(Dedicated to Her)

by Marlys Cervantes

What the hell am I doing? Again. I lay on the couch, watching out the window for his headlights. The number of nights I’ve followed this routine probably numbers in the hundreds, so it takes a minute before I realize that my thought patterns have changed. I’ve spent so many nights in this very situation—hoping he’d make it home safely. What’s the difference tonight? He hasn’t changed, but when did I?

I think, almost pray, that he doesn’t make it home. I haven’t been to church in quite some time, and prayer hasn’t even crossed my mind in so long, I figure no one’s listening. Still, I can’t help but hope that this time, the drinking will lead him to a fatal wreck. I know. I know what that makes me. That makes me a horrible person, but I don’t know how else to get out.

By now, I can’t even remember the number of times I’ve left, or at least threatened it, only to return. I wonder if all women, only girls really, if they were like me, feel this strongly about the first person they make love to—an obligation to make it work, to make the giving of themselves meaningful. It’s only stronger now that we have a baby. I seem to find no road I’d willingly take to leave him.

I can’t help but think, what if he dies…I know I’ll hurt—I love him. But, I hurt now, and maybe hurting really hard, once, will be better than over and over and over again. I have to stop feeling this way. What if he really has that wreck? Would I be able to take the guilt I would most likely feel?

My mind is exhausted.  I try to think back to how I came to this place in time, in my life, in my mind, and I wonder if it will ever change, if he will ever change. Still, I can’t help it, one time of tremendous pain seems preferable to this exhaustion I feel continually. I wonder how much guilt I’d hold onto if it happened.

***

The baby cries and takes me out of my depression, out of wandering through my disheartened mind. I make my way to her room, and I bring her into the living room and rock her. I hold her close and listen to her heartbeat because she’s the only reason I am sane in this moment, at this time, waiting for him.

The walls dance with headlights, and I know he has made it safely home. The caress of lights over me feels almost like a hug, but I know that’s fleeting, only a momentary feeling. I wish it was more.  I wish I was more. I wish I was enough.

I wonder if he’ll already be angry. That’s the emotion alcohol generally brings out in him. No big surprise there. I was probably only 17 the last time I was able to laugh when he had alcohol on his breath. There’s been nothing fun or funny about it in so long.

As he enters the door and throws the things he’s carrying into the living room, I can see he is already filled with anger. I’m not even sure what it’s really about, but he starts ranting about wanting to beat up the neighbor over the dog or some idiotic, unimportant excuse for a fight. I tell him, no, he needs to just go to bed and not start anything that could get him in trouble.

His yelling and my pleading over that go on for a while. I’m even more exhausted.  It has to stop. Finally, I tell him he ought to go next door and take care of the guy. I say, I’m sure the guy is telling everyone in the neighborhood he’s too chicken to do anything about it.  Whatever it is. I think that once he’s out the door, I’ll call the police to come investigate the noise on the block. Surely, if they realize it was me calling, they won’t tell him. I’m simply not sure what else to do.

But he doesn’t go. And, he’s still angry. I say the wrong thing, I don’t even remember what, and he grabs up an ashtray stand and raises it over his head facing me. The shadow flows over me. Kind of like the headlights did. But, this doesn’t feel anything like that hug even for an instant. The stand is wooden and the top is ceramic. I know it’s heavy.

He swings it at me, just missing my head. I scream. She screams. My heart stops. I don’t know if she’s been hit, or if my screaming scared her. And, I can’t try to figure it out right now because he’s apologizing and, of course, requires all of my attention. One thing I know is, it won’t help to bring him back to the anger.

As I think about if she’s hurt, I have to focus on what to do. I would never have believed, growing up with a loving family, basic middle class, nice middle sized city, that I’d ever have this question, with no answer for it, in my mind: What on earth do I do now?

As the question resonates through my soul, my mind tells me that the first step is getting him to the bedroom. But, he’s now intent on apologizing, yet again, for this behavior, trying to bite his tongue each time he almost says it is my fault. Not that it would bother him in any way to blame me. But, at this point, he’s ready for bed instead of a fight. And I’m expected to forgive (well, that one probably doesn’t matter), forget (this one won’t matter unless I want to talk about any of this later), and be there with him, thankful, of course, that he wants to be in bed with me instead of someone else. At least, this time.

***

I tell him I’ll put her in her crib—to go back to the bedroom, and I’ll be there. Instead, he waits for me as I put her to bed. I’m glad to see that it looks like only a red mark on her forehead. She isn’t still crying, so surely there’s no serious injury, and she’s not yet bruised or swollen, so I feel some relief.  Maybe the stand he yielded hit the top of the wooden rocking chair at the same time it would have come down on her head. I don’t know anything for sure, except I think she’s okay. This time, at least.

I follow him back to the bedroom, he gets into bed, I hesitate, and she cries. Somehow, I’m thankful for this cry. It means I can put off, at least for a little bit, and longer if he falls asleep, the act that should feel like love but instead feels like another form of physical betrayal.

I’m disgusted with myself as much as I am with him over my feelings. Where did the young man I fell in love with at 16 go? But, with another cry, I’m again pulled out of my mind, and I tell him that I’ll just go check on her, and I’ll be right back.

***

Now, here’s where it gets bizarre, uncanny. I suddenly know exactly what to do. If asked the year before, or week before, or even day before, what I’d do in this situation—drunk, angry husband, possibly injured baby, and no confidence in myself to do anything about my life—I’d have said I’d be panic-stricken.

Funny, I’m not. Instead, before I get to my—his—bedroom door, I already know what to do. I hear it clearly being said to me as I leave the room. It’s like a whisper from a friend, a secret meant just for me.

Close his door.  I take three more steps out of the room.

Place the ironing board across the hall.  Another three steps.

Think. Where did you leave your car keys?  In my purse on the floor by the couch.

Get her quickly. I lift her into my arms, leaving everything else, and she fits snuggly just like the part of me that she is.

Turn off the hall light on your way out her door. I do, at the same time looking toward my purse so I can locate it in the dark. I feel her heartbeat against my chest, causing my heart to beat again.

Lock the front door on your way out.  Get the keys as quickly as you can because he’ll hear you at some point.  I pray it’s not too quickly that he does. She looks at me, unafraid.

I’m opening my car door just as he comes out of the front door and busts the porch light with his fist. He’s yelling that I’d better come back if I know what’s good for me, and any number of other things that I don’t really hear. He just keeps screaming.

But she’s not. And I’m not.  We are out.  I wonder how I ever let myself dig down and place my spirit so deep into this abyss. How can a person place so little value on herself? I wonder if I have the will to really leave him. This time. After coming back so many times before.

***

Then I remember. I remember with awe and gratitude the voice in my head that was that first source of clarity. Remembering this very first time that God enveloped me in a whisper that saved my life. And hers.