When I consider the warmth of the cabin in the fall,
drinking a brandy beneath a thick blanket,
your voice becomes cold as a November morning
So, I think of the things that were lovely and worth it
and the things that weren’t
My third day in the loony penitentiary starts out with what Mia and I deem as a decent breakfast, interrupted only by a woman trying impale her own hand with a plastic fork. The kitchen quickly relegates her to ‘spoons-only’. Shuffling back to our sterile accommodations for shower time, the hallway bustles outside of my new dorm room with farewell hugs and smiles for those fortunate enough to have family that want to claim them. Discharge Day is apparently a mass exodus. Gotta make room for a new batch of nervous breakdowns and their imaginary friends.
Setting down my paper bag full of prized possessions that includes a comically tragic sports bra and a notebook, I join Mia at the doorframe. “I’ve gotta say, I’m gonna miss Piper, but definitely not our screaming-ass neighbor.”
“Yeah, she’s a big sweetheart,” Mia says, waving at the head nurse who returns an eye-rolling smile at Piper’s celebratory dance down the hallway. “She seems to be doing better this time. I’m just glad her dad showed up.”
I lift a curious brow, scraping my back against the metal frame. Hospital soaps are so damn drying. “Piper’s been here before?”
“She’s a regular.” Mia’s kind eyes twinkle in hues of brown, her lids half-lowered over dark circles. She looks as exhausted as I feel. “Her parents bring her in every few months to get her meds regulated.”
Leaving the merriment of the hallway to itself, I plop down on the freshly-tilled sheets of my new home away from home with a gnawing concern in my belly. Suddenly, Piper’s shouts of goodbye to all of us Yolanda Bitches seem more sad than humorous. How many times has she left this place?
Mia’s groan hits the flat mattress across from me, tufts of her hair poking out beneath two empty cloth shells that are supposed to be pillows. Wait. Two? The nurses only gave me one. Aside from the botanical lotion that she gets to keep in her cubby, it’s not hard to deduce—she’s been here before. Lots of times. I stretch out on my own flowerbed with more than a little distrust. I didn’t know these mattresses grew perennials. At least our dorm smells good.
“So, you gonna see your husband tonight?”
My stomach twists with a light surge of electricity that ends up in my hands. It’s too early for this damn shaking. “Um…yes, but I kinda want to vomit at the thought.”
Mia’s muffled snort reverberates beneath the bedding. “Yeah, I get that.”
“No, no,” I say, propping up on my elbow. “I can’t wait to see Camren. I just…my house is kind of a mess right now.”
Emerging from her burrow, Mia matches my posture, graciously listening to the nightmare that was the past six months in my marriage. Anger. Coldness. Cruel accusations. But, the avalanche of shock and stress didn’t start out that way. It was that first counseling session—a session that opened up a door I couldn’t close again. I was supposed to talk about my insecurities at work and the strange trembling that had begun in my fingers. But, I found myself telling my therapist something else.
Centering myself with a deep breath, Mia lets me unload, my knees sliding up to protect my humming chest as I stammer through the broad details. Her brow knits at the account of degrading jokes I endured in front of our friends. Pussy, gentlemen—her greatest quality. I can still see Camren sticking a cigar between his lips with a laugh. My roommate’s eyes widen at the idea that I have to ask to spend money, her mouth dropping open when she hears how he’s grabbed our kids by the arms with gritted teeth. Everything in this house is mine! Don’t think I won’t slap you right in the mouth. He’s never done it. But, the intimidation works.
“That’s when my counselor started handing me papers on emotional trauma or some shit.” My story falls silent in the room. I can’t bring myself to call it abuse. But, my kids shouldn’t be afraid of their father. I shouldn’t be afraid of him.
Mia’s voice breaks the quiet. “So, what’d he think about all that?”
“He…” Everything sounds so much worse when I say it out loud. “He had me switch counselors.” Air seeps out of my lungs like a deflated balloon. “The next few months was a hailstorm of blowups and coldness. I cried every single day until I felt forced to either go back to accepting things the way they were or make an ultimatum.”
“Something tells me you chose ultimatum.”
