For Life (30 page)
Cassie
“Why did Daddy leave?” Chloe asks cautiously when I’m setting the table that night for the three of us. There’s no way in hell I can eat, but I’ve managed to throw some pasta together to keep up appearances. I kept hoping Grady would come back, but so far he hasn’t even sent me a text message. I wonder what he’ll say to the kids.
“He had some things to do back at the other house,” I lie, and she doesn’t even pretend to believe me.
“So you guys had a fight?”
“Jesus, Chloe, leave it!” I slam the serving dish on the table and whirl to face her. “Can we just eat our dinner without commentary from you?”
My anger startles her, but only for a second. Her eyes narrow. “Caden needs Daddy here.”
“Then Caden can call Daddy himself. Dinner’s ready, tell your brother.”
We eat in total silence, everyone picking at their food. The kids have absorbed my mood, which makes me feel even worse. It was a horrible morning, but they were moving past it. They’d been watching movies, doing some brother-sister bonding. Everything was fine until I went off the deep end.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “Everything’s going to be okay, I just…” Both Caden and Chloe stare back at me like little owls, waiting for some magical words that will turn this crappy dinner around. “He’ll be back tomorrow. The news had us both feeling pretty rough. We trusted Coach and we both feel like we should’ve known what was going on.”
“You didn’t know, Mom,” Caden says patiently. “There’s no way you would’ve known what happened unless I told you. And I didn’t want anybody to get in trouble.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I plead. “You guys can talk to me about anything, you know that.”
“Mom, no offense, but no. You would’ve called Mrs. Lewis in a heartbeat,” Chloe chimes in.
“Well, yeah.”
“I know it was my fault, what happened,” Caden says. “Not all of it, but if I had told her sooner it wouldn’t have happened like it did. But no way was I going to tell you.”
“Am I a bad mother?”
“No.” Chloe surprises me by answering first. “You’re a great mother, promise, but some things you just can’t tell your parents. It’s too awkward. I think he did the right thing telling Mrs. Lewis when he did.”
“You did, bud, that was good thinking. Is Ryan upset with you?”
Caden shrugs. “I don’t know. His mom said he was relieved it was out and everything was over. I sent him a text. Hopefully he’ll call me.”
“I’m proud of you. And I know you guys probably don’t want to tell me everything, especially when it’s awkward, but please remember that I might be able to help. I know you have to figure it out for yourselves, but just…”
“I know, Ma.” Caden seems slightly embarrassed about all the emotional talk. “It’s okay.” He gets up from the table, clears his plate and loads it in the dishwasher, and wraps his arms around my neck. He has to stoop low to hug me in the chair, and he holds me a bit too hard, but I squeeze him back with all I’ve got.
“I love you, bud.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“And I love you too, Mommy,” Chloe says, getting up from her chair and joining us. We have a tearful moment before she tells me, “Now call Daddy and tell him to get his butt back home.”
Later I try texting him again, but I still don’t get a response. Resolving to go to the house in the morning so I can apologize in person, I fall into exhausted sleep.
* * * *
I probably look like a creeper idling my car on the street outside Grady’s house. I can’t work up the nerve to pull in the driveway, even though I tossed and turned all night thinking of the things I said to him. I missed him lying in bed beside me, the comfortable warmth of him anchoring me in the morning the way it always does. I replay our argument in my head and admit that I was a horrible, deranged bitch. I was freaked out about Caden, but it’s no excuse for the way I talked to Grady.
I left home on the heels of a stern pep talk to myself to pull my head out of my ass and apologize to him. But my fingers are frozen around the steering wheel, my heart in my throat.
Chicken shit
, I chastise myself.
Just go tell him you’re sorry.
I can’t forget blurting out “ex-husband” like a complete bitch to the man I’ve shared a bed with for the past three months. I can’t erase the look of anguish in his eyes when I said those words. And the distress in his voice when he said my name - grief and anger. Possibly even heartbreak.
No, not
possibly
heartbreak.
Definitely
heartbreak.
What the hell is
wrong
with me?
It’s 10:30 a.m. and his blinds are all pulled, his little gray house closed tight against the world. His truck hunkers patiently in the driveway, and the recycling bin has been rolled out from the side of the garage to the end of the driveway, where it’s parked haphazardly behind the truck.
To anyone else, this scene might look perfectly normal, but it’s not. On a sunny Saturday like this, Grady should be up and puttering. His truck is still covered with road dust and salt, and Grady is fastidious about washing his truck first thing on Saturday morning. Ares isn’t in the backyard, either, which is odd. By this time on any given day Grady has already gone for a run, eaten breakfast, and done any number of household chores and projects. Saturdays are his early and most productive days of the month. And on an unseasonably warm Saturday like today, it’s unthinkable that he wouldn’t be outside.
