In the Stillness (17 page)

After a few minutes of throwing up, a soft knock came on the bathroom door.

“Nat?” It was Ryker.

I splashed water on my face and opened the door. “Sorry,” I whispered.
 

“Come here.” He took me by the hand and walked me to his bedroom. After we sat down on the bed, he continued, “You knew what I wanted . . .” Ryker brushed a loose strand of hair away from my eyes and tucked it behind my ear.

Unable to look at him, I let my eyes scan the room. Pictures of us, things from Amherst College, and a few things from the National Guard decorated his bedroom. A picture on his desk caught my eye.

I walked over to it and picked it up, running my thumb over the glass. “What’s this?”
 

Ryker couldn’t look at me, either. He sat on his bed, leaned back on his palms. “My dad took it the day I left. He had it printed and framed—gave it to me last week.”
 

The picture I didn’t know existed was of Ryker and me hugging right before he left. It was taken kind of from the side, but you could see more of my back than his. Our faces were buried in each other’s necks as we hugged goodbye. I was suddenly focused on Ryker’s hands—clenching the red fabric over my lower back so tight his knuckles were white. As my tears fell on the glass, I looked at him.

“I can’t do that again, Ry.” I set the picture back down in its original spot and sat back next to him. “This war isn’t going to be over any time soon. Now they’re talking about invading Iraq . . . if you reenlist, you’re out of here again as fast as they can ship you—we both know that. I can’t do it again.”

He rubbed his hands against his jeans. “What are you saying?”
 

I took a deep breath, said a small prayer, and forced it out, “I’m saying I’m not cut out to be a military girlfriend. My schoolwork suffered when you were gone last time, I was horribly depressed, I—”

“So you’re saying if I reenlist you’ll leave me?”
 

I watched his jaw flex beneath his skin. I couldn’t swallow away the tears, so I just nodded.

“Fine,” his cold tone shocked me, “you might as well leave now, then, because I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Ryker, please. I love you—” I managed, reaching for his hand.

He whipped it away. “No! Go, I said! If you can’t support me, then I don’t need you around, doubting me.” He walked to his door and held it open.

Walking toward him, I watched his body stiffen. I thought maybe if he had the night to think it over, we could talk about it in the morning. All thoughts of that flew out the window as soon as he slammed the door behind me the second I stepped out of his room.
 
I found Bill in the kitchen, standing over three empty plates.

“Natalie . . .” It was a tired plea, paved with resignation.
 

I shook my head and walked toward him. “I’m so sorry, Bill. I can’t do this anymore.” I grabbed him into a hug and he let out a small sigh into my hair. I pulled away quickly, not wanting to collapse into a heap on their kitchen floor. “I love him, but I can’t . . .”

“I know, Kid. I know.” Bill kissed the top of my head and I left their house.

I made it all the way back to my dorm room at Mount Holyoke before crashing into Tosha’s arms and sobbing for what felt like an eternity. The hope of a phone call the next day was the only thing keeping me from going completely over the edge. He’d change his mind, I thought.

* * *

Never mind. It’s about Ryker.
 

I sit in a mess of silent sobs on my bathroom floor; mourning the loss of a different life I had pictured for my boys, the disaster my marriage has become, and the fact that none of this would be happening if I hadn’t completely destroyed Ryker’s life—and nearly mine.

With a frustrated growl, I realize my empty tampon box is just that—empty. I used the last blade several days ago and haven’t cut since. Desperate to make sense of my life and not feel any of it at all, I tear my bathroom apart looking for something reasonable to stand in its place.
 

Eric shaves.

Of course, he uses an electric razor that will do nothing for me. I set my sights on the kitchen. We have knives, of course.

Do I really want to go there?

I fumble through my silverware drawer like a junkie until I find what I’m looking for. With a pounding heart, I race back to the bathroom and drown the blade in peroxide—pouring some on my hip for good measure.

Locking the bathroom door—just in case—I lean back in my empty bathtub, exhaling a grateful breath before I begin my escape.

Chapter 20

I wake early the next morning, surprised that I’m up before the boys. I’m even more surprised to see Eric sleeping next to me. I assumed he would have slept on the couch or not come home at all—though he’s never
not
come home. More surprisingly, he’s not at the lab. I’m actually a little annoyed. I’m not looking forward to round two so early in the day.

Sliding slowly out of bed so as not to wake him, I tiptoe to the kitchen and start the coffee. Hazelnut. Eric hates flavored coffee, and I hate that I constantly drink flavorless shit just to avoid hearing him talk about it every morning. I barely have time to finish inhaling the fresh steam swirling from my cup before Eric plods into the kitchen. Turning for the table, I audibly slurp my first sip as I sit, facing the deck door and trying to enjoy the sunrise before I hear his voice.

“Is this regular coffee?” He stands with the pot in his hand, spout suspended above his cup.

I shrug. “It’s not decaf, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His sigh is response enough. He pours a cup anyway, filling it only halfway, and the rest of the way with milk.

“Where’d you go last night?” I ask without removing my eyes from the view.

“Out.”

Shifting in my seat to face him, I find his back against the counter as he faces the far kitchen wall. His petulance is evident in his hunched shoulders as he tastes the coffee with a grimace.

I clear my throat, ignoring his brewing tantrum. “Are you working today?”

Eric shakes his head.

“Okay,” I draw out, “in that case, I’ve got a lot to do this morning so you’re on kid duty.”

He huffs into his coffee.

“What’s that?” I ask as I walk to pour my second cup.

