KITTY
I’VE DECIDED THAT all of this true love business is crap. I don’t believe in it. It’s just propaganda, utilized to sell movies and books based around love stories. It’s not real. In the spirit of facing reality, I’ve decided to face the facts. I’ve also decided to enroll Jordan and myself in couples counseling. With the realization that love is a myth, it only makes sense that the truth is, love is hard work, plain and simple. And if it’s hard work, I can fix this; us. If it’s not about love and just about work, we can make it. True, we’ve have a rocky start. But sometimes the best things start off slow. Look at some of the Olympic athletes; you hear stories of how they started out in their sport placing last and now they are competing for a gold medal. Hard work did that. But in other ways, I’m beginning to see our relationship like I see an abandoned house. There was a time it was once beautiful, but then something happened causing it to deteriorate over time. That doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful again. The theme prevails. Hard work can fix it. We can be fixed.
School is in full swing and I find myself aching for something more, yet I don’t know what. Maybe I need to work harder there too. Although I feel like I’m putting everything I have into my work. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve hit a rough patch. I don’t despise my job and for the most part, the kids are good. I guess I just want to feel fulfilled and I’m not sure where to turn anymore. Did you ever have that feeling when you were a little kid, that when you got older and became an adult everything would be easy? And now, when we’re adults, we look back and think about how simple everything was when we were little. As the saying goes, the grass is always greener. Maybe if I could just shift my perception, every aspect of my life would start to improve. Maybe.
On a positive front, my parent’s think I’ve got it all figured out. Although I haven’t spoken to her, they told me Trish and Eddie sold their California home and bought an RV- to live in. Can you imagine? Her decisions only serve to push me up further in the ranks with my folks. To some extent, it’s always been this way. Now that I’m married to Jordan it wouldn’t be farfetched to say it’s escalated.
Last night we had dinner with Jordan’s parents, Jim and Barb. That’s what we do the first Saturday of every month. I’m sure it would be more often if they didn’t live in Michigan. My parents, on the other hand, we have dinner with every Sunday night. We haven’t missed one since we said our vows. Generally we have dinner at their place, but sometimes we go out. And each time we have dinner we are showered with more gifts. They’ve given us an antique cedar chest, a new washer and dryer, a gourmet set of cookware, certificates to a bed and breakfast along with passes to an adjoining ski resort and last weekend they wrote us a check for one thousand dollars. The subject line said “just because”. They hinted around with sly smiles creeping onto their faces, asking when they might become grandparents, but I knew that wasn’t what the gifts were for. The gifts were because we made them happy. Our marriage made them happy. And in an odd way, it made me feel proud to know this. I am searching for the good in our relationship and any snippets I can find, I cling to. It’s part of looking at my life through a new lens.
“How does it make you feel, to live five hours away from your parents?” She is looking at Jordan. We are not allowed to have cell phones or electronic devises in therapy and for that, I am thankful. I don’t know how I got Jordan to agree to come to weekly couples counseling, but I did. I told him that we had to both work hard if we wanted to make this work. I told him I didn’t want to be in a marriage that was dead from the start. He’d muttered a few words and I heard okay and that was the end of it. And now, here we are again. Back in the room that is supposed to cure us. A room that is supposed to somehow fill us with giddiness and affection. So far, it isn’t working. But I’m still holding onto hope. What other option do I really have?
“Uh….it’s fine.” He runs his hand through his short hair and I know he is hoping his muttered words are enough to push the attention away from himself and onto me.
“Can you elaborate?” She asks patiently.
He clears his throat. “Uh…I don’t know. I don’t know what else to say. We see them once every month, so it’s not bad?” He ends the sentence with the tone of a question, when all he really wants to know is if that counts for enough.
“Okay. That’s good Jordan.” She nods and scribbles something in the notebook on her lap. I can’t help but wonder if she’s actually taking notes or if she’s doodling. I would be doodling. This conversation is less than interesting and seems to be going nowhere. Now she turns her gaze on us both. “Have the two of you been doing any of the exercises I suggested in our last session?” Her slim eyebrows rise as she waits for our reply.
I wait, silently counting to twenty, yet I know Jordan will not attempt to answer. He only does what he has to, nothing more. When I get to twenty I answer because someone has to. “We haven’t.” I admit without guilt. I didn’t try and he didn’t try. There is no one to blame.
