I picked Tim up from work one night a few weeks ago. He’d had an appointment with his psychiatrist earlier that day. Winter is a hard time of year for him, even under the best of circumstances. I watched his gait as he approached the car. You can tell a lot from a person’s walk. Just as I feared, his head was down, eyes on his feet, movements slow, nearly those of a sleepwalker.
He opened the car door, and his voice rang through the car with false cheeriness, “Well, hey honey! How’re you?” It was a lie, that voice- for it didn’t match his body, his face, his eyes.
Without meaning to, his attempt to bring normalcy by using the same happy tone he’d used prior to Cory’s death just set my teeth on edge. At the sound of that hollow, fake joy, my shoulders tensed, my jaw tightened, and my hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.
I longed to snap back with some hurtful, sarcastic response, but I held it back… just barely. He was trying. This was him trying. I had to remember that. When I tried, I put my feet on the floor in the morning, and got out of my bed. When he tried, he boomed his greetings like he was auditioning for a job as a mall Santa.
"Fine." I finally said, evenly.
Occasionally, if I weren’t all the way to the bottom of the well that day, I’d even play along. This happened to be such a day. “So, honey, how was your dr’s appointment?” I asked.
“Good. Good. She increased my anti-depressant.” He said.
“Oh? Well, what did she say?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. She asked what was new, so I told her about starting the new job. Told her I’ve been having trouble getting to sleep. She said starting a new job is one of the biggest stressors there are, even if it’s in the same field. She said that’s probably what’s been causing my sleep problems.” He paused.
“Well, what did she say about Cory?” I questioned.
“She didn’t mention her.” He answered.
Internally, I bristled. I prodded, “Well, then, what did you say about her?”
“She didn’t come up.” he answered.
His words just fell out of mouth and laid there in the air between us.
My mouth may have formed a perfect O.
My sharp intake of breath was likely lost under the music that was playing on the car’s stereo. He probably didn’t even notice. While he sat there unaware, babbling on about dinner, work, and a dozen inconsequential things, I was seething. For the three minutes left to get to our driveway, the anger boiled up inside me until it felt white hot. It stretched my muscles out stiff; it elongated my limbs. Suddenly I felt ten feet tall, strong, and ready for battle. My jaw clenched together, keeping the words in, holding them prisoner for a little while longer.
I didn’t say a word as I pulled into the driveway. Calmly, I shut the car off, got out, shut the door, and headed in the house. Tim trailed behind me, still talking. He didn’t realize I had ceased to listen five minutes ago. At this point, he was talking to himself.
Inside the house, I strode to my bedroom, changed into my pajamas, and headed to the kitchen to take my medication. Tim looked up as I came in, pausing to say “Hey, honey”, as he got a plate of leftovers ready for the microwave.
I looked at him, and said nothing. I began to walk away. Walk away, Nick, just walk away.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked. “Honey?”
I spun on my heel. “Do you really want to know what’s wrong?” I asked, the tears coming against my will. I am an angry crier, the kind every man fears.
“Yeah, what’s the matter?” he asked.
I spat out his words, “She didn’t come up? She didn’t come up, Tim? How did she not come up? What the hell kind of quack are you seeing over there? She thinks you need a med change because you started a new job?”
“Honey, job changes can be difficult…” he began.
I cut in, “You were happy about that job until you talked to her. You said you felt less stressed.”
“Well, she said sometimes we’re not even aware of our stressors.” He said.
“Tim, how could she not ask how you were doing after the loss of your daughter? Or should I say your step-daughter?”
“Honey, she’s a doctor, not a counselor. She doesn’t really do..”
I interrupted him again, “Then why didn’t you? I guess you just don’t care. I guess you are doing just fine since you never talk about her! You never even say her name! So, yeah, I guess you are doing just fine. Why bring up the dead daughter when you are so stressed over your stupid job?”
Tim didn’t even attempt a response at this point. He just sat, resigned to my tantrum. And tantrum I did.
“But you know what, Tim? You know what really hurts? If it were Jake that got mowed down in the street, I have a feeling you might have thought to mention him! What do you think? Think you would’ve said his name? Cause I’m pretty sure you would say it ALL THE TIME!” I screamed through my tears.
“I don’t know what I would say. Honey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. It was early in the morning. I was tired–”
“Yeah, I know you weren’t thinking. That’s just it. That’s what hurts the most- she wasn’t even on your mind. Do you have any idea what it is like for me to go to work every day, to come here to this house where I see her everywhere, to try to walk in this kitchen and stand at that counter to cook you food? It is killing me! Do you hear me? It is killing me. I don’t even want to be here. I wish I were dead! That’s how much I miss her. But she isn't even on your mind. You know what, whatever. This is pointless. I can’t make you feel something for her that you don’t.” I turned, temporarily blinded by my tears, and completely ruined my dramatic exit by running into the wall. Thunk.
I stomped out, sobbing hysterically. I ran to my bedroom like every teenager in the world who hasn’t gotten what they simply must have, crawled into my bed, and curled up into the smallest ball my body would make. I clutched her stuffed animal, and just wailed.
Tim never came in to see what wild animal was making all the primal sounds in my room. He just steered clear. Can you blame him?
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