“I said he needed therapy. That I didn’t want to be married to a bully.” The words come rushing out like a pent up animal. Bitterness springs to my eyes that shut to the memory—Camren clicking away at the mouse on his computer while I presented a life preserver for our marriage. “Then, he told me I was too weak of a woman for an alpha male like him, and to go find someone else. So, I moved my bedroom upstairs…and found someone else.”
Mia stretches back onto her bed with a wide yawn. “Let me guess, he came to you later and said he didn’t mean it, and you got back together.”
My chin drops, my socks hitting the chilly tiles. Her knowing look forces my own smile. At least I don’t have to recount that shitty part of the story again. It’s too early for Xanax. Talking about Camren’s flaws makes me feel awful, anyway. There’s nothing he’s done to me that’s worse than what I’ve done. He told me so himself.
“Coral,” Mia says, “I tried to leave, too. So many times. Even after he broke my jaw. But, I just…couldn’t. I have a breakdown about every three months. Check myself in here to get away from him.” Wiping an escaped tear with an eye-rolling laugh, she buries herself beneath her sheets. My eyes widen. I don’t know how any woman can stay with a man that puts his hands on her. I’d leave in a hot second before checking myself in this place again. Wouldn’t I? Our situations are simply not the same. They’re not. My subconscious is a loud bitch, sometimes.
Both the shouts in the hallway and my climbing nerves drive me back to the doorway, my shriek joining the cacophony as a toilet flush sounds on the other side of the curtain behind me. Emerging from the thin, dingy veil, Mia’s former roommate smacks her sore-strewn lips at the crowd beyond my door. “Prithoners.”
“My god,” I gasp, trying to find my breath. “How long have you…what?”
She nods toward the musclebound duo that the entire female population of crazies seems to be fawning over. Our ward’s newest patients are inked up to their eyeballs. “Thsee the tattooth? I’d be jealouth, ‘thept I’m about ta get outta here and get summa that good dick.”
I can’t imagine what she means by that.
With a lick across her gums, she bids me farewell, my hand clapping over my mouth as I spin toward Mia who buries her face into her pillow. Our laughter lasts a good ten minutes, easing my burdens better than benzos.
________________________________________________________________________
Group therapy is at least mildly entertaining. Today’s session leader has some lofty goals, having us position our chairs in a circle like that’s going to make any of us more inclined to share our personal traumas with complete strangers. Folding my arms up like a straight-jacket, I slide down next to Mia for minor comfort while the instructor who’s hair and makeup is so on point that it’s offensive, given our current lack of grooming accommodations, leads us in a deep breathing exercise to silence us.
“Good afternoon,” she finally says in a voice soft as fake petals. “Today, I’d like us to talk about ways our childhood shapes our present.” Swinging her arm to the white board behind her, she points to the words in blue. “Patterns of Trauma. In other words, what are some things we do subconsciously to protect ourselves that we learned during our formative years?”
My shoulders relax a little. That should be easy enough. Sure, I grew up without a mother, and my family experienced brief homelessness from living in poverty, but I’ve never had a problem talking about it. Besides, my life sounds like The Wonder Years compared to the stories that are being shared around me. As our instructor facilitates a discussion about irrational fears and social anxiety, I find myself throwing out a few comments that make everyone laugh, and tearing up with the rest of the circle as one of the new jailbirds shares a story about messing up his relationship with his son like his own father did to him. Eventually, all eyes turn to me. Guess it’s my turn.
“Well,” I say with a shrug, “Camren says that I’m projecting, you know? Because my dad was a bit of a bully, but he tried his best.” Shifting, I swing my leg over my knee. The damn padding in these seats is hardly sufficient for how long we have to sit in them. “And, it’s true, I did get married young and I’m passive. Camren’s more assertive. So, when he tells me that I’m just overly sensitive to his strong side…it makes sense.”
Our group therapist gives me an understanding nod. “I see. So, you believe that you’re more afraid than he is intimidating?”
“Yeah, I mean, Camren thinks it’s because of my mother’s absence, and with his dad being so harsh to him, it’s no wonder he can come across so—“
“Okay, Coral. I want you to start the next sentence with ‘I think.’”
