So, we fucked.
Often.
It backfired on me.
I liked it.
Loved it.
Craved it.
It was a sexual awakening for me.
That opened the door to digressions. There was only so much I could give and take from Seamus. I’d always been restrained with him, I liked the idea of my pleasure more than the idea of his, and achieving both came as a result of limited options on my end. But, now my mind was on overdrive, constantly aroused and weaving dark fantasies I wouldn’t dare ask Seamus to fulfill. So, I turned outside my marriage to supplement, a young man fresh to one of the departments I oversaw as director. Stunningly good looking, built, and equipped with overblown confidence in those areas that proved him easily lured. I pandered initially to his ego, and he unknowingly fell under the guise of my interest and victim to his own naivety. The result was primal, animalistic, experimental fucking, whenever and wherever I wanted it.
Infidelity became my drug.
And Seamus continued to worship me.
Win. Motherfucking win.
My sex life was perfect.
Until it ended in my second pregnancy.
I’d been careless taking my pills. Seamus never used a condom. Thank God the sex toy always did, or I’d be up shit creek without a paddle. I had the poor fool laid off immediately under a fabricated downsizing initiative. He’s of no use to me now.
Seamus was happy beyond belief when I told him I was pregnant. It was like watching Kai being born all over again. I deflated again. I’ve been replaced again. And I’m sure that when this little human is born there will be no room left in his heart for me.
The façade I was trying to create, and could control like a puppeteer, feels more like a mirage every day. Sometimes it’s there. Sometimes it’s not. The days it’s not scare me.
The turncoat
past
I threw myself into my work during the second pregnancy. Working even longer days and determined to ascend another rung on the corporate ladder before I was sidelined again.
The baby came early, four weeks to be exact. The labor was sheer hell. Blinding pain that came on so quickly they refused me the epidural I insisted on. They said I’d progressed so fast that I was past the point it could be administered safely. I think the nurses just took morbid delight in my agony. Bitches. I condemned every last person, unrelentingly and loudly, in the delivery room, Seamus included. No one escaped my wrath.
The actual birth was a heart-wrenching repeat of my first. “It’s a boy,” the doctor declared in the same congratulatory tone. A sticky, miniature life form was laid on my chest. I watched Seamus’s eyes mist over and every feature on his face transformed into luminous love and pride. The cavern behind my ribs that housed vital organs for breathing and sustaining life instantaneously emptied, while Seamus’s struggled to keep up with an overabundance of air being taken on by anxious, excited lungs and a racing, exultant heart.
I had been defeated again. By my own seed. Fucking little traitor. I lay there staring at Seamus, begging him with my thoughts, Please look at me. Please tell me you love me. Pleading. It didn’t work. He only saw the turncoat cuddled up to my bosom.
“Do you like the name Rory?” He was smiling so sweetly that I would swear the two of them were having a telepathic conversation and had already bonded for life.
I didn’t answer his question. I hadn’t thought about names. I was in denial prior to the birth. And now that it was over I just felt empty.
“I’m sorry to cut your time with him short, but we need to get him checked out. Being premature, he’ll need some extra attention.”
Take him. Please. And while you’re at it, I could use some fucking extra attention, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. I was still looking at Seamus’s beautiful face as it crumbled in the understanding that his little boy may have complications due to an early arrival into the world.
I should’ve been crumbling for the same reason, but I wasn’t. I was crumbling for myself.
Rory spent four weeks at Children’s Hospital before he was cleared to come home. I went back to work after the third week. Fortunately, Seamus was on summer break from school and took on parenting full time with both the boys.
The postpartum depression was real this time around. I avoided emotion at all costs and what overtook me was suffocating. I was medicated. It helped with my moods, but love never bloomed for my boys.
I saw the way Seamus looked at me. Questions like, “What do you need?” and, “How can I help?” were common additions to our limited conversations. I knew he genuinely wanted to help me, but I also knew that by helping me he thought he was helping the boys. Helping our family. Because Seamus was a family man, through and through.
