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Grandma Lucy’s droning on about comfort. I’m still staring out the window. The sky has turned dark gray. This little flurry has morphed into a full-fledged snow storm. Good thing I don’t have anywhere to go besides my mother’s home. Curl up in a blanket and think about what I’d read if I had the energy to pick up a book.
Hester Lynne’s second novel, in spite of its somewhat cold reception from the critics, was exceptional. I loved it even more than the first. So did Reginald. This one wasn’t about infertility. It was about a baby who died of a congenital birth defect, spurring the young mother on a journey to seek out her biological family. I know when I put it like that it sounds like it must be a real downer, but it’s actually quite uplifting. The dead baby’s not the focus, by the way, that’s all included as back story and isn’t even revealed fully until over halfway through the book.
It’s too bad I’ll never be able to write like that. After all I’ve gone through, I know I’ve got a story to tell, but putting it all on paper would take too much out of me. Even these scribbles exhaust me, and they’re just for a pastor whose church I don’t even attend anymore. I’m not even sure I’ll let you read them anyway. What would be the point?
It’s funny, though. You were so bold and brash when you prayed for that child you were sure I was meant to conceive, but when Chris came and told you his prognosis, you were silent. Not a hint that maybe you had been wrong. Not a suggestion that maybe God would choose to grow our family in some other way. I’d felt abandoned by you years earlier, all the way back when you didn’t even know my name and you released me from suicide but failed to cure my depression. But Chris idolized you. He adored you. In his mind, you were this super saint living on top of a mile-high pedestal, so close to heaven that you could stand on your tiptoes and touch the outer edge of God’s robe.
That’s why your silence hurt him so much. Who knows? Maybe if he’d felt more support from you during that time, he might not have kicked me out.
We’ll never know now, will we?
Once I realized my husband had locked me outside in the dead of winter, I stumbled to a convenience store about a quarter of a mile away. I could have gone to one of the neighbors, I’m sure, but I didn’t know anybody in the area, and it was after dark. I didn’t want to frighten any of the families who had young kids, didn’t want to wake up their sleeping babies or get the neighborhood dogs all barking and yapping.
When I got to the store, I paced the aisles for a little bit, pretending I was looking for something. Pretending I’d have money to purchase it when I found whatever it was.
When other customers came in, I scanned their features, hunting for a friendly Good Samaritan who might let me borrow their cell phone. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do. If I waited another half an hour or so and went home, Chris would probably be over the worst of his rage. I owed him an apology, and even now I’ll be the first to confess that what I said to him was wrong. I was egging him on. In fact, I think somewhere in the back of my mind I was daring him to hit me. To free me from my commitment to him, because once he crossed that single line, I’d be gone.
At least that’s what I told myself, but deep down I knew I was simply arguing semantics.
I couldn’t leave.
I would never leave.
I thought about calling Reginald, but I didn’t know his number. I wouldn’t just have to ask someone to use their phone. I’d have to ask them to look up the number to his store for me. It was already past ten, but I figured he was probably still there, sitting among the volumes he loved instead of going home to that cold, empty mansion in the Heights.
I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed this, but the folks who shop at gas stations at night are almost always single men. The store wasn’t particularly empty, but I didn’t find anybody I was comfortable with asking for help.
Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to call Reginald and invite him into our family drama. Maybe the phone issue was a convenient excuse. Reginald had his suspicions about Chris and me by then, but at the time I still felt like I had a reputation to maintain, a shred of dignity however thin I was meant to preserve.
The only problem was I couldn’t spend all night in the store. After the first ten or fifteen minutes, the clerk started following me with his eyes. I’m not the sort of character that tends to invite suspicion. Petite Asian woman? It’s not like I’m regularly profiled or mistrusted. But I’d arrived at the store on foot, not by car, and my coat was dirty from landing in an old snow pile when Chris chucked it at me. It was enough to make the clerk wary, I think. Either that or he was staring so hard to see if I had a wedding ring, but I’m also not the type to get hit on very much either. I swear if I had a doppelgänger, she could make a magnificent spy. I can blend into nearly any setting, I’m demure enough I never arouse anyone’s suspicion, and even though I’m no eyesore, I don’t attract a whole lot of extra male attention, especially when I’m wearing a dirty, oversized coat.
Whatever his reasons, the clerk’s probing interest weirded me out enough that I decided it was time to leave. Forget about calling Reginald. This wasn’t his battle, and it would only serve to delay my reconciliation with Chris. I just had to wait it out a little more. It wasn’t that late yet. Ten-thirty tops. I’d wander around a few more minutes, get home before eleven, and Chris would let me back in.
Of course he would.
My husband had anger issues, but he wasn’t unreasonable.
As I walked around outside, I used the extra time to start planning my apology. Practicing the part where I would swallow down my pride and accept Chris’s berating. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve gone through. Nobody should talk to their spouse like I talked to him. It wasn’t Chris’s fault he couldn’t father children, and I was wrong to attack him where he was weakest. I just needed to stall for a little bit longer, then go home and humble myself enough that Chris would let me crawl into our warm bed so we could both sleep off all that adrenaline.
I’ve never been a fan of walking for exercise. I don’t see why people run off to malls to power-walk or what the appeal is in circling the same route time and time again trying to get your heart rate up. It was cold, and I fought off the resentment I felt toward Chris for leaving me out here like this. When my toes started to sting, I almost turned back, but I wanted to stay out a little longer. Maybe he would worry about me. Maybe he’d hop in that stupid car of his that’d cost us so many arguments about who did or didn’t remember to fill up the gas tank. He was expecting me to come back, come wandering in like a bedraggled, repentant puppy.
I could withstand a little more of this blasted cold just to play it out a few extra minutes.
The more I suffered, the more he’d regret kicking me out in the first place.
It was passive aggression at its finest. And it worked — far more effectively than I would have dared to imagine.