In the Stillness (31 page)

“I’m mad at you,” I barely get out as a sob overtakes my voice. I can’t look at him as I say it.

“Look at him, Natalie,” Dr. Greene encourages.

When I do, I find him staring at me with an unreadable expression. He’s definitely clenching his back teeth a bit, though; I remember what his jaw looks like when he does that.

“I’m mad at you,” I say again, watching our entire relationship flash through his eyes.

Ryker wipes his palms on his jeans. “For what?” He doesn’t really want to hear why, I can tell by his tone.

“
Look
at him,” Dr. Greene says again, when my eyes have fallen to the floor.

Deep breath.
You can do this. And, frankly, you need to do this.

“I loved you. I loved you, and you hurt me.” He nods and I watch his Adam’s apple twitch as he swallows. Once I get the first sentence out, I feel the gates open all the way. “I loved you and you wouldn’t let me talk to you about Lucas, even though he was my friend, too. You didn’t talk to me after we left his grave the first time, and it made me feel like I’d done something wrong.” I pause to reach for more tissues.

“Keep going, Natalie.” Dr. Greene. I wish she would shut up for five seconds.

Looking directly at Ryker, I continue. “You yelled at me, a lot. Or, you wouldn’t talk to me at all. I don’t know which was worse. I watched you slowly crumbling in front of me and there was nothing I could do for you because you wouldn’t talk to me. You told me you were in love with me, but you kept pushing me away. And,” I take a faltering breath, “you really did push me. Hard. And it hurt, a lot. I was trying to help you and you . . .for Christ’s sake, Ryker, you are like twice my size and you pushed me with all your force across your dad’s fucking driveway! And you know the first thing I did? I drove to Lucas Fisher’s grave and fucking
yelled
at him for breaking his promise and not taking care of you.

I’m mad that every single year since the year we broke up, I’ve gone to the Memorial Day service on the common, hoping to run into you, hoping to see that you were okay, and you were never there. Each year that I didn’t see you there, it reaffirmed that I’d ruined everything, Ryker.”

For a second it’s all too much and I bury my face in my tissues, sobbing a glorious ugly cry that I didn’t think I had left in me. I’ve never told Dr. Greene my real reason for going to the service every year. Picking my face up, I notice tears in Ryker’s eyes, too. That does it.

“There. Right there,” I continue, pointing at his face. “The last time I saw you cry was the last night we saw each other in my dorm. You told me if I called the police I’d
fuck
everything up for you and that I better not. Then you grabbed my wrists and saw my cuts and yelled at me for that . . .”

Ryker shakes his head. “I don’t remember any of that, Natalie.”

“Of course you don’t,” I say in a sort of sob-growl, “you were busy overdosing on Oxycontin because you were upset that I broke up with you!” Looking at Dr. Greene, I put my hands up. “I need a break. Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Just finish this, Natalie. Don’t run away. He’s right here, and you’re right here.

I allow myself one final, deep breath. “And . . . just . . . I’m mad that I see you after a goddamn decade and you smile and hug me like we were old study partners. And, the worst of it? I feel guilty for being mad at you, Ryker. You were sick, and I tried . . .” Just when I thought I was done, fresh energy surges through me. “Who breaks up with a boyfriend just home from war, suffering from PTSD? A coward, that’s who. One who cuts herself every time she comes home from said boyfriend’s house, and one who requests a restraining order when things get ugly.” I shoot a quick look to Dr. Greene. “I know, I know that none of that actually
means
I’m a coward . . . it’s just how I feel. I don’t know how to change that in my brain.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ryker swat a tear away from his cheek.

Dr. Greene touches my knee. “You change it, Natalie, by admitting how you feel and admitting that you know the negative things you’re thinking about yourself aren’t true. And you started that right now.” She smiles and points to my glass of water on the table. “The glass doesn’t feel quite as heavy now, does it?”

Silence loiters for a while as I lean back with my eyes closed, physically exhausted.

Finally, I turn to Ryker. “This isn’t all about you, you know . . . I don’t want you to feel—”

“Natalie . . .” Dr. Greene cautions.
 