Huh? The request lifts my eyebrow more than the interruption.
“Coral,” she presses, leaning forward with a look that shoots right through me. “I don’t want to hear what your husband says. I want to hear from you. Tell me something that you believe.”
My fingers start their tiny dance against my thigh. “I think…”
A few coughs pepper the room.
“Well, I think that…” The tension in my shoulders has them nearly touching my ears. I’m afraid I don’t understand the question. But, I’m more afraid that I do. I don’t know how she’s doing it, but her expectant stare holds mine, the people around me barely registering. The instructor’s smoky eyeshadow and false lashes blur. My nose fills with burning. As large drops sail down to my chin, my answer comes as a whisper. “I don’t know what I think.”
And, I don’t. And, it scares the hell out of me.
________________________________________________________________________
My hands become nervous before I do, forcing me to seek out a decent distraction in the lull between dinner and visiting hours. Camren was pleasant on the phone earlier today, but not enough to keep me from biting my lip when our oldest turned down talking to me for the second time. Anxiety meds can only numb so far. I’ve still got an hour to kill. With my choices between the yoga room where a lady believing herself to be Jesus preaches from a rocking chair or a confined village full of hygiene-challenged misfits with crayons, I choose the latter.
The basket of tiny pencils has been replaced with equally as tiny pens that are too flexible to actually use, especially the way my hands are trembling. I like coloring, anyway. To my relief, movie time helps me unwind a little, my laughter bubbling at the jailbirds’ cheesy commentary on Indiana Jones as the sly archaeologist tries to stop a madman from pulling out people’s hearts with his dark magic. The boy in the seat next to me, all of nineteen and rail-thin, interjects his theories on the Marvel Universe during commercials. It makes me miss my son. And, the trembling returns.
“D’Jonnie!” The entire room shouts as the head nurse pokes her head around the doorway. She might be a stickler about rules, but she’s clearly the town favorite.
“Coralle,” she says, nodding toward the hallway. Cold sweat flashes across my skin. “You have a visita’.”
With my brain set to Startle, I nearly yelp at the bony hand that clamps around my wrist. The boy beside me takes his hand back just as quickly as I turn to look at his misty blue eyes rippling like a water cooler. Wet drops spill over the edges of his reddened lids. “Hey, if you see my mom, will you tell her I’m here? She’s comin’ to take me home.”
“Of course,” I lie, fighting back a lump in my throat at his hopeless countenance. She’s not coming. Maybe not ever. He knows it, and I know it. But, when something is too painful to bear, we do what we must. I’m increasingly more thankful for benzos; my heart should be jumping out of my chest about now. As our community wraps a few reassuring arms around the young Marvel fan, my meds help me push one foot in front of the other behind D’Jonnie as she leads me to what could be a haven of reconciliation—grace and mercy, comfort in troubled times. But, then again, I could be walking into a lion’s den. Camren’s steely side goes for the jugular.
“Hey, honey.” His warm hand greets mine, his charcoal brow creasing at my shivering knuckles. I lower myself beside him at the table with an exhale of relief. “So, this is where you’ve been eating all those fancy meals.”
“It doubles as a church when the lady who talks to herself is in here,” I say, my stoic husband granting me a tired smile. His eyes are farther away than the moon. It must be torment for him to visit me in a place like this. “Listen, Camren, I know there’s nothing I can say that could ever possibly—“
“She loves you, Coral. She’s just really hurting right now. We all are.” His tightened jaw lifts as I try to offer up another useless apology. It’s time for me to listen. “Fourteen-year-olds are so damn tech-savvy. Nosy as hell. She knew something was wrong when you didn’t come home from the hospital. And, she wasn’t buying my bullshit excuses. I hated having to lie to my own kids, anyway.”
Self-loathing scales across my tongue like metallic bitters, the bees fidgeting into a small murmur in my chest. The Xanax does its best job to hush them into a benzo-lullaby, but the consequences of my deeds seem never-ending. I did this.
