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Davis
For the past week, I’ve done nothing but think about my neighbor’s offer to watch the big game.
I’ve chewed it over, come up with a list of reasons why I shouldn’t go, and even a few stating why I should. Actually, I’ve given it far more attention and thought than I’ve given to anything else in the past few years.
I’m not exactly comfortable around strangers, never have been. I have no problem maintaining my part of a conversation with someone I know or in a work environment, but I’m notthatguy—a guy like Merrick—who is comfortable approaching a stranger and striking up a conversation.
He’s not exactly made my decision easy either. With the exception of last Sunday, I’ve seen him every single day. Each time he attempts to engage me in conversation, just as he did the week before. A comment here on the weather. A thought there about the trash service and how it can be improved. He’s not mentioned his invitation and neither have I. In fact, I think I’ve only spoken less than a handful of words to him each time. And each time when we part, he gives me a broad smile and leaves me wondering why the hell he bothers. Doesn’t he know I’m not worth his time?
It’s early Sunday morning and I’m propped up in bed drinking coffee, still considering my options. There’s no church commitment today—thank fuck—as Chantal took off yesterday afternoon for an impromptu business trip. There are days I wonder exactly how much business out of town a CPA really needs to do, and other days when I don’t give a shit what she’s gotten herself into. If she’s keeping a lover, she hides it well. I could say I’d blame her, but I really don’t. Can’t blame the gal for wanting a fresh start, though I do think I’m getting a raw deal for hanging around in a place where I’m only needed to help make the house payment each month.
The funny thing is, Chantal never hurt for money until she met me. Her folks are loaded and she was raised to never want for anything. By stark contrast, during those early days when we were happy and in love, we kept what little money we had in a joint account, never needing—or wanting, for that matter—to have anything separate outside the bonds of our marriage. To my knowledge, she never took money from her parents back then except on rare occasions, but she obviously has no trouble doing so now.
The joint account is now something we each put money into separately; the place where we pay the household bills and any other expenses tied to what little is left of our relationship. She does very well in her business, but it’s clear by the lifestyle she now leads that her parents are giving her funds to live on. She wears only high-end clothing, pricey shoes, and visits the spa every other week with her mother. Chantal enjoys living outside her means and does not seem to have a problem with asking her mom and dad to help fund her extra-curricular activities. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s now found a sugar-daddy to keep her in high style.
If I gave a damn, I might ask.
If I continue to tell myself I don’t give a damn, maybe it will actually be true.
Not that I’d ever admit it out loud, but far down in the deepest caverns of my damaged heart, I still love her. The love might be miniscule now, and most likely is guilt-based more than anything, but I doubt I’d have hung around for all these years if something wasn’t keeping me here. The residual love might only be in my head, but the obligation is most certainly not. Obligation is a funny thing; it rules silently even though you do your best to ignore it and wish it away. Obligation—and hope too, I suppose—are how I’ve justified my choices for the past five plus years.
Tossing the blankets aside, I help myself to another cup of coffee and plop my ass on the couch. Channel surfing, I settle on a rerun of last year’s Super Bowl and consider my options. I could stay home, watch the big game by myself, and enjoy the silence. I could wander next door at some point during the game, show my face and leave a few minutes later. I could hit up a bar and watch it with a slew of other drunken strangers, and hope like hell I’m sober enough to drive home.
With a heavy sigh, I scrub my fingers through my hair and bite back a curse. Having available options is new for me. It makes me nervous. Unsettled. I’m like a damn kid who shows up to the school dance, only to find how disconnected he is from his other classmates. My heart is thundering nervously in my chest and my palms are sweaty, and I haven’t even left the sanctuary of my crappy apartment. Imagine what a clusterfuck I’ll be if I show up to Merrick’s party.
What the hell else do I have to do?
Good question. I could drop by Ma’s house, see what she needs fixin’. I could hit up my little brother, see if maybe he wants to come over and hang out. Knowing Grady, he’s had plans for weeks. My social butterfly brother is certainly the complete opposite of me, that’s for sure. My sister, Vickie, is also not an option since we only see one another randomly and rarely communicate.
The writing is starting to appear on the wall. I need this nudge forward, need to step out of my comfort zone and see if I can handle a social situation on my own. I need this for reasons I cannot explain, even though I am slightly terrified to think about socializing with a bunch of strangers. However, the buzz of excitement in my belly is telling and for once I’m leaning in and listening to my inner voice and allowing it to take the lead.
You’ll never know until you try.
The worst thing that could happen is I come home after a few minutes and drink myself into oblivion. It’s not as if that will be anything new. Nothing I don’t know. Nothing I haven’t accepted as “normal” for far too long.
Before I allow myself to make any decisions about my day, I’m going for a run. I’ll pound the pavement and let my body be the guide of what it feels ready to handle. I’ll clock in five, maybe eight miles, and go from there. I have no one to account to for my time, least of all my annoying neighbor who has suddenly brought additional worry into my life. If and when I feel ready to show my face at his house, it will be because it’s what I want to do, not because he basically bullied me into it.
Glancing up at the one and only picture I have of me and Charlotte, I have to wonder what she’d think of me now, had she lived. Would she like the dad that I’ve become? Would she have been the glue to hold me and Chantal together, or were we destined to fail regardless? Would she approve of the way I’ve lived my life after her? Somehow, I doubt it.
Less than forty-eight hours after she entered this world, we lost her. The tiny, perfectly imperfect, beautiful human being, who came into our lives for such a brief period of time, had been nothing more than an unrealized hope for far too many years. Since her birth and subsequent death, I have only existed. I’ve cut myself off from everyone, been cut out of my wife’s life simply because I exist and her baby does not. I have lost so much, and I have to consider that there’s possibly no end to this pain. It has lingered and worsened for almost six years. In that time I’ve done the minimal that it takes to survive. There are days—today being one of them—when I question myself as to when it will be enough. When am I allowed to smile again? When will I do so and not immediately feel wracked by guilt? When will moving on not feel like the death sentence she’s been given? And when will something—anything—change so I can wake up in the morning and be okay with going on, moving on, and being happy?
Rising, I set the coffee cup in the sink and quickly pull on my running gear. After brushing my teeth and pulling on a ball cap to shield my head from the cold, I head out the front door and down the walkway. Off to my left, I see Merrick halfway down the block getting his morning run in as well. With a sigh and a shake of my head, I turn the opposite direction, and pray like hell we don’t run into one another along the way.
