I close my eyes and let grief and loss and regret overtake me, something I never do. Something I never allow. But that’s why I’m here. It’s been eating at me, and I hate it. I feel like a snake trapped in skin I’m trying to shed, but it won’t fall away. It sticks with me, itchy and uncomfortable. I need to release it so I can move on.
I can see Seamus in my mind, so handsome. Hair as dark as midnight and eyes to match. Eyes that didn’t just look upon me, they looked into me. Golden brown skin he received from his mother and a tall, broad frame that could swallow me up when he wrapped me in it.
And now that I can feel his touch again, there are tears in my eyes. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with who made love to me. Even if I didn’t return it, he gave me all of him, his body and his heart, because that’s how he did everything. I took it for granted. I gravitated toward the physicality of sex with others because it was need driven, solely to satisfy an itch. I couldn’t reciprocate love driven. But I realize now how much I loved receiving it.
I traded in love for power.
It wasn’t a fair trade.
Not even close.
I always thought I was the one in control where Seamus was concerned. Fooling him to ensure he participated in our love. I told myself the attention I showed him was brokering. I gave an inch. I gained a mile. Disproportionate, that’s how our relationship functioned. He never noticed, or if he did he never let on because I married a giver, not a taker. He was content receiving a compliment here and there, or a loving touch when I could spare it, or the occasional deep conversation. Seamus was easy, quality over quantity. Presence enthralled him and he made the most of every minute. At the time, I thought I coaxed it out of him with skillful manipulation. Sitting in this room, mired in regret, I wonder if my skillful manipulation was nothing more than Seamus coaxing actual feelings out of me. While I thought I was inciting compliance with orchestrated attention, I was merely reacting to his attention. Craving it, however sparingly.
I’m going to sit in this room and I’m going to cry myself out.
I hate crying and the longer I cry, the angrier I become.
Angry with me. Angry with Loren. Angry with Seamus. Angry with feelings I don’t want to feel. Angry with depression that’s threatening to smother me. Angry with the helplessness and loneliness that’s become my constant companion.
Just fucking angry.
And I want everyone else to feel it with me.
Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair
present
Sometimes I drive to our old neighborhood. I never drive by the house Miranda and I owned. I go to the library and mill around. Or I sit in the park and watch toddlers feed stale bread to the birds. Or I go to the grocery store and buy a jar of pickles.
Today I’m doing all three because it makes me feel closer to my kids. I picture them so clearly in my mind when I’m in a familiar setting we used to go too often. I hit the library and park first, and I’m walking into the grocery store when a voice stops me, “Seamus? Seamus McIntyre?”
I turn and don’t recognize the woman staring at me until she smiles. It’s a smile that turns a puckered, sour, resting face into something friendly and warm. I nod. “Justine, it’s good to see you.” Justine was Miranda’s assistant for years. I talked to her a lot, mostly on the phone because she was the easiest way to relay messages to Miranda if I needed her while she was at work. Justine was audacious and outspoken, which is probably the reason she kept her job, Miranda recognized and liked another viper in the pit. The thing she failed to notice was that Justine had a heart behind the tough exterior. It wasn’t a soft, endearing heart that gained her friends and admirers; it was an honest heart that was selective about what, or whom, it showed concern. And that concern was hard-edged, sometimes hard to hear, but untouched by evil intent. She always asked me about the kids when I called. When I was diagnosed with MS, she fussed over me like a domineering mother during every conversation. And the last time I talked to her, the day after Miranda told me she was leaving me, Justine said, “Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair.” I was shell shocked by Miranda’s announcement and didn’t give Justine’s words much thought, but they’re echoing profoundly from my memory now.
She shakes my hand. “It’s good to see you, too, Seamus.” It’s firm and professional, but she adds a pat on the back of my hand to soften it. I’ve always imagined the pat was her attempt at connection. Her no-nonsense temperament hinders physical interaction; it’s like a barrier to ward off the unwanted. Which makes the pat that much more genuine, because I have a feeling it’s hard for her to translate her heart into her actions. I think back to Faith alluding to growing up never being hugged. I wonder if that’s how Justine grew up too. “How are you holding up? You look like hell. Tired. You’re not taking care of yourself, are you?” There it is, the caring heart blended with no filter.
I shrug. I can’t lie to her. She can smell bullshit like a bloodhound.
She shakes her head. “How are the kids doing?”