
refused to be the first to capitulate, being of the opinion that he should
apologize first. He was automatically in the wrong, after the things he’d said
and done.

I warily returned home that evening after my workout. Pulling into the
gravel driveway, I saw that his truck was not there. It was just as well
– at least I could shower in peace and – if he chose not to come
home for dinner – eat in peace, too. I trudged tiredly into the townhouse
and threw my gear onto the kitchen table. Everything looked the same as it had
that morning – the kitchen in a shambles, the bed unmade. I enjoyed a hot
shower and spent the rest of the evening cooking dinner, cleaning up the
kitchen (including bitterly disposing of the previous night’s chicken curry
dinner), and finishing a couple loads of laundry while the news informed me of
Oakland’s murder count and told me to expect rain and lots of it.

Chuck still hadn’t returned when I climbed into bed. I left the bedroom
door open and fell into a hard, dreamless sleep.

Later in the night, in complete black darkness, I heard the front door’s deadbolt
slide open and Chuck step softly into the entryway. He closed the door quietly
behind himself and slipped his shoes off. He treaded in his socked feet up the
hallway, to our bedroom, where he paused in the doorway. It was so quiet, I
could hear him breathe. I lay still, feigning sleep.

He walked toward the bed, and I heard fabric slide against fabric as he
pulled his pillow off the bed. With that, he turned and walked out of our room.
I listened as he settled onto the couch. A few minutes later, I heard his
muffled snoring. I laid on my side and felt a hot tear roll out of my eye and
quickly be absorbed by my pillow. It seemed our war was still on.

I decided a few things at that moment. Firstly, I would not give up my
bed again. Whether Chuck decided to continue sleeping on the couch would be his
problem. Secondly, I would not apologize to Chuck. Doing so would just
perpetuate his “poor me” attitude, and probably his nasty treatment of me. And
lastly, I refused to speak to him until he spoke to me first. This was a matter
of pride. Mine was wounded and could only be further damaged by breaking down
and being the first to speak.

In the morning, Chuck was still asleep on the couch. I ignored his
slumbering form and made no attempt to be quiet as I ate breakfast and prepared
a lunch for myself. On my way out, I slammed the front door for emphasis. As I
would find out later that day, Chuck had received my message loud and clear and
was preparing one of his own.

My demon-possessed yoga instructor, Phil, must have been cut off in
traffic or something before our class because he was taking what I could only
describe as a manic glee in his students’ pain and suffering that evening. He
had us in a chair pose against the walls long enough for most of our thighs to
visibly tremble and a few of us to spontaneously fall butt-first to the floor.

We groaned through sideways plank poses, balancing all of our weight on
one arm. Several veterans had their eyes squeezed shut in pained concentration
during the crane pose that I was still too heavy to do, as it required
balancing one’s weight on the triceps in a pretzeled-up fashion I wasn’t sure
I’d ever master. Even Roxanne appeared to be struggling as I noted a couple of
drops of sweat fall from her normally cool forehead to the floor in front of
her mat. Phil’s hour-and-a-half torture session seemed particularly long that
night, and savasana – my favorite part – was disappointingly short.

At the end of it, I hauled myself up on trembling arms and legs and
stumbled wearily out into the cold with Roxanne at my side.

“OK, that was crazy, right?” I asked her. Normally she brushed off my
protestations of Phil’s punishing yoga sessions.

“Uggghhh,” she answered, tenderly lifting her yoga mat bag over one sore
shoulder. “I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Walk?” I scoffed. “Hell, I’m not sure how I’m even going to drive home.”

Rox laughed tiredly. I searched through my purse for my car keys and
finally pulled them out with one shaking hand, which Rox and I took one look at
before simultaneously bending into hysterical, exhausted belly laughs.

We waved goodbye, still giggling. I managed to pull my car out into
traffic. My weak arms struggled more than usual to turn the steering the wheel.
I breathed deeply and contentedly with the feeling of release and relaxation
yoga often brought me – when it wasn’t making me want to sob in a pool of
my own sweat, that is. I mulled over the situation with Chuck and made the very
Zen-like decision to make peace that evening, even if it meant breaking one of
the rules I’d set for myself only the night before. I felt so tranquil in that
moment; I could finally put my anger aside and focus on what was important.

When I pulled into our long driveway, I saw that Chuck’s truck was again
missing. My stomach fell. I climbed shakily out of the car and let myself into
the house, flipping on the light switches as I made my way toward the kitchen,
where there was a note on the table. I knew, with a feeling of dread, just by
the slant of his handwriting and the absence of a signature that it wasn’t
good.

Gone for a few days
, the note
read.

That was all. No
Chuck
, and
definitely no
Love
.

I sank heavily into a kitchen chair, staring at the note, trying to
absorb what it meant. Despondency swept through me, and tears began to run down
my face and neck, soaking into the collar of my T-shirt. I lay my head on my
arms and let myself cry, wiping snot from my nose on my shirt-sleeve and
tiredly hiccupping.

A few days
.

I rose and made my way to our bedroom, where my stomach dropped again.
His alarm clock was gone.

Trembling, I opened the closet doors and felt a wave of nausea. Almost
all of his clothes and shoes were missing, in addition to his largest suitcase.

Was this what it was like to be left? You come home and your beloved has
removed his things while you were gone?

I wandered through the rest of the house, which seemed emptier in places.
Certain things were missing; things I couldn’t quite place in my memory. And
things that were obvious – the deodorant and toothbrush he always left on
the bathroom counter. There were a few large gaps in the bookshelves I stared
at for several minutes and a spot on a wall in the living room where Chuck had
hung a painting his mother gave him. Now there was just a nail.

