In the Stillness

CHAPTER 28



This entire time I’ve been thinking how awful I would look leaving my marriage—breaking up my family—while one of my boys begins dealing with what will be a lifelong disability. How distasteful and unspeakable it would look to others for me to leave my doctor husband while unemployed. For the last three years I’ve talked myself up, saying women have done this for centuries—this motherhood thing. It’s not that I don’t want to be a mother. I simply don’t want to be the mother in Tim Burton’s version of a family.

The last several weeks have had me hiding in the bathroom, cutting my skin open to relieve the guilt and shame I’ve felt about wanting to leave. Yes, I’ve wanted to leave the boys at times, too, but I can’t do that. Especially not now. I feel my heart clinging to them all of a sudden, like they’re the only true and pure things left in my life. The rest is complete shit.

“F*cking guilt,” I mumble as I turn into the parking lot of “The Harp” in North Amherst. It’s an Irish bar I’ve been to about two times in a decade and a half, but that’s just enough to know where it is and that I’ll be away from people I know.

Guilt is intense. Suffocating. A brick, tied quietly around your ankles while you sleep. You never fall slowly into guilt—you wake up with little time to take your last breath before being pulled under. Guilt over being a bad wife turns on a dime into guilt over being a dumb one. Self-condemnation over wanting to leave your children behind flips into shame that they’re in love with a mother who doesn’t love herself. Who doesn’t know how.

“Afternoon.” Three post-middle-aged heads turn in my direction as the bartender greets me.

Breathing a sigh of relief at the relatively empty bar, I smile. “Good afternoon.”

“What can I get for you?” the man who appears slightly older than my dad asks as he leans on the bar.

I stare at the vodka for a few seconds before deciding I’ve had enough of that this week. It’s time to move on. “Tequila.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Just . . . tequila?”

“You feel like mixing me a margarita?” I shrug.

He laughs. “Sure thing, Honey.”

I grin. “Mix up a pitcher to save yourself some time. I’m gonna be here for a while.”

Two of the three men at the bar whistle in surprise. The third seems to be asleep.

“Here ya go,” he says, handing me a glass and the pitcher full of guilt-numbing goodness.

“Thanks.” I grab them and head to the furthest table from the entrance—one with the least amount of light—and start pouring.

As I reach the glass to my lips to take the first sip, I spot a faded scar on my wrist. I don’t know if it will actually turn into a real scar, but it’s there.

I have to stop this . . .

With one more drop of self-loathing filling my glass to the brim, I open my mouth and tip my head back, swallowing half the glass at once.

“That bad, huh?” one of the men at the bar hollers across the empty space.

I chuckle. “You have no f*cking idea . . .”

Well, two hours later, they have an idea. After finishing half the pitcher, I saunter over to the bar, ready to talk. And, I do. For twenty minutes straight.

“And, the bitch of it is, I have no f*cking clue who this woman is.” The guy who was sleeping is now awake, starting at me wide-eyed.

“Sorry, Kid,” one of them says.

“My name is Natalie. But you? You can call me Nat.” They laugh as I continue drinking. If I’m not careful I’ll start speaking Spanish soon with all this Cuervo swimming through my blood.

“You’ve never seen her before?” A tired looking hippie with a grey ponytail shakes his head. Leave it to the hippie to start asking questions.

“Never. I mean, maybe she was at one of the, like, five functions I attended with him over the last few years but . . . psh . . .I spent most of those watching the clock, waiting to go home. I certainly wasn’t on the lookout for the woman my husband might fool around with. Oh, and to top it all off,” I slam my hand at the bar, commanding the attention I already have, “I ran into my ex-boyfriend last week. I haven’t seen him in, what’d I say? Ten years? And, you know what? He looks great. Just. F*cking. Great.”

Their sudden silence when I sniff away impending tears makes me uncomfortable. It occurs to me that maybe they’ve cheated on their wives, too, which is why they find themselves alone at a bar on a Sunday evening. Or, they’ve been cheated on. Either way, I don’t want them looking at me anymore.

“I’m going back to my dark and dreary corner. Thanks for listening, guys.” I slide with what I hope looks like grace off the stool and sway a bit with my 1/4-full pitcher back to my booth. Yeah, it’s my booth now. I’ve decided.