I started to resent the fact that I was being silently judged, even if it was being done with good intent on his part. I felt weak and vulnerable. We all had our part to play in this goddamn façade, and postpartum depression was fucking it all up.
Kai is three now, and Rory is one, I’ve accepted the fact that I birthed these children, and that’s enough. Their father loves them for both of us. I’m playing my get out of hell free card—Seamus. He will always deliver me from evil. Unknowingly atone for my sins. Thank God he hasn’t left me. He’s too blinded by his love for our boys to see me for who I really am.
The façade remains intact.
We needed a hero
present
“Seamus!” It’s the muffled cry of someone in trouble. Someone who needs help.
I blink the sleep from my eyes once and strip the covers back and bound from bed in one clumsy motion. I’m standing in the hallway outside the kids’ bedroom trying to recall if the cry for help was female or male.
I’m only half awake, but my mind is leaning toward female when I hear it again, “Seamus!” accompanied by more knocking on the front door.
My heart’s pounding in my chest, but there’s a degree of relief when I realize it’s not my kids calling out. They’re safe and sound. I shuffle toward the door because tired legs paired with numbness don’t make for a cooperative couple.
When I open it, Faith is standing on the W…E mat in wet pajamas. She’s out of breath, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s just run up the stairs, or if it’s because she’s scared. “Thank God. Seamus, we need your help. A pipe broke in Hope’s apartment, and The Lipokowskis aren’t home. There’s water everywhere, and we can’t find the main water shut off.”
I look down at my underwear, all too aware the time for modesty was before I opened the door, not now that Faith is standing in front of me asking for help. I’m sure she could care less if I walked downstairs naked at this point, as long as I shut off the water. Hope, however, I’ve never met. And underwear is not appropriate introduction attire, even during a crisis.
After I throw on some shorts, I instruct, “Stay here with the kids, please.”
She nods quickly.
I’m walking down the stairs, just past midnight, trying to keep my balance. There’s a recliner, small table, and dresser on the sidewalk in front of apartment one’s door. When I knock on the unlatched door, it swings open a few inches. “Hello?” I call out loudly, not wanting to walk into a stranger’s home unwelcome.
A tall, extremely thin woman walks out of what I’m assuming is the bathroom. Upon first glance, I can’t take in anything about her other than despair. She looks like the type of person who’s been beaten down by life so long that misery is a constant companion. “A pipe’s busted. I don’t know how to make the water stop.”
I step into the apartment without introducing myself. “Where’s the utility closet?”
She points to the door next to the kitchen.
I walk to the closet, and every step I take is wetter than the last. The carpet is saturated. The main water shut off for the apartment is located in the closet next to the furnace and water heater, just like in our apartment. Thank God for consistency.
/> When we hear the water stop running, she sighs. It’s the audible release of stress. “Thank Jesus,” she whispers, her eyes downcast.
I nod and offer my hand. “I’m Seamus. I live upstairs with my three kids. I’m sure you’ve heard us.” I feel like I need to apologize for our noisiness. “We try to keep it down, but I’m sorry if the TV gets loud or you hear them chasing each other around.”
She reluctantly takes my hand and her grip is slight, only her fingertips return my grasp. “I’m Hope,” is all she says. She’s looking at her damp feet.
“I see your furniture is all outside. I’ll get my box fan and some towels and help you get this cleaned up.” As long as Faith can hang out in my apartment with the kids, I can help Hope.
“I got a fan in the closet,” she says. I realize she’s offering a solution, but the way she says it is strange. Almost as if she’s just making a random statement. It feels disconnected from the conversation for some reason.
“Good.” And then I add, “Set it on the tile in the kitchen where it’s dry and turn it on. I’ll be right back,” because I’m afraid she’ll set it up on the wet carpet, plug it in, and end up electrocuting herself.
She nods.