She nods again and scribbles another note on her paper. “It’s understandable that you’re both busy with your careers, but it would be helpful for you to give at least one of the exercises a try this week. Let’s make it a goal for the two of you to A) go to bed at the same time together each night…”
Jordan let’s out an obvious grown. He likes to stay up later than me. He likes to work on computers and watch violent movies. I can’t remember the last time we went to bed at the same time. I’m not sure I like the idea, but she’s the therapist, she’s the one that’s supposed to cure us. I’m willing to give it a try, although I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. Going to bed at the same time means fighting over the television remote. It means one of us being annoyed that the volume is too low or too high; that the show isn’t the right show. It means less distance between us and more fighting. I’m sure of it.
She continues, “And B) Each night when you go to bed, tell each other one thing you like or admire about each other. Just one. And it can be anything.” She sits back in her chair watching us on the couch. We’re sitting with a full empty cushion between us. I’m holding a white throw pillow against my chest, my legs are crossed. Jordan is leaning back, his arms outstretched to either side.
I nod and I assume Jordan does the same, but I don’t look to see. Whatever he’s done is enough to cause our therapist to smile and tell us she’ll see us next week.
TWO NIGHTS LATER, Jordan and I awkwardly head to the bedroom at the same time. For some reason I would rather Jordan stare at me while I stand in front of him completely naked than do this. This feels too personal. This feels too clumsy. But we’re just going to bed. Oh, and then we’re supposed to say one nice thing about the other person before we lay down to go to sleep. One nice thing. I have no idea what I’ll say.
I climb into bed first. I pull the covers back, folding them neatly, halfway down the bed. I prop both of our pillows up against the headboard, not knowing what else to do. I am fidgety and it’s best if I keep my hands busy. Jordan is in the bathroom, I can hear him brushing his teeth. I sit back against my pillow. I pick up the television remote from my nightstand and then place it back down like it’s a hot potato. If Jordan sees me holding the remote, we’ll instantly start fighting about who decides what we’ll watch as we fall asleep. Neither of us considers doing anything but watching television. We need something to fill the silence; to distract us from our own realities. Eventually Jordan emerges from the bathroom and I can smell the fresh mint on his breath. He clumsily climbs into bed, sliding his legs beneath the blankets I have folded down for him. At first he places his hands neatly in his lap and stares straight ahead, pretending that the dark television set is fascinating. After another minute he continues looking forward and mutters, “So I guess we need to do part B).” He sounds less than enthusiastic.
Trying to defer his lackadaisical manner, I muster up a bit of pep. “She wants us to tell each other one nice thing or something we admire about each other.” I smile, turning toward him, although he is still staring forward.
He is like a statue and I want to shake him. I want to tell him to play along and stop pouting. I want to tell him we both made this decision, together. It isn’t my fault alone and it isn’t his. It’s ours. We did this. We chose this. So let’s make the best of it. Can’t he just complete this one miniscule exercise with me? If he can’t think of one nice thing to say, he can just make something up. Just play along, I want to scream. Just stop acting like this is all my fault, like somehow I’ve singlehandedly ruined his life. I wait for another few minutes, silently counting to fifty to keep from screaming. My kindergarten students act more mature than he does sometimes.
“Fine.” I can’t take it anymore. I’ve counted to fifty three times and still Jordan isn’t speaking. Still, he is staring straight ahead as if he’s turned to stone. Maybe he has. My curiosity- or possibly my lack of sanity- gets the best of me. I reach my hand out to touch him, resting my fingers on his arm. He is wearing a fitted gray T-shirt and with a single touch I remember when I used to feel more. And I know he remembers. I just don’t know where those feelings went. They’ve evaporated. At one time, they were really there. I remember now, as I wrap my fingers around the top of his arm. It should sadden me that his first reaction is to flinch when my fingers first touch him. But it doesn’t. Instead I just hold on. Isn’t that what we’re doing anyway? Holding on. At least I know he hasn’t really turned to stone. “If you won’t play, I will.”
That lights a small spark under him. He laughs, but it is not the kind of laughter that draws me in. “Oh, this will be good.” He rolls his eyes.