Eric blindly sets his mug on the counter behind him and crosses his arms in front of his bare torso. “You’re going to run out as soon as we have a free day to spend together as a family.”

I don’t even try to stop the laugh that flees my throat. “You’re kidding, right? Actually I’d rather not drag the boys around with me as I meet with Oliver’s new school and figure out how to get us enrolled in learning sign language as soon as possible. But if you’d rather have the day to yourself, I can bring them along.” I look at him in time to see his eyebrows twitch. “And as far as your assertion that we’re a family? Come on, Eric, even you’re not delusional enough to believe that.”

Eric pushes off the counter and blocks my exit to the bedroom. “What is that supposed to mean?” His tone is saturated with a bitterness that I’m sure only I bring out in him.

“I mean, I was scared,
Eric
. I was barely finished with my master’s degree and I got fucking pregnant! Of course my first thought was to not have a baby, I wasn’t ready and neither were you.”
 

My eyes water as I think of the fear that ripped through me when I’d missed my period over five years ago. Every twenty-eight days since I was twelve—every twenty-eight—I’d gotten my period. I didn’t need a pregnancy test to tell me what I already knew, but proceeded with the formality anyway.
 

“Don’t you think I was scared?” Eric runs his hand over his hair and rests it on the back of his neck. “Jesus, I was already started in my doctoral program. But, I loved you, Natalie. I’d never felt that way about anyone else and I knew that . . .” He trails off and looks somewhere past my shoulder.

I clear my throat and whisper, “You knew that what?”

“I knew I wanted to be with you for the long-haul, and even if they weren’t planned, I was going to love them as much as I loved you.”

My chin quivers as I start to cry. “I love them, Eric. More than absolutely anything in my life. You don’t ever need to remind me that I wanted an abortion.
Ever.
I feel enough guilt about that as it is.”

He grabs my shoulders and pours his brown eyes into mine. “Then why are you fighting
us
so hard, Nat?”

I squeeze my eyes tightly and with a shaky voice I tell him. “Because I don’t love you.”

* * *

For the first few days after I broke up with Ryker, things were quiet. I was able to push through schoolwork, but often found myself exhausted and going to bed by dinner time.
 

“I think you’re depressed,” Tosha toned out blatantly, one night that I’d managed to stay awake past six-thirty.

“Oh yeah? How’d you figure that one out,” I spat back.

“Are you still cutting?”
 

I’d gotten really good at hiding it and tried to only do it when I was in the shower anyway— to avoid unnecessary time in the bathroom—which would set off warning bells for her.

“Not really. Are you still smoking?”
 

She just rolled her eyes. “Oh, because
that’s
the same.” Sarcasm was the tone du jour.
 

“Whatever. Dump
your
PTSD-riddled soldier boyfriend and tell me how you feel.” I’d been crying a lot, and that night was no different. I started wiping tears away from my cheeks when Tosha joined me on the bed.

“Natalie . . .” She sighed and brushed my hair aside so she could rest her chin on my shoulder.

“What?” I sniffed.

“You can’t walk around feeling guilty all the time. It will eat you.”

It had already started. Slowly, using my heart as an appetizer before it devoured my soul.

“I love him, Tosh. I’m so in love with him it hurts.”

“I know” she sighed, “and you love him enough not to watch him make a horrible mistake. More importantly, you love yourself more. You have to take care of you first. You know that.”

My phone rang after a few minutes of sniffling silence. I studied the number.

“Who is it?” Tosha asked.

“Bill . . . Ryker’s dad.” I answered with a racing heart. “Hello?”

“Natalie?” He sounded distressed.

“Bill, what’s going on?”

“Is Ryker with you, by any chance?”

I jumped to my feet. “No, why?”

Bill was silent for a few seconds too long.

“Bill?”

“He took off with my car and I haven’t seen or heard from him since last night—”

“
What?
I’m on my way.”

“No, it’s
—
”
 

I hung up before he finished. Tosha stared at me bug-eyed.
 

“What happened?”

“Bill hasn’t seen Ryker since last night. That’s not like him.” I threw clothes out of my closet in order to find something other than what I’d been wearing for two days.

“And what is it you think you can do?” Tosha’s words stopped me in my tracks.

“Bill sounded really freaked out, Tosh. I have to help him find Ryker. I know all the spots he goes…”

Tosha met me at our door. “So tell Bill. Natalie, you don’t need to get involved.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “I already am, Tosh. The second I fell in love with him I became involved. Just because I’m not with him doesn’t mean I stopped caring. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Or hurt himself.” She cocked her eyebrow.

Bile creeped up my throat. “What are you saying?”

Tosha stared at me for a while; I watched her eyes dart across my face. “PTSD isn’t something you should fuck with, Nat. It’s not even something Bill should—look, just promise me you’ll call the police if things get dicey. Promise me.”

She was right. I wasn’t emotionally or otherwise qualified to deal with PTSD. But, I loved Ryker, and I knew that had to mean something to him still.
 

As I drove down 116, I figured I should drive by Bill’s house first to see if he was there or had gone out looking for Ryker. A mixture of relief and tension seared through me when I saw Bill’s car in the driveway, meaning Ryker was home. I took it he’d just gotten there since Bill hadn’t called to tell me he’d come home.

I was right. Ryker got out of the car as I pulled in. I watched him stagger for a second before he turned and registered that my car was right behind him.
 

Great. He’s drunk.

Bill came to the door just as I got out of my car. Ryker leaned against his father’s car and addressed me as I nervously approached him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked as he jammed his hands into his pockets, looking at his feet.

“Your dad said you didn’t come home last night. I was worried—”