So Much More (19 page)

“What is it about him that makes him better for you than me?!” he bellows.

“He’s not broken!” There it is. The worst thing I can say to him. The thing that will destroy him. Because he believes it. He knows he’s a good father, husband, counselor, human being. He knows that and never doubts it. His health he can’t change, and he wishes so badly he could. It’s his Achilles heel. And I just used it against him.

I’m going to burn in hell atop the hottest pyre for all of eternity.

Because the truth, everything else aside, is that no one’s better for me than Seamus. In the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I know that. And it’s not his MS that’s driving me away. Do I like it? No. Does it make him less attractive in my eyes? Yes. But does it make him less of a man than Loren? No. It’s everything that goes along with Loren that I want. Seamus can’t be the king to my queen.

Because he’s a saint.

And no one measures up to a saint.

He doesn’t refute my claim. He doesn’t fight me. He stands, drinks down the rest of his beer, tosses the bottle on the floor with the others, and walks toward the hall. Before he turns the corner, he looks back. He holds me in a stare that has my emotions folding in upon each other until my stomach aches. When he finally speaks, it’s low and clear. I forgot how much I loved Seamus’s voice all those years ago when we first started dating. The first time he spoke to me butterflies fluttered in my chest. “He’ll never love you like I do.”

And then he walked away.

I felt the connection we’d had for over twelve years snap like a rubber band.

Another
fuck you
from the universe, and I can hear it laughing at me this time, too.

Choking on thick smoke

present

One month rolls into the next.
 

My eyesight returned. Slowly, and deficient from what it once was, but I’m not complaining, I’ll take what I can get in the vision department. Feeling is somewhat returning to my legs again, the numbness replaced by tingling, pain, and easy fatigue. I’ve lost weight; my appetite just isn’t there. I don’t dwell on any of it. At this point, I’ve forgotten what a healthy body and mind feel like. I exist, that’s about the extent of it.

Work is work, a job that used to be fulfilling is now just a job. I take the kids I work with seriously, and do everything I can to help them, but my motives are obligation and duty, my heart’s no longer driving it.

I don’t talk to anyone outside of work except Mrs. L once a month when I drop off the rent check. She’s good at asking loaded questions meant to flush out substance and emotion. I recognize the approach, I’m a counselor. She’s so kind and caring that I find myself swallowing back the honesty that wants badly to escape and replace it with vague evasiveness that pacifies instead.

I miss Faith. I miss her so much. I used to watch her come and go from her apartment. Studying the way she walked, the way she carried herself with such graceful, unassuming confidence. And admiring it because I know it’s not a product of her upbringing. She invested in herself and manifested it. That’s remarkable, a thing of beauty. I don’t watch anymore because studying her soon felt like stalking her. The torture of not being able to have her in my life distorted observation into forbidden leering. I’m not a creeper.
     

I call my kids every evening. Sometimes I get to talk to them, and more often than not there’s an excuse as to why they aren’t available. It makes me furious that Miranda has this control. My fury should be calmed with words, talking to someone I trust but that person is Faith, and I can’t, so most nights I calm my fury with alcohol and a sleep aid my doctor prescribed. It doesn’t dispel, it only erases consciousness for a few hours. I’ll take that. And when I do get to talk to my kids my body is on such a rollercoaster I feel exhausted when I get off the line. I’m happy beyond belief to hear their voices, but they sound distant, the kind of apprehension that’s a reaction to sadness. That breaks me. They used to tell me they wanted to come home, now time and complacency to circumstances beyond our control has worn them quickly until all of their hard edges, their personality traits that made them so distinct, are being smoothed over to blend them into Miranda’s bland, strict world—a world where children don’t exist as children. There’s no fun, no creativity, no fostering of individuality because none of those things serve you well in a world of money-focused, soul-sucking, career-driven existence. Rory’s dropped his accent. Kira’s sweet chatter is gone, so is Pickles the cat. And Kai is silent; silence not related to introspection, but the scary silence that is the surrender of self and motivation.

She’s sucking the life out of my kids.

I keep the conversations positive, encourage them with every word whether they acknowledge my comment or not. Talking to them this way was second nature all their lives, even if I felt like shit or my mind was muddled in the chaos of adulting in Miranda’s world, talking to them was always easy. They were my light, my fire that I never wanted to dwindle. I wanted it to grow stronger, brighter, bolder, so I fed it by the day…by the hour…by the minute. Because that’s what parents do, without even thinking about it,
that’s what parents do
. They fill their children with love and understanding and compassion and knowledge so that when they’re adults no one can extinguish them. They’ll burn so bright they can’t be brought down.

Feeding now takes effort because their fire has been reduced to a small flicker leaving only an ember that I feel like I’m trying to ignite with water-sodden branches and soggy newspaper.
 

