Ashmoor

Two

|Nadia|

August 2014

   What would Sonya, our marriage counselor, have said? Talking is essential in bridging the gap of your loss. You need to find each other again.

   Well I did find him Sonya, you know, that day of our daughter's death? He was right there, behind the lot of suburban apartments, once and then twice. I didn't bother catching him a third time, didn't care if he came home with a different scent than the one he left in, with strands of hair the opposite colour to mine. I wanted to know what made him tick, how his mind was wired. Did the cogs go anticlockwise, as he clutched onto our previous marriage counselor, like she was the last meal before the electric chair?

   Like an ideal trophy wife I could have made excuses, maybe he was tired, so weary of the world that took his son and his daughter that he had to use our counselor as a bench to rest on. Or perhaps he was numb from the experiences and the only way to alleviate it was to talk to someone who understood, someone who could help, someone who had a profession in it. But that would be calling me every variation of stupid in the book. It would also be denying myself, denying that he could have found that in me had he not abandoned the thought altogether, and denying me the opportunity to grieve instead of hate.  Did he feel sorry? Did he try?

   I wanted to bash his head in.

   Instead I glanced at the letter he turned over and over in his hands, his brows furrowed in the classic disapproving visage. He actually did stay long nights in his campus office now, instead of using it as a cliché excuse to fuck his side piece. Was he giving another student a C, a D, or an IOU?

   He used to be the cool teacher, the friend of the class, a pal, a tutor who you could easily talk to because he just got it. A lecturer who would laugh at any under-handed jokes his pupils made and then make some of his own. Now he shifted assignments and report cards on the desk, like it was a conveyor belt in a miserable factory that sold false hopes and promises of stellar careers. He didn't care if you were poorly, depressed or just going through a tough time, a bad essay was a bad essay. 

   "Can I see it?" I asked, breaking the stifling silence. With the whiplash he got when his head turned, he forgot I was even here. I timed my watch: 43 seconds. A new record. His eyes were wide, mouth agape. It was as if he were looking through me, as if he saw his daughter instead. He would often say how she was practically my clone and how her skin was a tanned one like mine, rather than the pale tones of his, and how much he cherished raising a mini me.

   "When did you arrive?" He said rather, than asked, in monotone. Always in monotone, like I was one of his tardy students or an apple polisher. 

   "Before you arrived," I deadpanned, tired of his presence, tired of it all. A few sleeping pills were waiting for me upstairs like polite passengers, the guest bedroom, a small glass of water near them on the bedside cabinet. I ran the pads of my fingers gently against my forehead in an attempt to curb my growing headache. 

   With a shake of his head, he handed over the elusive paper without taking his eyes off his now sudden fascination with the wall. I almost scoffed as I nabbed the paper, careful not to touch his hands and bring him back to reality. It was almost comical, but we didn't laugh in this house anymore. I can't remember if we ever did. Why were we even together? Elaine asked it, Maya thought it and cousin Vera demanded the answer. I would have given one if I knew myself. Maybe we were waiting, waiting for that storm to come and uproot our foundations, so that all we were left with was the lies and the hurt and the ever present indifference. Maybe then we'd part.