Even the recycling bin looks off. Grady brings it to the very edge of the driveway every week, and he would never leave it askew like that. I might, if I were in a hurry, but he’s too meticulous.
And he hasn’t answered any of my texts. I’m sure he’s still pissed off about what I said yesterday. I admit it, I was a complete jerk. What I said would’ve been a dagger to the heart had he said it to me. For all the growing up I claim to have done in the years we’ve been apart, I still have a quick temper, and sometimes I shock even myself with my sharp tongue. But the fact that he didn’t reply at all to three different texts is definitely strange. He’s never just ignored me.
Something isn’t right.
I manage to pull the car into the driveway, right next to the recycling bin, where I can make a hasty getaway if I decide to chicken out of this apology.
Or if he won’t accept my apology.
The thought is unbearable. That I might have irreparably damaged what we’ve worked so hard over the past few months with careless words said in anger… I don’t think I could live with myself. He’s been so patient with me. I’ve been flaky and flighty and reluctant, and he’s been solid as a rock.
I take a few deep breaths to steady myself and open my car door. As I swing it wide to climb out, the edge of the door knocks against the big green bin.
An overpowering wave of smells stops me in my tracks. Pungent, yeasty sweetness layered with another sharp stench emanates from the recycling bin, where some big pieces of cardboard have cracked the lid just enough to allow the odor to escape. These are smells that I know only too well from my childhood and the last few years of my marriage.
No.
I had myself under control, but my hands begin trembling again almost immediately. My mouth goes dry and my keys suddenly feel slippery against the palm of my hand. I know, I
know
, even without looking inside that recycling bin, what I’ll find.
But I look anyway.
Two empty whiskey bottles are nestled among a mountain of green and amber beer bottles, far too many for one man to have drunk alone in one night but not so many that I could blame this on a party, although I like to think he would’ve told me if he had a party planned for this weekend. No, this is evidence of something else entirely.
For a moment I just stare into the bin, hoping that what I’m seeing - and smelling - will disappear on its own. But the smug gleam of that pile of empty glass bottles can’t be denied.
I said it was over, and he started drinking again.
I can’t get myself back in the car fast enough, but my hands won’t cooperate. I fumble with the keys, and they slip from my numb fingers and clatter to the driveway. When I swipe them from the asphalt I scrape my knuckles in the process, and it is that little bit of physical pain that jolts me back to myself.
That bastard. One big fight and he’s already back to his old ways.
I manage to start the car with shaking hands, but my heart is hammering so hard in my chest that I don’t know if I can safely drive. I take a few gulps of air and put the car in reverse, praying to whatever forces in the universe still exist to guide me home in one piece.
As I back out of the driveway, I swear I see the blinds twitch in Grady’s office. The thought of him hiding inside his house, hung over, too cowardly to face me because he spent the entire night drinking makes me want to hit the gas and drive my car through his fucking garage door.
Instead I peal out of his neighborhood, my heart in my throat, wondering what the hell to do with this information.
Not again,
my heart pleads.
This has to be some mistake. Please, please, let this be a mistake. I can’t do this again.
How will I explain this to the kids?
But it’s not a mistake. The evidence was all there for me to see, and maybe the signs were there all along too and I just refused to believe them. I didn’t want to admit that Sandra could be right, didn’t want to deny myself happiness even though I know the kind of happiness I crave isn’t realistic. It’s a fantasy, no more tangible than the words he whispered to me in bed. They all add up to exactly nothing in the end. Nothing but heartbreak.
Grady
I wake to Ares poking me with his wet nose and whining softly. Even that much noise ricochets in my head, setting off more throbbing behind my eyes, which are sealed shut. When I try to swallow my throat feels as though I’ve been eating fire and my mouth tastes as if I tried to put the fire out with swamp water. Even my teeth ache.
Ares nudges me again and I crack one eye open. Through the haze I see that it’s past ten.
Fuck.
I have so much to do this morning. My truck is filthy, there are sticks all over my backyard that have to be collected…
Not to mention I have to try to straighten things out with Cassie. My head starts thumping again just thinking about it. Jesus Christ, I’m a mess. I don’t even remember how or when I got to bed, things are that fuzzy.
I fumble for my phone, but it’s not on my nightstand where I usually plug it in before I go to sleep. Was I that out of it? I wonder if I can sit up, but the second I try to roll over my head answers that question for me. My whole body feels weak, as if someone ran me over with my own truck.
Craig and Dave came over last night, but I don’t recall them leaving. I just hope they didn’t drive. Craig drank enough for everyone, but I guess that’s what losing your wife does to a man. I know it did that to me. Nothing like a bottle to drown yourself in when you’re at rock-bottom. Unless the bottle itself is your rock-bottom.
