September 22, 2008 -- The lost innocence
I saw Josie and Sam last night for the first time in several days -- it went a lot better than I expected, to be honest.
I sucked in a deep breath as i got out of my car. It's always hard to be in that cul de sac. It represents so many broken dreams to me, though it also still promises hope and opportunity and comfort for my kids, whether I'm there or not. I look around with half-hearted feelings, neighborhoods offer so much false fronts -- not unlike Desperate Housewives ironically -- the dirty truths always lie somewhere below the freshly manicured front walkway up to the perfect homes and perfect families. They are all liars in their own right. We all are. There are alcoholics, and cheaters, and thieves, and anger, and deception, and sadness, and abusers, and mental illness... and they all live on your street.
Up the front walk I go, keys in hand, a visitor to my former house. This is the hard part. Letting yourself inside a home in which you no longer sleep. One day, I realize, soon I'll be using the doorbell and not keys. This is the realization of divorce. These are the little parts that hurt. This is the deconstruction of your marriage, piece by piece, brick by brick. The house is no longer yours.
Through the window I see my family. Right here I am most nervous, fearing their reaction. How will the kids react to me? Wife brushing Josie's hair, frowning, pretending not to notice my arrival. Through the door panes I see Sam scream with delight. Josie nervously hits him, glances my way and says "Sam stop!" I feel my heart stop, as I realize it is now Josie's reaction that I most care about, of all the people in the world. It is she I fear I have hurt the most. It is her love I live for above all. This doesn't downplay Sam, but he is still just a baby-drone, living and smiling and talking about trucks. Soon he will reach the point of understanding that Josie has, and I will seek his love as well at the same level of urgency.
I determine that Josie is not mad at me, not entirely nervous about me, but is lashing out at Sam through her typical sense of anxiety. She hates people making loud noises. She hates drama. This is a product of her mother's environment, and the product of my genes. I'm the same way.
I enter their lives and hug Sam instantly. He is my safety in this moment because he is screaming for me and wants to play. I pick him up and he drops his little pumpkin he wants to show me. It falls to the ground and breaks its stem. He is instantly sad and I feel terrible for my clumsiness. I instantly feel this rush of embarrassment and shame for coming into this world and wrecking this little boy's joy. I predict the disapproving glance of Anne, knowing she's thinking "nice job asshole, now you ruin his pumpkin. Another way you're ruined his life." I know these feelings shouldn't matter, but in this moment of sheer discomfort for me truth is lost. I resort to saying it's okay that Sam dropped his pumpkin, like it's his fault and I'll help him. I full well know he dropped it because I grabbed his arms.
Awkwardly I scramble around my (former) kitchen, trying to find glue and maintain rapport with Sam, who is now in full conversation with me and clearly long forgotten the pumpkin incident. He asks me 100 questions about the tools he finds, I now know that he was seeking connection to me. Tools are my thing. But at the time, I was nervously trying to find glue. To fix this fucking pumpkin and make the disapproval and shame go away. I failed in this moment. I can buy him 100 pumpkins, and he'd forget about them all in 10 seconds if I just paid enough attention to him. I keep conversation with him, despite my frantic search for glue, or a nail, or anything that will fix this pumpkin. Trying to buy my time and ease my entrance into this house.
Josie continues reading her book homework while Anne brushes her hair.
By the way, a full bottle of wine sits in the fridge. Waiting. This tells me two things: one she's drinking, and two, she's drinking a bottle a day because it would be a partial bottle otherwise.
The phone rings. "Can you get that?" she yells to me. I go to the phone, curious to see who's calling. It's not in the holder. She yells again. And again. Now with a sense of true anger, rage, unfathomable rage, she yells "WHERE IS IT!?" Almost in a scary tone. The kids seem unaffected, but I'm shocked. Over and over, "WHERE IS IT!?" I'm looking and I don't know. I'm actually frantic because she's getting so mad, I want her to have the phone. I then reJosieze that maybe the answering machine will go off, and she doesn't want me to hear the message. Who's calling, and what will they say? Maybe about a lawyer. Maybe other info. No message. She gets her cell phone and calls the phone again. "WHERE IS IT!?" Again... with the same anger and rage. I go to help look.
I find the phone in a drawer. Odd. A drawer? Things like this happen in that house with me not around. I tell Josie it's in the drawer and we share a laugh, the kind only we do -- and unfortunately it's at her mom's expense. I've got to stop doing that because Anne will resent Josie for this. For being more like me. Josie is slightly in tears as she laughs. Maybe she needed to laugh with me. Maybe she needs to cry with me.
I learn that Carol, our elder neighbor, has just been over for a visit and read the kids a book. Shame again enters me. Our neighbor thinks I'm a fool who abandoned his family. They all do. I feel myself sinking, but I also know this isn't my reJosiety and I just need to push through this because the truth is really out there. I can't let other people's opinions of me clutter my mind. I keep my head up and focus on the kids. I sit on the couch next to Josie and Sam instantly jumps into my lap. I feel good in this moment. I feel victorious over Anne because the kids love me. They don't resent me as she's told me. I'm doing okay with them and she hates that. She soon gets up and leaves, muttering comments from the kitchen meant for my ears, but I pretend not to hear them. She's trying to cut me down. It's her way.
Sam leaves and Josie and I hang together. We talk gently about school. I'm studying her responses to me, trying to read into her. Is she struggling at school? Has she had emotional issues? I know she stayed home from school today, and I ask her. She says she didn't feel well, but I truthfully know she was throwing her morning fit and Anne gave in. In her self-pitying state she let her daughter stay home. Adding her to the issues. Letting her life be affected. This is not okay.
Josie is good. I tell her I miss her and that I love her and I ask her if she's mad at me because I've been away. Yes. I say "I'm so sorry baby." I sense a maturity in her. She tugs at her hair with a hairbrush, painfully pulling it through a rat-sized knot in the back. "Ow!" she smiles, nervously exposing herself. I wonder in this moment if this is my distance from her not seeing her growing up, or if it's a direct reaction to the chaos around her, or, if it's a maturing phase while her mom visibly falls apart in front of her.
We talk more. We laugh. I hear her read, trying to sense if shes missed a step in her learning. No. She's being a little lazy though. It's fine. Josie is good. I finish brushing her hair. Determined to get that knot out. I eventually did (part brushing/part tearing) and was happy I didn't let her down. Off to bed, I hear Anne in the bedroom on the phone. Sam is waiting in his room, lights on, I guess awaiting me. We read. We do hand shadows on the ceiling with a flashlight. He tells me he loves me. We're good.
I kiss Josie goodnight, and ask her if she's okay. I tell her I'm giving her a cell phone and she likes that idea. Texting is something she wants to do, though I doubt she has anyone to text. While I don't want to give such a responsibility to a 7 year old, I know she is way beyond her years in maturity. She can handle this, and I know it's something I can control. I tell her I love her, and she responds, under her voice, as she always does. "I love you." I'm content.
I leave the house without saying goodbye or goodnight to Anne. She won't come out. She has nothing to say. I glance at my garbage cans left standing outside the garage door. The cans I used to wheel to the curb every Monday morning.
I used to enjoy that ritual. Getting rid of your weekly garbage is oddly fulfilling in life. Sometimes it feels like progress, though truly you're only keeping up with what's being used around you.
Not sure what that really means...
Today I'm a broken man, but I will pick up the pieces and build a better me, everyday.