Oh shut up. Shut up, or I’ll throw that guilt-glass at your damn head.

“What?” I ask, a bit too bitchy for even my own taste, “I can’t just let him know that the reason I’m a fucking disaster isn’t all his fault, or
any
of it? It’s mine. It’s my brain. It’s the way I process things.”

“Why are you so concerned with protecting Ryker’s feelings, Natalie?”

“Because I love him, and you don’t hurt the people you love. Not on purpose.”

What the fuck did I just say?

Ryker stands quickly and paces to the other side of the room with his fingers interlaced behind his head.

“You love me?” It’s clear he’s putting as much distance between the two of us as he can.

“I mean . . .”
Shiiiit.
“I . . .” I
cannot
remember where the exit is all of a sudden.

“You dump ten years of guilt and anger on me and then tell me you
love
me?” He’s angry. I know he’s angry because the tone of his voice causes goosebumps to automatically spring along my skin.

Ryker turns his back to me as I look at Dr. Greene, who seems annoyingly unfazed.
 

Suddenly, it hits me. “I never stopped loving you, Ryker. Ever. I didn’t even consciously realize it until right this second but . . . I’ve always loved you.”

Despite once loving Eric, marrying, and having children with him, despite the months at a time I’d go without thinking about Ryker, my heart never forgot him. He wasn’t just my college boyfriend. He was the absolute love of my life.
 

Ryker turns back around, staring at me with wide eyes and open arms. “Now what?” he huffs.

“Now,” Dr. Greene answers, looking at me, “we understand a bit more about your guilt, Natalie. It’s a heavy burden to shoulder all by yourself.”

At the word “burden,” Ryker is by my side again, holding my hand. Holding my goddamn hand.

“Listen to me,” urgently searching through my eyes, he continues, “I know that I can’t change your mind or your feelings, but you
have
to listen to me. You didn’t ruin my life, Nat. I spent years beating myself up for hurting you in all the ways that I did. I know a little bit about what’s going on inside your head, and you’ve
got
to believe me when I tell you that you didn’t ruin me. If you weren’t around when you were, I guarantee you that if I wasn’t dead, I’d be one sorry bastard by now. You stuck with me longer than I wanted to stick with myself. Of course there were days I felt mad at you, but not anymore.”
 

He grabs hold of my other hand and keeps on, with pain in his eyes, “You’re a beautiful person, Natalie, inside and out, don’t let what happened between us . . . it’s over, okay? We’re not back there in my dad’s house, we’re not in your dorm room, and I’m not in the National Guard anymore. It’s all over, and I’m okay.”

By the end of his sentence we’re both crying and wiping our eyes, pulling away from each other to retrieve tissues.

“Thank you for coming today, Ryker . . .” Dr. Greene wraps up my session and sends us back into the world after giving Ryker her number and strongly suggesting he call her.

Ryker and I walk silently to the parking lot, where I see that his truck is parked next to my car.

“Thank you, Ryker . . .” I rest my hand on the door as I open it.

“You’re welcome.” He shrugs and opens his door.

“I want you to know—”

Ryker cuts me off, “It’s okay, Nat. I’m glad I came today. I’m sorry . . .”

“For what?”

“I’ve spent all this time angry at myself over hurting you, that it never occurred to me that you
weren’t
wicked pissed at me for everything. It never occurred to me that you were upset, or still hurting . . .” In a split second it looks like all the guilt I threw up in Dr. Greene’s office landed on him.

“Ryker, no—”

“I need to take some time to work through this, okay? I’m not mad at you, or anything, I just . . . need to process everything.” He’s not looking at me. I understand that to mean I’m to stay away for a while.

“Okay,” I nod, “I’ll talk to you later.” Sliding into my car, I hear him mumble “later,” before we both pull out of the parking lot.

Chapter 37

Ten years ago, I could spend hours wandering the streets or vegging at home after a therapy session. Today, a few hours after getting home and eating dinner, Eric calls in a panic.

