In the Stillness (32 page)

“What I think is that you’re hoping if you don’t learn sign language, or work with his therapists, or learn any of the coping techniques, that means he’ll magically
have
to start hearing again. All you’re doing is a disservice to you both.”

“What am I supposed to do?”
 

My stomach churns at the desperation in his voice, and I decide to put my sword down for a second.

Realizing I’ve been absentmindedly picking up toys and dishes from around Eric’s apartment, I drop the Transformer currently in my hand, cross my arms, and stare at him.

“Okay,” I breathe, “I think we have to start researching those nannies his OT gave us. The ones who know sign language and are certified in some of the therapies we’ve been learning. We’re lucky that neither one of us has to work much this summer, but you’ve seen how it is, it’s incredibly stressful to even take them to the playground by yourself . . . I think we both need some extra help for a while.” I walk over to a kitchen chair and sit, crossing my legs.

Eric follows, sitting across from me. “I agree. It’ll help take some stress off Max, too. The boy has to have his own childhood, you know . . .”

“Eric, I know he does. But, his life has changed just as much as ours and Oliver’s. He’s not being robbed of his childhood by learning how to live with a brother with a disability. It’s a new reality for all of us—Max included.”

Eric and I spend the next hour going over some of the nannies given to us, and decide to interview them over the next several days. We decide it’s best to use the same nanny to maintain consistency for the boys, and we agree to leave our marriage and divorce issues out of it.
 

“I really am sorry . . .” I nearly have my hand on the door when Eric starts in.

“Eric,” I sigh, “even if I believed that, I’m too tired to talk about it right now.”

“What do you mean, if you believed it?”

I can’t put any disdain into my voice; I’m too exhausted. “You say
sorry
after an accident. Was every day of the last year, when you carried out the affair, an accident?”

“It’s not just about the affair, Natalie.” Eric walks toward me.

“I know it’s not, but . . .” A tear finally falls and I think Eric’s going to break into a million pieces. He’s rarely seen me cry. Mad? Yes, a lot. In tears? Not often. “The affair was calculated and intentional,” I continue. “And, even though we both made choices about all the other things, we weren’t sure of the outcomes then, you know? How could you have thought an affair would work out well?”

“Natalie . . .” I still don’t hate those honey brown eyes, I just wish they had a shred of honesty behind them.

“Eric, don’t. I don’t want to rehash it. I’m just trying to move forward from it, okay? I had a bitch of a therapy session today, and I just want to go home and go to sleep.” Wiping under my eyes, I replace my hand on the doorknob.

“You’re in therapy?” he asks, barely sounding surprised.

“I don’t want to cut anymore, Eric. In order for that to happen, I need to start getting really honest with myself. I’ll see you Sunday when you drop off the boys.” I open the door a crack.

“Thank you for coming. I—”

“Any time, Eric. And I mean that. We’re still their parents.” With a smile I step out of the door.

“Natalie,” Eric calls quietly after me.

“Yeah?”

Eric runs a hand through toddler-messy hair. “I’m glad you don’t want to cut anymore. That scares the shit out of me.”

“I know, me too. I’m working on it though, okay?”

“Yeah. Bye,” he sighs and walks back into the apartment.

“Bye,” I whisper to the closed door.

Chapter 38

“How did you feel when you got to Eric’s apartment?” Dr. Greene tilts her head to the side, and I absently wonder if she has any neck muscles.

I told her about the frantic call from Eric, and having to go settle things.

“At first, I was just nervous. I heard the boys crying in the background when he called, and I had to get there. Then, I got a little pissed . . .” I shake my head.

“Why are you frustrated with Eric, Natalie?”

“Because for Christ’s sake, for five years I’ve been essentially handling the boys from morning till dark by myself. He has a few single-weeks alone with them and he’s already pulling his hair out. Give me a break. It’s like he feels there’s a different reality when he’s with them than when I’m with them.”

“What’d you do when you left Eric’s apartment?” Dr. Greene furrows her brow a bit. I know what she’s after.

“I didn’t cut, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Did you want to?”

“I always want to,” I spit out before I can consider the answer.

Her eyes widen a bit. “That’s pretty honest, Natalie. That’s good.”

I shrug.

“Why don’t you do it, if you always want to?”

Instantly, my eyes are filling with tears. “My boys . . . I . . . they need me, you know? It’s like the second we got Ollie’s diagnosis . . .”

“What?” Dr. Greene asks, as I’ve silenced myself with tears.

Letting out a frustrated groan, I continue, “The second we got his diagnosis was the first time I felt an overwhelming surge of motherhood. How awful is that? It took almost five years and a degenerative condition to get me to
feel
like a mother?” Vocalizing it is too much, and I quietly cry for a few minutes.

“You don’t think you felt like a mother before then?”

“Not a good one.”

“Why not?”

“Because I hated it. I hated every second of smiles and ABCs and breakfast, lunch, nap, dinner, bath, bed, repeat. I hated it. I hated every stomach bug that had me in PJs for days on end, and I hated that my
husband
was out using his brain every day, while mine turned into strawberry oatmeal with a fucking cartoon character on the box.”
 

“Do you hate it now?”

“No,” I sniff.

“Why not?”

“Because I only have to do it every other week.” I shake my head.

Becoming a full-time parent every other week has felt rejuvenating, and with that admission, which took only a day, came a fresh batch of guilt.
 

“Natalie,” Dr. Greene coos, “just because you didn’t like being a stay-at-home-mom doesn’t mean you were a
bad
one. From what you’ve told me, your boys are bright, happy, and appear to be well adjusted, despite the new challenges. That didn’t happen by accident. And,” she sits back with a grin, “it’s not horrible that you are doing better with having them part-time. That just shows that being a stay-at-home-mom wasn’t the best choice for you.”

