CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AMANDA
You wanted him to go.
You asked him to leave.
You told him not to text you anymore.
You told him not to call.
You told him it was over.
You.
You decided this.
Words flutter around my head, my heart, like caged birds in a thunderstorm as I stir the gravy on the stove, the familiar smells of Thanksgiving dinner wafting up around me.
In the living room, Julia and Tucker lie on the plush rug, my grandson laughing so hard he’s got tears in his eyes from his new favorite game of watching Daddy play with a yo-yo. Up and down the toy goes, and Tucker giggles like crazy, clapping his hands together at the lights and the neon blur of color.
A football game plays on the television, David’s eyes occasionally drifting up to watch a play, but most of the focus is on Tucker.
I’m thankful, especially since if anyone asks me again if I’m okay, I’ll likely melt all the way down.
The past week has been nothing short of hell.
After Greg left — just like I asked him to — it was all I could do not to spend the entire day sobbing in bed. My chest caved in on my heart, on my lungs, making it impossible to feel anything but pain, to breathe anything but smoke from the catastrophe that had unfolded. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t watch television or read a book or do anything other than torture myself with anxiety and things I couldn’t control.
David wouldn’t return my calls all weekend.
I’d never known that kind of hurt, the kind that can only come from your child being furious at you, from them seeing you in a new light, one that’s traitorous and impossible to overlook. I couldn’t close my eyes without remembering the hatred and accusation in his when he’d yelled at me, couldn’t go more than two minutes without hearing his words loud and echoing in my mind.
I knew no matter how we resolved the issue, there would forever be a rift between us.
I had two tests and a paper due on Monday, and though I tried to study and write, it was impossible to do. I still don’t know my grades on those exams and that paper, but I can fairly assume they won’t be great.
Monday was also the day Myra called and told me it was official. We had a court date for the divorce.
December eighth.
It would all be over soon.
Had this been last week, I would have found joy in that phone call, would have rejoiced with the closure I knew was finally on its way.
But if I was being at all honest with myself, the only thing, only person, I could think about was Greg.
He called, once every day, each one going unanswered. He didn’t text after, didn’t call repeatedly. It was just once, a peaceful attempt, a hand reaching out in the darkness to try to find mine.
He was persistent, patient, understanding.
Until his voicemail last night indicated that he got the message loud and clear.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix this. All I know is that I want to be there with you. I want to hold you and make sure you’re okay. I want you to know you’re not alone. I want to get through this together.
A pause, long and gut wrenching.
I miss you…
The memory of that voicemail makes my nose sting, but I sniff it away, turning the stove to low and transitioning my focus to the dinner rolls in the oven.
I’m here, Amanda. All you have to do is tell me you want me to be.
Then, the line went dead.
I hadn’t been able to sleep after. Then again, I hadn’t slept all week — not really.
I’ve never felt this sick and heartbroken, not in all my life.
“Need any help in here, Mom?”
David’s voice startles me, but I mask the jump, smiling as I take the rolls out of the oven and set them on top of two towels on the counter.
“Nope, we’re all ready. Why don’t you grab Julia and you two can make your plates. I’ll make one for Tucker.”
“We can handle that.”
“No, no,” I insist, taking the mittens off my hands. “I want to.”
He nods, but his brows fold together, his eyes searching mine. I know he wants to ask if I’m okay.
I know he already knows the answer.
Him and Julia being here for the holiday is my only saving grace. I wondered how long he’d be mad at me, how long he’d ignore my calls, but he came by the house late on Tuesday evening so we could talk.
He was hurt. He felt betrayed. He was angry. None of that has changed.
But he still loves me. He doesn’t hold anything against me. And he still wanted to be together today.
I’ll take what I can get.
Our feast is vast and far too much for three adults and one toddler to consume, but we do our best, David even going back for seconds while Tucker mostly plays with his food. I smile as Julia does an airplane fork full of mashed potatoes into his mouth, all the while pushing my own food around on my plate to try to make it look like I’ve eaten more than I have.
I love Thanksgiving. It’s one of my favorite holidays. I cherish the time together with my family, the focus of gratitude, the warm, cozy feelings this time of year always brings.
But today, I find I can’t love anything at all.
Conversation is forced and short throughout the meal, and we watch a Christmas movie after — one of our family traditions. I don’t register a single scene from The Grinch as it plays out on the screen, and eventually, I excuse myself to clean up in the kitchen, needing something to keep my hands and mind busy.
It’s dusk when Julia and David start packing up their things to head home, and while Julia gets Tucker settled in the car, David wraps me in a big hug on the front porch.
“Thank you for an amazing meal, as always.”
I squeeze him in return. “Thank you for being here.”
When we pull back, we both glance at Julia and Tucker before David stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Mom, are you okay?”
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away, forcing a smile. “Yes, honey. I’m fine.”
He gives me a look that tells me he knows better.
I shake my head, willing the tears not to fall as I look at my hands folded together in front of me. “I’m just… I’m so sorry, David,” I whisper, finally meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through. I’m sorry for lying to you, for hurting you. And not just with Greg.”
His jaw tics.
As much as he’s said he’s over it and doesn’t ever want to talk about it again, I know it still bothers him. He’s made amends with me — sort of — but I know Greg hasn’t had the same opportunity afforded to him.
I doubt he ever will.
“With everything,” I continue. “With your father, how I let him treat me, treat us, how I stayed and kept us in that kind of home for your whole life.”
David is already wrapping me in another hug before I can finish, and a long sigh leaves his chest as he pulls me into it. “Don’t do that. Don’t beat yourself up over what’s in the past.”
“How could I not?” I cry. “I feel like my entire life is just one big mess, one mistake after another, years and years of screwing up.”
I fall silent, not speaking aloud the louder thoughts that echo those.