“Seriously Jordan!” I unwrap my fingers from his arm and place my hands back in my lap. We are sitting side by side in bed, both of our backs against the headboard, both looking straight ahead. Jordan has a smirk across his face and I am trying not to scream. I am so fed up. I feel like he is trying to make our lives difficult. He is trying to make me annoyed. At least I’m not trying to do that to him. I’m just existing. And now I’m trying to play this dumb game or exercise, whatever the hell it is. “You really make it hard…” My voice fades. I know I need to stop. I can’t say any more or it will end bad.
He laughs again. “I make it hard? Seriously, me? How can you say that?” Now he turns to face me and this time I pretend I have turned to stone. Really, I’m just trying not to cry. “I can’t wait to tell the therapist that your one nice thing is that I make everything difficult.” He can’t stop laughing and it’s causing pure anger to boil my insides.
“You’re a real piece of work.” I mutter through clenched teeth.
“Oh! I get two nice things. Lucky me.” He spats back.
I have nothing more to say. I should have known this exercise would be a disaster; when it comes to the two of us, everything is. This marriage is. After what feels like an hour, I grab the television remote from my nightstand and toss it to his side without as much as a glance. I hear it crack against his elbow and I don’t bother to apologize. I pull the covers up to my chest and rest my head on my pillow, facing the wall. The gap between the two of us is big enough to fit two whole people. I close my eyes and hope to fall asleep quickly. I don’t want to hear the violent dribble that he’ll surely be watching when he clicks the POWER ON button on the television. I thought hard work could fix us, but now I’m not sure that it can. It doesn’t seem to be working. What are we going to do? What if we can’t fix this – us? What have I done? Is it really right for both of us to live a miserable existence because of one mistake? Is it? To make matters worse, I don’t have a soul to talk to. Outside of our couple’s therapist- whose work seems to only be making us worse, although I didn’t think that was possible – I have no one. I can’t tell my parents about this. They’re too proud; too happy. I can’t tell Trish. We don’t talk and she’d supported me before the wedding when I told her I wasn’t sure this is what I really wanted. She’d just say “told ya so.” I can’t tell my co-workers at school, that’s not the place or time to discuss something this heavy. On the outside it looks like I have it all. I have a fancy diamond ring, parents who adore me, a steady job, and I’m a wife. It looks so perfect. But it doesn’t feel that way. On the inside, I feel more alone than I’ve ever been. On the inside, I am terrified that I have made a huge mistake that can’t be fixed.
I was going to tell Jordan that I loved his dark eyes. The truth is, I always have. I liked them most when they used to look at me in a way that made me know I was loved. I like them now because I’m still holding onto hope that one day they’ll look at me that way again. That’s what I was going to tell him. But he went and ruined it. I shouldn’t be surprised. I feel a tear squeeze through my closed eyes. It makes a small thud on my pillow and I make no attempt to wipe it away. I know there are more on their way. I draw in a deep breath, careful to keep my eyes closed, willing myself to sleep. At least when I sleep, I can be somewhere else; I can forget what it feels like to be living in a nightmare. I curl my legs together and pull them up toward my chest. Lately I tend to sleep best in the fetal position. And then I hear it. It’s not the sound of the television set. It’s his voice. It’s Jordan. I feel my body tense beneath the blankets, bracing for whatever insult he is about to throw my way.
“I thought it was nice that you put toothpaste on my toothbrush tonight. You haven’t done that in a while.” He is whispering and I’m floored that his words haven’t ripped me to shreds. I don’t know what made him try. I can’t remember the last time he said something remotely kind to me. I keep my eyes closed and feel the tears still finding their way out through the corners. I keep myself still, careful not to move. I want to feel safe curled up in my little ball. I want to hang onto his words. They are not magic. But they feel warm and it’s more than I expected.
“I like your eyes, when they look at me.” I mumble back. My lips taste like salt. I lick them, reminding myself that it’s possible I’m dreaming. I don’t know if I’ve really said those words out loud and if I have, has Jordan even heard me? I don’t repeat them. I can’t. Saying it once leaves me feeling depleted.
I nearly jump when I feel his hand land on the small of my back. “Remember, my parents are coming to town tomorrow for the week. They’ll be here when you get home from work.” He says the words quietly, without inflection. And then I hear the click of the television and the shouts of angry people through the screen.