I laugh. For the first time in several days, I release a full-throated laugh. “No shit.”

“And, since you’ve admitted that you’ve wanted to cut, but
haven’t
, do you think you need to feel guilty about feeling better with your new arrangement?”

“No.” With a deep breath, the tears dry.

By the time the next Sunday rolls around, and I’ve dropped the boys off at Eric’s, it’s the first time I’ve had to think about the fact that I haven’t heard from Ryker since he came to my therapy session. Maybe it was too much. I said a lot of things that were hard for both of us to hear. I miss him, though. I’ve missed him for ten years, and now that he’s kind of back in my life, I think about him even more. While I know that he’s not the same Ryker I met twelve years ago, as much as I’m not the same Natalie, seeing him doing well just gives me hope . . . in a lot of things.

I call Tosha and Liz to invite them to my apartment for dinner as a means of distraction. Ironically, the weeks where I don’t have the boys seem to be the biggest triggers for my cutting. The stillness of the airwaves in my apartment, the apparent lack of immediate responsibility, it can lead my mind down some dark alleys and leave me staring at my bathroom door. It’s getting better—the urges, and the trips down the alleys—but I know they’ll always be there, and it’s my responsibility to myself and my boys to learn how to navigate my way out of there.

“You’re looking good, Natalie.” Liz squeezes my hand as she kisses my cheek.

“I’m feeling good.”

“No cutting?” Tosha butts in with her sassy attitude. I know she’s concerned, but I’m grateful she doesn’t sugarcoat it.

“Not for six weeks.” I sigh in a mix of relief and nervousness.
 

As we sit for dinner and drinks, I fill them in on the last couple of weeks with Eric, the boys, and therapy. I explain to them that cutting is like any other self-medicating behavior, and I have to treat it like alcoholism, or any other addiction.

“So is your therapist walking you through the twelve steps, or what?” Tosha pours her third glass of wine. We’ve all had a lot to drink.

I shake my head. “Not really, but we’re talking about the themes, admittance, acceptance, forgiveness . . .”

“That last one’s a bitch.” Liz snorts as she opens a new bottle of red.

“No kidding,” I snicker.

“How’s your “Ryker guilt” doing?” Tosha stares at me skeptically.

“Actually,” I sigh, “it’s okay. I mean, I feel bad about dumping a decade’s worth of insanity on him, but I felt almost high afterward . . . like I had advanced to some higher level of self-acceptance.” My phone rings before either one of them can respond.
 

“What?” Tosha must see my face fall.

“Serendipity is drunk, it’s Ryker.”

Suddenly, Liz and Tosh are very focused on me.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Nat.” He sounds incredibly nervous, and not unlike a version of him that I’m trying to forget.

“You okay?” I start breathing through my mouth as my pulse refuses to slow down. Tosha stands, looking ready for action. It’s amazing how the past trains you.

He takes a big breath. “I’m fine. I was just . . . do you have your boys tonight?”
 

“No, I took them to Eric today.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called or texted you.”

I have the sudden urge to keep him talking, and I’m hoping it’s an overreaction. “It’s fine. I kind of dumped—”

“No, Natalie, it’s good, I appreciated it . . . look, can I come over? I need to talk to you about some things.”

“Sure . . . uh, Tosha and Liz are here, but—”

“I need to talk to Tosha, too, actually. See you in a few.” His tone is urgent, but not stressed.

“Okay . . . bye.” Hanging up, I look to Tosha and Liz. “He’s coming over and says he wants to talk to you, too, Tosha.” I shrug.

“Like I’d leave you alone now, anyway.” Tosha rolls her eyes.

Ten anxious minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I notice that Liz and Tosha seem to tense a little as I approach the door, but I don’t mention it. Liz, to the best of my knowledge, has only seen Ryker once, and that was the night that we went to the ill-fated party at UMass. The night I knew something was
wrong.
Opening the door, I find Ryker in cargo-khaki shorts and a National Guard t-shirt. Staring between the t-shirt and his eyes, I swallow hard.

“Hey, come in. Liz, this is Ryker, Ryker, this is Tosha’s girlfriend, Liz.”

Ryker wipes his palm on his shorts before producing a sweet grin and extending his arm. “Nice to meet you.”
 

I don’t bother to ask if he remembers meeting her before. He probably doesn’t.

“So, what’s up, Ry?”
 

Tosha’s eyebrow crooks as her gaze follows me to the kitchen after I call him Ry.
 

“I need to know about the last night.”

“The last night of what?” I shake my head in confusion

“Look,” Ryker starts, “I’ve spent a lot of time in the last week and a half thinking, and talking with my shrink . . . I don’t remember things about the night in your dorm, when you fell, and I know it’s not just from the drugs I was on.”

 
He brushes past me and sits across from Tosha at the kitchen table. She suddenly looks uneasy as she realizes, along with me, that she’s the only one who can answer questions either one of us might have about that night. “I just . . . can’t explain it right now, but I need to know as much as you can remember about that night, Tosha.”

Without blinking, Tosha moves her eyes to Ryker’s. “I remember everything. Let’s go out on the patio,” she says flatly, “I’m going to need a few cigarettes.”

Chapter 39

“I really thought you were attempting suicide.” I swallow a huge amount of wine as I finish what I remember from that night. “You were so pale, and sweaty, and your eyes—they were
just
blue, your pupils were so constricted. I pulled that fire alarm because I knew, even if we made it to the front of my dorm, I was going to have a battle on my hands to get you to the hospital.”

“And you were scared of what I might do to you.” Ryker leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks me straight in the eyes. This isn’t a question. Still, I falter. “Come on, Nat . . .”

He needs me to be honest.

“Yeah, I was scared.” This time, I can’t look away from him.