My husband cups my hands inside of his own, concern replacing the hostility in his face as he continues to unload how our oldest broke into my social media accounts. Those were private exchanges between me and the man I was seeing. Our daughter shouldn’t have to process this kind of trouble. Mortification electrifies every emotion with such ferocity my gaze is paralyzed to the grain of the wooden table top.
“What you did caused a lot of pain, honey. A lot of heartache. But…you’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he says, his voice cracking along with my heart. “And, I know this isn’t you. My wife would never do these things, and this son of a bitch comes in and takes advantage of your ignorance”—the heat that creeps back into his tone alarms the swarm in my chest. My arms join the shaking. “Hey, I know the therapists say you’re not ready to talk about it, but I can’t just keep everything bottled up.”
Silent weeping twists my mouth. “I…I understand.”
I don’t want him to hurt anymore. I don’t want anyone to hurt anymore. I did this.
“Look, it’s just gonna take some time to heal,” he says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before pulling sealed envelopes from his inside pocket. I’d forgotten it was winter outside. “I had the kids write you letters to cheer you up.”
Three slices of manna in the desert lay on the table, addressed to me in familiar scribbles I taught them how to write. Opening them with the same tenderness as Camren’s gesture, I wipe a few tears, beginning with our youngest. Even at ten, her penmanship is impressive.
“Dear mommy,” I read aloud, sniffling. “I just want to say that I love you and miss you and forgive you for what you did to daddy…” My face falls like it’s been injected with novocaine.
“Wait, what?” Camren leans over my shoulder. “What did that say?”
The iron tingling on my tongue signals the swarm beneath my rib cage as I stack the second letter in front of the first, the same message resounding. Adultery is a sin, mommy. My hand flies to my mouth. We love you no matter what. My oldest’s letter is far less forgiving. You are no longer my mother. The papers in my hand shake so badly that Camren has to take them, reading the words for himself.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t know they were going to write this.”
Sobs burst through my fingers. “What…what did you do?”
“The kids deserved to know. They asked me, so I told them.”
“Told them what exactly?”
“The truth. Their mother had an affair and drove herself to a nervous breakdown,” he explains like it makes sense. “And, we’re all going to get through this and get you the help you need…hey, Coral?”
The metal in my mouth becomes sharp. Unbearable. My fingers tighten around the fabric of my husband’s button-up. My life is a living nightmare. My kids are not only without their mother, but they’ve seen what I am. Selfish. Childish. All the things Camren has said to me over the past six months. And, I can see it now. The bees mark their destination, marching up my wind pipe. They’re louder than the voices around me.
“Honey, talk to me.”
“Coralle, what is going on?”
My spasming arms push the table away from me. “I can’t go home!” Footsteps follow voices telling me to breathe. But, I have to get away. I have to get away from me. Climbing onto my chair, I try to scale the cinderblocks behind me. But, fear can climb walls, too. “My fault. My fault. My fault!”
A primal scream rakes across my throat, my eyes shutting to the arms pulling me down into a familiar lap that holds me close. A pinch stings my arm. “Just breathe for me, honey.” Camren’s heartbeat soothes my ear. “They love you. I love you. It’s just gonna take some time.”
As my husband speaks comforting words over my shivering body, my crashing world becomes a gray cloud like when I wake up at night just enough to turn over.
Camren says it’s going to be fine.
Camren says I need his protection.
Camren says he’ll take care of the kids while I’m gone.
My eyes flutter open at the thought. The kids? Every doctor appointment, trip to the park, parties with friends—he never cared to take part in any of that before. He was more of the disciplinarian than a playful dad.
A memory slides its way through the fog as a shadow, growing larger. My husband and oldest daughter are in a standoff of wills, Camren becoming more and more flustered as she refuses to go to her room. I squeeze my eyes shut again, but the image of my oldest baby being dragged down the hallway by the nape of her shirt contradicts the consoling promises my husband is making to me right now. The memory of my daughter’s chafed neck shouts a plea as well.
Burying my nose in his chest, I inhale his cologne with breathy spasms. Every desperate fiber of my being wants to believe what Camren says. But, I just don’t.
FINAL CHAPTER COMING SOON