Yes, I was pretty sure this was what it was like to be left.

I stood in the kitchen, staring at the note on the kitchen table, swaying
a bit on my feet. It was sinking in, with a feeling of cold emptiness.

I grabbed my purse and walked out the front door, not bothering to lock
it behind me. Who cared if I was robbed? I had little of value, and nothing I
loved was here any more, anyway.

A few moments later, I was standing on Laurie’s front porch with my
finger on her doorbell. She opened the door a moment later, and taking in my
visage uttered only, “Oh my God.”

“He left me,” I said blankly. I felt nothing but the cold emptiness that
had enveloped me at our townhouse. A shiver ran up my spine, and I shook with
cold and fear.

Laurie reached out to grab my arm and pulled me inside her warm home. She
guided me gently to her couch and said, “Stay here.” I sat quietly and
breathed. I slipped my feet out of my flip flops and folded my legs up onto the
couch, realizing suddenly I hadn’t showered after yoga.

Laurie walked toward me with a bowl of something.

“Eat,” she commanded. I observed the bowl’s contents. A beef stew with
carrots and potatoes. Carrots and potatoes were not on my diet – too high
on the glycemic index – but it didn’t seem like the optimal time to be
concerned about that. I spooned the soup into my mouth mechanically, not
tasting it but feeling the warm food slide into my empty stomach.

Laurie had gone into the kitchen again for wine. I numbly thanked
goodness Laurie’s bar was always well-stocked. She poured two generous glasses
and placed one in front of me. I set the soup down and gulped a large mouthful
of cabernet, cradling the glass in my hands.

“What happened?” she asked, finally.

That was a good question, and one I wasn’t even sure how to answer yet.
The events of the week blurred in my memory.

“The fight we had? From last time I saw you?” I said. Laurie nodded. “It
just … got worse. I don’t know. He just … he left me a note.”

Laurie cocked her head. “What did it say?”

“ ‘Gone for a few days.’ ” I remembered that much. I swallowed a couple
more large gulps of wine.

“Well … maybe he’s not
gone
gone,” she surmised. “That doesn’t sound like he’s never coming back.”

True enough, I realized. “But he took almost all of his stuff. Like, all
of his clothes. There’s a painting, some books …”

Laurie sighed deeply and sank back into the couch cushions.

“Well, shit,” she cursed.

I stared at the coffee table, unseeing. Tears began to flow freely out of
my eyes, and I wiped at them absently with the back of my hand. I was so tired
of crying. “I just feel … really confused about what’s happening.”

“Have you tried calling him?”

I looked at Laurie angrily. “He just walked out. I’m not going to call
him, like some pathetic jerk wanting to know where he is and if he’s coming
back. Fuck that.”

“All right,” Laurie soothed. “I just wondered.”

“Sorry,” I apologized.

“Don’t be. It’s a shitty situation.”

I reached for the wine bottle and filled my glass almost to the rim.
Laurie tried to stifle a chuckle as I brought the goblet to my mouth carefully.
I smiled at her, even as my eyes were glassy with tears and she appeared cloudy
in my vision.

“That is going to knock you on your ass if the only thing you’ve had for
dinner is those two bites of soup,” Laurie warned.

“Mmmm,” I answered. “I hope so.”

We chatted a while longer, finishing off the bottle. At some point, I
fell asleep. I didn’t notice when Laurie propped my head up with a pillow and
covered me with a thick comforter.

I knew it was morning when I sensed light coming in through the window. A
deep painful throbbing made its presence known in the center of my forehead. I
opened my eyes slowly and jerked in surprise when I saw two large, hazel eyes
staring back at me, not a foot away.

“Hi, Sage,” I managed. The three-year-old stood in front of me, her long
hair still disheveled from sleeping on her pillow. She was watching me
intently, holding her favorite doll, a hand-made thing one of Laurie’s hippie
friends had sewn, complete with blue button eyes and brown yarn hair. Sage had
named it Geronimo and was chewing on the doll’s plush hand as she stared at me.

“Hi Aunt Nicky,” she spit the doll’s hand out long enough to greet me.
“Momma said you don’t feel good. Do you want to hold Geronimo?”

I knew holding treasured Geronimo was a very unusual honor for Sage to
bestow, so I accepted the soggy doll gratefully, my eyes filling with tears.
“Thanks sweetheart. I do feel better now.”

Sage beamed a huge smile full of baby teeth and turned to thump out of
the room on her bare feet, yelling, “MOMMA! Auntie Nicky’s up!”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhh!” came Laurie’s response from the kitchen. “Inside
voice!”

Laurie strolled into the room in a relaxed shift, oversized cotton knit
sweater and huge fuzzy slippers. She set down two aspirin and a glass of water
in front of me before sinking down into the couch herself.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like dog crap, in every way imaginable,” I answered. “Although this
spit-soaked doll is helping.”

“Oh God, that thing is so disgusting,” Laurie said. “Put it down. God
knows what kinds of germs live on it. She’s been sucking on Geronimo since the
day she got him.”

I burst out laughing despite my misery and headache, and Laurie joined
me. “OK, I just realized how that sounded,” she said.

“So, are you going to work?” she asked.

I mulled this over for a second. A wave of nausea passed through my
stomach and an extreme weariness pervaded every molecule in my body.

“I don’t think I can,” I said, shaking my head. I pulled my cell phone
out of my purse and sent a text message to Robin – my boss’ preferred
method of being informed of sick days.

“Good,” Laurie said. “You should try to relax and get your bearings. At
least it’s Friday; you can take a few days to sort things out.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I feel like I could sleep for a week.”