I can count the exact number of days since Eric left. While planning my wedding, I often daydreamed about our marriage. The house we would live in, the cars we would drive. I could feel the kisses we would give one another before heading to work and hear the conversations at dinner discussing our day. My mind laid everything out in exact detail. Everything except the separation. I made no accommodations for that intrusion. But now that it is real, I am helpless but to accept it. To welcome the loneliness with open arms and find a way to live alongside it, accommodating the stranger in my home.
I think of Mama and her feelings about living alone. Funny, I never thought about it before. Never wondered how she adjusted to her own empty house or if she could swear someone was calling her name but then be met with silence. I walked into Eric’s empty closet the other day. He left a few things behind: a sock with no match, shirts he hasn’t worn in years, and a pair of running shoes. The shoes fascinated me the most. I sat down in the middle of the walk-in and stared at them. I could see him lacing them up as he prepared for a run. Returning after a long one and then jumping into the shower to wash up. Back then, I knew when he left that he was coming back.
It’s the daily occurrences that I miss the most. The events that failed to register once they became normal parts of coexisting. Emptying his pockets of extra change, setting his wallet on the bureau, or throwing his clothes into the hamper only to miss and have everything land on the bathroom floor instead. I accepted him in my life as if he had always been there. Now, I wonder how I will ever live without him.
Sleeping together was the easiest. Almost as if a bed were meant for two rather than one. When Eric would awake early for a meeting, I’d feel his absence within seconds. The emptiness made sleep impossible. I was used to another body in the bed, always had been. A childhood filled with Sonya curling into bed with me made it easier to share space. With my husband, there were no fights for the blanket, no side that was his or mine.
“I want to make love to you,” he would whisper in my ear. No matter where we were, in the den paying bills, or warming up hot cocoa, he would slip his arms around my waist and pull me in tight. Never able to resist him, I would turn into his arms, always ready, always wanting. We rarely fought but when we did, I was always first to acquiesce, to give in. It felt easiest. After watching a lifetime of fighting, I did not want friction. Peace became my motivation, and I did everything to maintain it.
Eric’s clout in business rarely spilled over into our life together. He had no reason to show his power with me. I took to being an executive’s wife as if I had been preparing for it forever. The clothes, the money, the social circle—all of it felt normal, right to me. Born to be a wife. My stomach tightens now at the thought. When did his vocation supersede mine? I easily accepted our traditional roles though no one demanded I do so. But, a voice reminds, I never allowed the one role that would have solidified my place—that of a parent.
Needing to escape the confines of my home, I grab my keys, race to my car, and start driving. Without planning to, I end up at the only place that has always been safe, that has always been mine. I pull into my parents’ driveway and kill the engine. Even now, I still think of it as their home, versus hers alone. Though Papa may never step into the house again, it will always be the home where he gave me everything.
Out of habit, I use my own key to open the door. Before Sonya came home, I was the only one of the three daughters who still had one. Even when Papa updated the locks, he made sure to make me a copy. Said it was important I have one in case of an emergency. When the true emergency arose, my key was useless. There was nothing I could do to keep Papa safe.
“Trisha!” Mama says, surprised. She is on her way downstairs. She is still dressed in her pajamas, and her hair is flowing around her. “What are you doing here, Beti?” She takes the few extra steps to embrace me. I hold her close, tighter than I ever have before.
“I thought we could have lunch,” I say, finding an excuse.