I pause before saying hello, assessing the noise in the background, and quickly determine chaos is in full force.
 

“Eric? What’s going on?”

“Natalie,” he says almost breathlessly, causing my anxiety to rise a bit, “Ollie’s having a full-on tantrum and Max is freaking out . . . I can’t get Ollie to look at me to see what I’m saying and my sign language is total shit . . . I don’t know what to do.”
 

I want to wring his neck, I really do. First of all, it’s an hour past their bedtime, so of course they’re exhausted. Second, the therapists have talked with us about tantrums in deaf children, and how Oliver’s likely to act out for a while because he’s scared, angry, and whatever other emotion kicks in when you’re robbed of one of your senses. Instead, I use my exhaustion from the day’s emotional upheaval to feign levelheadedness.
 

“I’ll be right over. Sit tight.”

Ten minutes later, I can hear the screams coming from the 2nd floor Amity Street apartment—a place I only stand at the threshold of now when I bring the boys here every other week. The full-week alternating between our two houses seems to work best for them, for now.
 

Opening the door, I find Oliver face-down on the kitchen floor, kicking and screaming louder than usual, Max crying on the couch, and Eric crouching down next to Oliver, yelling at him to sit up and look at him.
 

First things first. “Max, Honey, go in your room and get a book, Mommy will be there in a minute, okay?” Max hugs my legs for a split second before following my request.

“Eric!” He seems to just process that I’ve walked in. “He
can’t
hear you! Stop yelling at him!” Though, yelling at Eric feels good.

“He was hearing me a little earlier today, Natalie!” Eric yells, running his hands through his hair. “He was sitting on my lap and I could . . .”

“They told us that his hearing could come and go without notice . . .” Not wanting to rehash our son’s diagnosis for what feels like the thirtieth time, I kneel beside Ollie and scoop him into my arms. Holding him tight against my chest, he’s still screaming. “He’s scared, Eric . . .” My chin quivers slightly as I rock him back to forth. “Go check on Max, please.”
 

Eric heads down the hall and I stand, still holding Oliver, and walk to the couch. Sitting down, I pull his face forward and smile. He presses his head into my shoulder and keeps crying. Logically, I know that this won’t do any good, but I can’t help it; I dip my chin so Ollie and I are cheek-to-cheek—my lips resting lightly against the skin next to his ear—and I start singing.

 
Rocking side to side I sing the entirety of “Return to Pooh Corner” to my son, who can’t hear a word of his once-favorite song.
 

By the time I reach the end, Oliver is fast asleep on my chest. I keep humming, in hopes that the vibrations from my throat are comforting to him somehow, and walk him to their bedroom, where Max is passed out as well.
 
Eric’s standing in the center of their room, watching Max, as I set Oliver next to him.
 

Max stirs a little and opens his eyes. “Mommy, are you staying here?”
 

“No, Sweetie,” I whisper, “Mommy is going back to her house.”

“But I want you to stay here.” His sleepy voice slices right through me.

“I know, Honey. You get to come back to Mommy’s house in a few days, okay? Then we’ll have lots of fun with Auntie Tosha.”

“Okay,” he yawns his resignation, and Eric and I slip out as he falls back asleep.

Walking into the kitchen behind me, Eric lets out a long sigh.

“Thank you so much for coming, Natalie. I didn’t know what to do . . .”

I smack my lips. “You’d know what to do if you bothered working with his therapists when they were here.”

“Oh, and you’re so perfect?” His tone is suddenly sharp.

“Ha. Hardly. I just want to feel as prepared as possible, Eric, and that means learning every tool I can.”
 

He anchors himself in the center of the room with his hands on his hips. “And you don’t think I do?”
 

Eric and I haven’t talked this much alone since after I found him with what’s-her-name over a month ago. We’re able to play nice long enough to hand off the boys and get through meeting with our attorneys, but that’s it. Eric’s been functioning under some warped paradigm of denial from the second the doctor told us about Ollie’s diagnosis. He wants Ollie to be the rare case whose hearing returns and stays. Of course I do, too, but for the sake of my child, I have to operate in reality.