As soon as I sit again, I feel incredibly dizzy, and am thankful I made it to the booth before falling over. I’d hate to waste so much tequila. Biting down on my tongue, I find it completely devoid of feeling.

Great, now I have to stay here long enough to sober up to drive home. Or to Tosha’s. Or wherever the f*ck it is I’m supposed to go.

A few more people enter the bar, and maybe some leave, but I can’t tell because I’ve put my back to the door and the bar. It’s a habit I got into quickly when Ryker got home. He always had to face the door, for reasons I never asked about. So, I just sit this way. Always. The conversation around the bartender is quiet, while the voices in my head are screaming as I finish the last of my pitcher an hour later. Deciding it’s time to start drinking some water if I have plans of ever leaving here tonight, I slowly stand and start my hike to the bar.

There are quite a few more men at the bar, and one woman, most of whom have their backs to me as the bartender catches my eye.

“Anything else, Sweetheart?” he asks with a look of caution.

“Just fill this up with water, please.”

A couple of people jump and turn their heads in my direction. They clearly didn’t see me when they’d walked in, which was my intention. Trying to force a semi-sober smile, I slide between two patrons and hand the bartender my pitcher.

“Natalie?” a voice comes from my right. Directly to my right. Like, our shoulders are touching to my right.

Turning, I pray that was just a voice in my head. No luck. I’m face-to-face and shoulder-to-shoulder with Ryker f*cking Manning.

“Oh, come on! You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me!” Tears pool in my eyes as I make a hasty break for my booth to collect my wallet and car keys, picking up the bottom of my summer dress so I don’t fall flat on my face.

“Miss, you really shouldn’t be driving . . .” the bartender calls after me as I reach for the door handle. I ignore him.

“It’s okay, Mike, I got this,” Ryker says as I watch him leap from his barstool.

With any luck, I’ll make it to my car and lock my doors before he catches up to me. Or, I could trip on the last stair and land on my hands and knees on the fresh crusher run, slicing my arm open on a broken beer bottle.

Sweet irony.

“F*ck my life,” I groan as I collect myself enough to sit upright and lean against the bottom stair. “Dammit!” I yell as I instinctively pull the bottom of my dress to my arm to stop the bleeding, where I find my knees are scraped pretty good, too.

“Shit,” Ryker huffs as he jogs down the stairs and kneels in front of me. “Let me see,” he asks, reaching for my arm.

“I’m fine, just leave me alone,” I barely make out as I start sobbing with my forehead on my knees.

It’s the single biggest lie I’ve ever told.

“Nat . . .” It’s like he finally realizes he’s dealing with an incredibly drunk person, so he just takes my arm into his hands and sighs. “We’ve gotta get this cleaned up, come inside.”

“I’m not going back in there.”

. . . Because now is the time to be stubborn.

“I’ll drive you home.”

I sob harder. “I don’t have a home. I’m staying at Tosha’s in Northampton.”

His voice remains calm. “Well, I’ll take you to my house, then. Come on, it’s not far.” He stands, leading me up with my arm.

I can barely pick my head up, let alone stand straight, and I find myself leaning all of my weight onto him. The muscles in his shoulders and chest tense for a minute before he relaxes and leads me to his car.

“My car . . .” I point weakly to my shiny Mom-U-V.

“It’ll be fine here. Get in. Sorry about your dress, but leave it on your arm, K?” I nod as he shuts the door.

“Wait, I can’t be here. I can’t . . . you’ve got to let me out, Ryker.” My fight-or-flight mechanism is misfiring as he gets in and starts his car. Panicked, I search for the easiest escape.

“Natalie, I’m not going to let you drive anywhere this drunk, or that bloody.” He nods to my arm. “Wait,” he starts as he stares at my surely horrified face, “I’m not . . .” He sighs. “I’m not going to hurt you, Natalie. I want to get a look at your arm. If you’d rather, I can drive you to the hospital.” His jaw clenches as he pulls his eyes away from me and faces the windshield.

I shake my head, suddenly feeling awful that I’ve made him feel bad. “No, sorry, I’m just wicked drunk.” I start crying again. “Just bring me to your house.”

His tongue smoothes across his lips. “Try to let me know if you think you’re going to throw up, okay?”

“Mmhmm.” I use my free hand to squeegee away rapidly falling tears.

As soon as his car starts winding its way down the curves of the back roads, I rest my head against the cold window and pass out.