In the Stillness

CHAPTER 19



“Thank God the Clarke School is in Northampton, and they have a kindergarten program,” I say to Eric as I pour a glass of wine after the boys have gone to bed. The Clarke School for Hearing and Speech is a fabulous school, with campuses across the state. And, thankfully, one right down the road. “I’ll call them in the morning.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty? Shouldn’t we see where this goes?” Eric sits at the kitchen table, elbows rooted in the light wood.

“What? Were you not in the same office I was?” My voice cracks for a second, “Ollie’s going deaf, Eric, and we need to get all the support in place before his hearing is totally gone.” I sit and gulp my wine.

“So, what, we’re all going to have to learn sign language now?” His petulant tone rises like bile through my stomach.

“Oh, I’m sorry, does that not fit into your pretty little schedule? Yes, we’re going to have to learn sign language. Again, you heard her, Dr. Moore said it’s clear that Ollie’s starting to teach himself how to read lips. Don’t you notice how he always stares really hard at our faces when we talk?”

“So then why do we need to learn sign language?”

“To give him the most options for communication—what’s your f*cking issue? Given the nature of his condition, hearing aids and cochlear implants aren’t a great option; we’ve got to encourage him to read lips and use sign language to make his transition as smooth as possible.”

Eric slams his fist on the table but says nothing. I stare, waiting.

“Well,” I continue after a minute of silence, “if that’s all, I’m going to call my parents and fill them in. I’ll tell them about what we discussed with the doctor for their trip next wee—”

“You’re still sending them to your parents’?” Eric doesn’t look away from the table.

“Yes. I’m not going to start treating Oliver like he’s a glass figurine, Eric. That will only make things worse. Dr. Moore said we need to keep things as normal—”

“Screw what the doctor says, Natalie! We just found out our son is going deaf and you still can’t wait to ship them off to your mom and dad’s for a week.” His chair tumbles to the ground as he pushes himself away from the table.

I swear, if he cuts me off again, I’ll punch him. “What the hell are you talking about? They’ve been looking forward to this for weeks, and you know what?” Tears spill out just when I thought I didn’t have any left. “If Oliver ends up totally losing his hearing before the summer is over, I’d like him to be able to have a chance at remembering what his grandparents’ voices sounded like!”

Eric’s dark eyes take on a vacancy I’ve never seen from him. “Do what you want. You always do. I’m going out.”

Meeting him at the door, I grab his wrist. “You’re not walking away from this.”

Eric shrugs and stares through my eyes. “Why not? You get to walk away from everything else.” He tugs his hand free.

“You’re such a bastard,” I sneer, four inches from his face. “If I got to walk away from everything else, you and I both know we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation. At all.”

His eyebrows twitch in angry understanding.

“Blame it on me, Nat, go ahead. But you would do well to remember that you wouldn’t be upset over that little boy at all if you’d had your way almost six years ago.”

My stomach sinks as the word “abortion” hangs in mocking silence between us.

“You’re a f*cking prick,” I whisper, turning back for the table.

I don’t watch him leave, but I jump when the door slams behind him. I study the last drop of wine strolling down the inside of the glass, when a little voice makes me jump again.

“Mommy?” Ollie’s standing in the bedroom doorway.

“Go to bed, Sweetie.”

He takes two steps out of his room, blankie in hand. “Can you sing me the Winnie-the-Pooh song?”

“N-” I cut myself off as I stare at his beautiful face. “Sure, Baby.” I meet him at the door and crawl into his bed with him. Max is sound asleep in the other bed.

I try to sing it as perfectly as possible so he can commit it to memory, but wonder how Kenny Loggins ever sang “Return to Pooh Corner” without crying. I could, until tonight, but things were different. My tears land on Ollie’s blonde hair, but he’s asleep before I’ve even finished the first verse.

I keep singing, though, because an overwhelming surge of emotion courses through my veins. I want so badly to protect him, to shield him from what’s coming, but I can’t. It’s the absolute worst feeling in the world.

* * *

“Hey Bill. Is Ryker home yet?” I got to Ryker’s dad’s house early for dinner one Sunday.

We’d been doing Sunday dinners there since Ryker slept over at my dorm room a few weeks before. Things were looking up. Ryker’s nightmares were fewer and further between, and I learned which ones I should wake him up from, and which ones I should just leave alone. He was finally starting to talk about re-enrolling in school in January, which I took to mean he was putting off his plans to reenlist.

“He went to the store, should be back soon. Sit down, Sweetie.” Bill patted the space next to him on the couch. “How are things going with you?”

I shrugged as I sat. “Things are fine. Why?”

Admittedly, I was struggling through my course work. While Ryker’s moods seemed stable most of the time, they weren’t perfect. I forced a smile and bit my tongue during his mood swings to help keep him balanced. I knew he didn’t mean to lash out, and he was always apologetic afterward, but I felt like I was locked in a pressure cooker. I’d recently started cutting on my hips, running out of places on my arms and fearful Tosha would be paying close attention. Or that Ryker would find out

Bill put his hand over mine. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate what you’re doing for Ryker.” His eyes glistened for just a second before he continued, “He’s my only son, and I hate watching what’s happening to him. I feel totally helpless.”

“You’re a great dad, Bill. Ryker’s lucky to have you. I can’t imagine how hard it is.” Only I could, because I was with Ryker probably more than Bill was.