And it’s generating only thick smoke.

That I’m choking on.

So are they.

I used to write them a letter every day and mail it. They never saw them. I know because I asked. I’m sure Miranda’s housekeeper intercepted the mail and gave the letters to her. I even sent a few certified. A signature was refused, and the letters were returned to me. I still write the letters I just don’t mail them anymore. Instead, I keep them in a shoebox that I’ll give to my kids when I see them next. She can delay communication, but she can’t shut it down entirely.

Sulking in the cesspool of villainy

present

Thanksgiving.

It’s finally Thanksgiving.

My first visitation since Miranda stole custody.

School’s out the entire week, so I pack up the car on Tuesday morning with a suitcase of clothes, a cooler of food and water, the shoebox of letters to my kids, and a heart full of hope I’ve missed for so long, and I drive north.

I drive eleven hours before I give up and stop at a rest area and let sleep consume me for several hours making the final few hours of driving possible.

My legs ache when I pull up to the gate in front of Miranda’s address, and eyestrain has launched the indignant insurgency taking place inside my skull, a violent thumping.

The pain is easily pushed aside by excitement, though. My kids,
my kids
, are on the other side of that fence, inside that house, waiting for me.

I call Miranda’s cell. No answer.

I call her house phone and the housekeeper answers, “Buckingham residence.” Her accent is thick.

“May I speak to Kai, please?”

She knows it’s me on the line, but she keeps up the air of formality, even through her broken English and heavy accent. “Kai not here.”

Something feels off, even with the formality. “What? This is his father. I’m here to pick up my kids.”

She clears her throat and delivers the death punch with an assertiveness I’m sure even Miranda would admire. “Mrs. Buckingham and kids on vacation. They be back Monday.”

My anger is delayed by disbelief. Disbelief is short-lived. Anger implodes, gutting me before it explodes on her. “Where in the hell are my kids?” The words come from the bowels of that deep, dark place where hate is born.

The line goes dead on my rage.

I throw my phone on the seat next to me and climb out of my car. Before I know it I’m beating on the iron gate with my cane, hurling obscenities at the oversized, pretentious structure that is supposed to house my children.

A stout, steely looking woman emerges from the front door and stomps toward me. The look on her face is a mixture of annoyance and fear. She’s waving her arms in front of her urging me to be quiet.

To hell with quiet.

“Where are my kids?” I yell again. Projecting my voice isn’t necessary, she’s standing six feet from me, but my rage won’t allow civil volume. “So help me God, if you don’t tell me where my kids are—”

She cuts me off, “Quiet,” she hisses. “They not here. I told you.” Her eyes are darting back and forth, never falling on me; she’s assessing the street to see if my commotion is drawing any attention. She looks nervous now, the vibrato she exuded over the phone is gone.

I take in a deep breath through my nose. It’s a nostril-flaring intake meant to quell anger. It doesn’t. I take another. Still nothing. So, I dive back in speaking through clenched teeth to moderate the volume. “Where did they go?”

She shakes her head emphatically, her words hurried like she’s trying to speed up my departure, “I not know. They no tell me.”

I’m staring into her eyes, trying to read her. I see nothing but fear now. She’s scanning the street again. I turn my back on her and slam my fist down on the hood of my car. “Fuuuuuuuuck!” It’s a long, drawn out release of frustration, rattling out on all the air my lungs will hold. And when it’s purged it hangs heavily around me, as if I’m surrounded by hate so tangible I can touch it. Punch it. Strangle it with my bare hands.

Arguing with her is useless. The ache in my chest tells me she’s not lying and that my kids aren’t here.

The stubborn side of me tells me to wait it out, in case she’s lying, and see if they either come out of the house or return home.

I wait.

I eat two peanut butter sandwiches and drink a bottle of water from my stash.

After the sun goes down, I pee behind Miranda’s high hedges next to the gate.

I doze off around three in the morning and sleep for an hour.

I pee behind the hedges again before the sun comes up.

I eat an apple and another peanut butter sandwich and drink my last bottle of water.

After twenty-four hours of sulking in the cesspool of Miranda’s villainy, I relent and leave.

I drive straight through, only stopping for gas.

My body, mind, and spirit are wrecked by the time I get home.

I write my kids a letter telling them about every evil thing their mother has ever done. I tell them how much I hate her. And how much they should hate her. And how sorry I am that she’s in their life. And how I wish she would die and rot in hell.

And then I crumple it up and throw it in the trash because my kids don’t need my hate.
 

They need my love.
 

So, I pull out another piece of paper and I write:

I fold it in half and tuck it in the shoebox with the others.
     

And then I drink some tequila and skip the sleeping pill because I’m already so tired I can’t see straight, and I fall into a state of rest so solid that it takes fourteen hours for me to deconstruct it and emerge on the other side.