Page 7 of Breathe Again

It wasn’t her fault I was in a pissy mood. It wasn’t her fault I was fat. It wasn’t her fault my mother was a bitch. It wasn’t her fault she hated the slimy feel of the soap.

Zale got home late and could probably read my mood from the driveway. Olivia was already settled in bed. I had reined it in long enough to sit with her to watch Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkhaban, the one with her favorite character, Sirius Black, for probably the forty-seventh time. I toasted her grilled cheese and sliced her some apples for dinner, helped her with her bath, and tucked her in, her kitty stretched out beside her. She wouldn’t know about the hospital visit until the morning. She didn’t like to know in advance when she had something to do that she deemed unpleasant.

I had too many feelings, none of them good, and I needed my husband. I needed to lose myself in him and I needed to drown the screaming in my own head, something that only happened for the minutes he was buried inside me.

“Hey, gorgeous.” He came through to the kitchen, his tie already pulled through his collar, and gave me a quick kiss, his heavy five o’clock shadow a delicious abrasion. “I’m just going to get changed.”

“Hi, honey.” I tried to prolong the kiss by leaning into him, but he stepped away.

“I’ll be right back.”

Dinner was set out on the table by the time he returned from our bedroom, dressed in old sweats and a t-shirt that had seen better days. Those better days were from a vacation we had taken years ago, and that t-shirt was a happy reminder, so I didn’t care how threadbare it had gotten.

“Livvy okay today?”

“Yes, she was good.”

“You have a good day, baby?”

“I went to my mother’s, so, no.”

He looked up from his plate, suddenly wary. “What happened?”

“She asked me how my diet was going, said she would have bought me pants to match what she bought for her and Olivia, but they probably didn’t have my size,” his jaw tightened at this, “and tried to compete with Olivia over who got the last vanilla dip donut.”

At this he put down his fork and stopped eating.

“For fuck’s sake, really?” I nodded, he continued, “That lady is a piece of work.”

Time to change the subject. I hated calling his attention to my weight.

“How was your day, honey?”

“Busy! So, fucking busy. I’m short-staffed and two of my people are fairly new so they need a lot of assistance.”

Zale managed the small business banking sector for his region, and he had a team of people reporting to him that seemed to be forever undulating. He explained more of what was happening at work while we did the dishes together. He locked up the house, checked on Olivia, and finally, finally we slipped into bed.

I turned to him and pressed my lips to his. He gave me a hard, quick kiss and turned his face slightly away. I retreated to my side of the bed. I could feel the sting of tears, but I beat them back. This was not unusual anymore. When would I learn not to initiate?

Stupid, stupid me.

“I’m going to get some water, be back in a minute.”

I slid from our bed and headed to the kitchen, where I pressed my forehead hard into the granite countertop, clasped my hands behind my head, and breathed deeply and evenly. Too many feelings, none of them good, nowhere for them to go.

He was asleep by the time I returned. I only slept a few hours before my body woke me, demanding release. I took care of myself quietly, then cried myself back to sleep while he snored softly beside me.

After the day and night I’d had, it took everything in me to be able to support Olivia the way she needed me to the next morning. My bestest bestie Bex driving us helped a lot with that by relieving me of the stress of having to drive and freeing me to focus on soothing Olivia’s anxiety.

The orthotist returned with the braces, and we gently pressed through more tears, anger, and sensory overload, before we were finally able to head home. My baby was exhausted. Her face slack, eyes dull, headphones on but there was no more singing.

We met Bex in the lobby. Bex, the lifesaver, brought Olivia fortune cookies. These were exciting for her; she was enthralled by the paper messages tucked inside. She brightened immediately at the unexpected treat and passed us each a cookie then waited impatiently for us to open and read our fortunes.

“Mine is a quote from Brene Brown. It says, ‘Worthy now. Not if. Not when. We are worthy of love and belonging now. Right this minute. As is.’” I paused. “I like these modern fortune cookies.” This was one I wouldn’t mind keeping.

“Confucious must be out of wisdom,” Bex replied. “I got Oprah, she says, ‘Turn your wounds into wisdom.’ That’s a good one.”

Olivia read hers aloud, her mouth full of cookies. “‘The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage,’ Jack London.”

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