“I’ve talked with the VA a few times but they said if he doesn’t want the help . . .” He shrugged and brushed his hand over his face.

I leaned forward. “I thought he was getting help. He told me he was getting help.”

Bill’s eyebrows came together as he muddled over my words. Just then, Ryker entered, carrying grocery bags.

“Hey guys!” He set the bags in the kitchen and turned to hang up his coat. October was unusually cool that year.

“Hey, Babe.” I stood and kissed him as we met in the entryway.

I could feel Bill watching us with concern. It occurred to me that I had no idea what Ryker was like when he was here and I wasn’t around. Maybe Bill had more reason to be worried than I thought.

“You’re in a good mood.” I smiled as I walked to the kitchen to start helping prepare dinner.

“Yeah,” he rubbed his hands together in excitement, “I talked to my recruiter today and we worked out a plan.”

I stopped. Mid-whatever-I-was-doing, I stopped and watched him carefully. Bill ran a hand through his hair and listened. I tried to, too.

“A plan?” I asked, hoping for any answer other than what I feared was coming.

“Yeah. I’ll go back to Amherst in January, finish the courses that would have made up my sophomore year—before I was deployed—and I’ll reenlist when the semester’s over.” The look on his face was pure joy.

Bill stepped toward me as I stared into the counter. “Natalie, are you okay?”

I looked up, sweat breaking out across my forehead. “No.” I swallowed hard and ran to their upstairs bathroom.

After a few minutes of throwing up, a soft knock came on the bathroom door.

“Nat?” It was Ryker.

I splashed water on my face and opened the door. “Sorry,” I whispered.

“Come here.” He took me by the hand and walked me to his bedroom. After we sat down on the bed, he continued, “You knew what I wanted . . .” Ryker brushed a loose strand of hair away from my eyes and tucked it behind my ear.

Unable to look at him, I let my eyes scan the room. Pictures of us, things from Amherst College, and a few things from the National Guard decorated his bedroom. A picture on his desk caught my eye.

I walked over to it and picked it up, running my thumb over the glass. “What’s this?”

Ryker couldn’t look at me, either. He sat on his bed, leaned back on his palms. “My dad took it the day I left. He had it printed and framed—gave it to me last week.”

The picture I didn’t know existed was of Ryker and me hugging right before he left. It was taken kind of from the side, but you could see more of my back than his. Our faces were buried in each other’s necks as we hugged goodbye. I was suddenly focused on Ryker’s hands—clenching the red fabric over my lower back so tight his knuckles were white. As my tears fell on the glass, I looked at him.

“I can’t do that again, Ry.” I set the picture back down in its original spot and sat back next to him. “This war isn’t going to be over any time soon. Now they’re talking about invading Iraq . . . if you reenlist, you’re out of here again as fast as they can ship you—we both know that. I can’t do it again.”

He rubbed his hands against his jeans. “What are you saying?”

I took a deep breath, said a small prayer, and forced it out, “I’m saying I’m not cut out to be a military girlfriend. My schoolwork suffered when you were gone last time, I was horribly depressed, I—”

“So you’re saying if I reenlist you’ll leave me?”

I watched his jaw flex beneath his skin. I couldn’t swallow away the tears, so I just nodded.

“Fine,” his cold tone shocked me, “you might as well leave now, then, because I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Ryker, please. I love you—” I managed, reaching for his hand.

He whipped it away. “No! Go, I said! If you can’t support me, then I don’t need you around, doubting me.” He walked to his door and held it open.

Walking toward him, I watched his body stiffen. I thought maybe if he had the night to think it over, we could talk about it in the morning. All thoughts of that flew out the window as soon as he slammed the door behind me the second I stepped out of his room. I found Bill in the kitchen, standing over three empty plates.

“Natalie . . .” It was a tired plea, paved with resignation.

I shook my head and walked toward him. “I’m so sorry, Bill. I can’t do this anymore.” I grabbed him into a hug and he let out a small sigh into my hair. I pulled away quickly, not wanting to collapse into a heap on their kitchen floor. “I love him, but I can’t . . .”

“I know, Kid. I know.” Bill kissed the top of my head and I left their house.

I made it all the way back to my dorm room at Mount Holyoke before crashing into Tosha’s arms and sobbing for what felt like an eternity. The hope of a phone call the next day was the only thing keeping me from going completely over the edge. He’d change his mind, I thought.

* * *

Never mind. It’s about Ryker.

I sit in a mess of silent sobs on my bathroom floor; mourning the loss of a different life I had pictured for my boys, the disaster my marriage has become, and the fact that none of this would be happening if I hadn’t completely destroyed Ryker’s life—and nearly mine.

With a frustrated growl, I realize my empty tampon box is just that—empty. I used the last blade several days ago and haven’t cut since. Desperate to make sense of my life and not feel any of it at all, I tear my bathroom apart looking for something reasonable to stand in its place.

Eric shaves.

Of course, he uses an electric razor that will do nothing for me. I set my sights on the kitchen. We have knives, of course.

Do I really want to go there?

I fumble through my silverware drawer like a junkie until I find what I’m looking for. With a pounding heart, I race back to the bathroom and drown the blade in peroxide—pouring some on my hip for good measure.

Locking the bathroom door—just in case—I lean back in my empty bathtub, exhaling a grateful breath before I begin my escape.