| |
Tonya
“What was all that with Emma today?”
The question surprised Tonya. Roy rarely noticed anything that was happening with their daughter, or, if he did, he rarely commented on it.
She wasn’t sure whether she should answer him. She thought the question might be a trap. She didn’t know how yet, but this could probably become her fault.
“Isabelle Martin played a prank on Mrs. Patterson today. Emma felt bad about it, so she and I made Mrs. Patterson a pie and apologized.”
He hesitated and then, somewhat absentmindedly, said, “That doesn’t sound like Isabelle.”
Tonya bit her tongue.
Roy didn’t say anything for the longest time, and she thought the conversation was over. But after he stood and announced he was going to bed, he asked, “Did Mrs. Patterson open the door?”
“No,” Tonya said sadly. “She did not.”
Roy walked away without another word, without saying good night, and she watched television for a while before heading for the laundry room. She kept a lot of her clothes in there. It was easier than carrying them around the house. She changed into her pajamas and then headed for the guest room. Emma, who was standing in front of the fridge, watched her coming down the hallway. She looked sad.
Tonya paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah,” she said, but it was clear she wasn’t.
“You know that you can tell me anything?”
“Yeah, I know.” She turned back to the fridge.
“Good night, honey. Don’t eat anything too sugary.”
“I won’t,” she said without pulling her head out of the fridge.
A bit mystified but too tired to worry too much about it, Tonya went into the small bedroom and closed the door behind her. She flicked on the lamp on the nightstand and then pulled back the covers and climbed between the sheets, which felt cool and comforting.
She settled in and turned the light off. Moonlight shone through the window, lighting the whole room. How long had she been sleeping in this room? She tried to remember when it had started and let out a little gasp when she realized it had been nearly a year. She couldn’t believe it. The first few nights, she’d thought it would only be for a few nights. She almost laughed at the naivety of her year-ago self.
When she’d realized she wouldn’t be welcomed back into her bedroom anytime soon, she’d been heartbroken, and then bitter. But, as the months went on, she’d grown comfortable with the idea, and then grateful.
It had started when she’d had a bad cold and was having trouble breathing. Roy had claimed he couldn’t sleep with her snoring and that he didn’t want to get overtired and then catch what she had. He hadn’t asked her to sleep in the guest room, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want her sleeping beside him. Then he’d spent the following days celebrating how much better he slept without her “pushing him out of bed.” This unfair accusation had made her angry. It was true that, in the beginning of their marriage, she did tend to travel across the bed because her sleeping self liked to cuddle up to someone she loved. But he’d made it clear early on that he didn’t like to be touched while he was sleeping, and somehow, she had trained herself to perch on the edge of the bed. So now, all these years later, to be told she’d never made the effort made her steaming mad. This anger made it easier to stay in the guest bedroom, and the longer she stayed in the guest bedroom, the easier it got. After a few weeks, she noticed that she too slept better alone—probably because she wasn’t subconsciously trying to stay perched on the bed’s border all night.
She shook her head. What was she doing? Why was she thinking about her marriage again? There was no use. She rolled onto her side and pulled the blankets up to her chin, grateful that the failure of her marriage didn’t hurt anymore. In the beginning, it had hurt. A lot.