I realize that Cassie might’ve tried to call last night, and I fumble again for my phone. Ares whines and races into my office, which faces the street. I usually put the blinds up for him first thing in the morning, and I hear him rustling them impatiently, trying to see what’s happening outside. It sounds like someone’s here, but every noise is amplified as if it’s happening right inside my brain, so I can’t gauge if I’m hearing a car in my driveway or a truck driving down the street.
A wave of nausea forces me out of bed, and I half-crawl to the bathroom, shaking the whole way. Once there I empty the remnants of last night into the toilet and collapse on the floor. The tiles are refreshingly cool under my flaming cheek, but after a moment I start to shiver so violently my teeth rattle.
I’d hoped it was just a bad cold coming on. I took some extra vitamin C last night, but this isn’t a cold. It feels like flu, and I just hope to God I didn’t get my family or friends sick.
I have to get to my phone,
I think.
I’ve got to call Cassie.
Even though we had a huge fight and I walked out of there pissed off yesterday, I didn’t mean it about ending things. She just made me so mad I had to get out of there before I said more shit I shouldn’t have.
I muster enough strength to get myself into the living room, where I crack the sliding glass door wide enough that Ares can go out and relieve himself. Then I make a half-hearted search for my phone before collapsing on the couch again. Sleep closes in on me and I have enough presence of mind to tug the blanket down over myself before I’m out cold again.
* * * *
The shrill digital bleating of my house phone wakes me again in the afternoon. I can only imagine it’s my mother, since she’s the only one who calls me on this number. Ares is next to me, looking distressed and whining softly, probably because I haven’t fed him yet today.
I roll over and note the time on my wall clock. I can’t believe I slept until two p.m. My body obviously needed it, because the aching has subsided and my stomach feels less queasy. In fact, as I drag myself off the couch, it growls and I realize I’m pretty hungry.
When the guys were here last night I had some pizza while they knocked back way more alcohol than was necessary or healthy. The pizza was the last food I ate, and then I threw it all up this morning. So my gut is pretty empty and still a bit cramped from vomiting. I make a mental inventory of my cabinets and wonder if I have any chicken noodle soup.
My phone has stopped ringing, but as I gingerly make my way over to the console to see whose call I missed, it starts ringing again. The display reads “MAHONEY CA” and I say, “Hey, Ma,” when I answer it.
“What’s wrong? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
“Sorry, I was sick today and I misplaced my phone last night.”
“Grady, I’ve been calling you for two days!”
“Ma, don’t be ridiculous. I just talked to you Thursday.”
“I called you Friday night, and a bunch of times yesterday. No answer. Finally today I decided enough was enough and I was calling the house phone. What in the world is going on?”
“Wait -” I struggle to do the math. “What day is it?”
“Sunday,” she says impatiently.
Sunday. Fuck.
“Oh my God,” I groan. “I was so sick I slept right through.”
Now her voice is really worried. “Son, what happened?”
“I have some kind of flu or virus or something. The guys were over Friday night, and I wasn’t feeling well. I remember I woke up and cracked the door for Ares—”
I realize with horror that my dog hasn’t eaten all this time. No wonder he’s shadowing me. I make my way into the kitchen to see that he’s nosed the top off the storage container where I keep his food and I’m relieved. But his water dish is dry as a bone, so I fill it and he dives into it gratefully.
“I had no idea I slept that long,” I repeat.
“Well, Cassie and the kids are here. I figured you two had an argument, because she wasn’t planning to be out here for another two days.”
Everything comes rushing back. “She told you what happened to Caden’s friend?”
“God, yes, that poor boy. Just as well she brought the kids out here to escape all that. It made the national news, so I can imagine the whole town must be in an uproar.”
“Yep,” I reply. I can only imagine who’s tried to get in touch with me in the past 36 hours.
“Cassie’s not doing too well,” she says in a hushed voice. “Did you two fight? She’s not saying anything. I figured it was because of the kids.”
“Yeah, we had a fight,” I admit. “It was pretty bad.”
“It must’ve been,” she says. “She’s not herself at all. You should come out here and make that right. I’m serious. She’s not okay.”
“I’m going to,” I say. “I’ll come out after I see a doctor and make sure what I have isn’t contagious. I don’t feel well enough to make that drive, and I sure as hell don’t want to get on a plane if I’m just going to infect everyone on it. In the meantime, I’ll get in touch with her, okay?”
“All right, son. Feel better.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
I make another attempt to find my phone, but then I give up and head to the urgent care so I can see what the hell is wrong with me. I have a flight to catch and a woman to make amends with.