I slosh through the soaked carpet to the door. When I step outside, I roll my shoulders a few times, close my eyes, and breathe in the humid night air. The tension in my body, created by the emergency-induced adrenaline coursing through me, is receding. And as it ebbs away, I find myself wishing all stress was that easy to release. The stairs taunt me, and the climb is slow because exhaustion is creeping back.
My apartment door is wide open, and Faith is sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of the living room floor, a palm resting face down on each thigh. Her eyes are closed, and I can see her chest rise and fall in a series of deep, deliberate breaths. Her lips are moving slightly as if she’s talking to herself, but she’s not making any sound.
It’s an awkward situation; I’m not sure if I should interrupt her or wait to see if she senses I’m back in the room with her. I clear my throat; it’s my way to deal with the impasse.
Her lips move for a few more seconds and then she opens her eyes and stands. “Well? Is the water turned off?”
I nod, but in my mind, I still see her sitting on the floor. “What were you doing? Meditating? Praying?”
“Both, I guess, though I don’t like to pigeonhole,” she says as she walks by. “I like to multitask.” She winks.
I don’t know if the smile reaches my lips because I’m tired, but on the inside, she makes me smile. “I need to grab my box fan and some towels and go back down to help Hope clean up.”
“Why don’t you give me the fan and towels and I’ll help her? I don’t mind at all. It makes me feel useful,” Faith says.
“But I told Hope I’d be back down to help her,” I argue because I hate letting people down, especially when I’ve promised something.
Faith smiles and I already know she’s not going to let me win. “Your kids have school, and you have to work in the morning, I don’t. Get some rest, Seamus.”
“You’re sure?” I feel bad backing out, but she’s right. I have to get up for work in a few hours.
She nods.
I insist on taking the fan and towels down myself and explaining to Hope the situation and that Faith will be back down to help her. I also tell her to come up and knock if they need anything.
Hope nods in understanding but doesn’t say a word.
Faith and I cross paths at my doorway.
“Thanks for helping Hope out tonight. Sorry I had to wake you. We needed a hero.”
It’s nice to be needed. “You’re welcome. Goodnight, Faith.”
She pulls the door shut behind her, but leaves it open an inch and whispers through, “Nighty night, Seamus.”
Your knees are attractive; it’s a shame to bloody them
present
It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, which is a guarantee of two things.
One: Kira is wide-awake and has been for over an hour now, sitting on the couch watching cartoons.
Two: I’m semi-awake, sitting on the couch next to Kira watching cartoons…through closed eyelids.
I haven’t slept in past six o’clock in the morning for eleven years.
I’m not complaining. My kids are only little once. The boys sleep in now, and I’m sure she’s not far behind them in making the shift.
“Daddy, are we going to the beach today?”
I answer with my eyes still closed, “Is it raining?” The weatherman on the local news last night said it’s supposed to rain today.
She walks to the front door and opens it; I guess an accurate weather assessment requires immersion and not a simple peek out the window.
“What’s this?” Kira asks curiously, looking at the ground outside the front door. Curiosity is not always a good thing when it comes to Kira. She’s fearless. The kind of fearless that requires trust. Her trust is a bottomless pit. Trust that the world is good and nothing bad ever happens. But even when bad does happen, like getting stung by a bee when she was three because it looked soft and fuzzy and irresistible to tiny fingers, or bad like her mom leaves the family and moves out of state, she never loses her trust. She’s still fearless.
I walk to the door for a close-up examination of the this half of what’s this.
There on the W…E mat is a cane. It’s wooden, and though it’s not bulky, it looks substantial, like it serves its purpose and serves it well. And it’s obvious it’s had plenty of opportunity to serve well. The varnish and stain are worn away on the handle and the bottom foot shows some battle scars. There’s an envelope underneath it, and my name is written on it.
When I see my name, a few things bubble up in me.
The first is embarrassment because someone thinks I need this. It makes my stomach lurch.
The second is anger because someone thinks I need this. It makes my stomach boil.
The third is foreign, a traitor that has invaded my bitter existence. It’s relief because someone thinks I need this. It makes my stomach settle.
But relief only sticks around for a nanosecond because I’m a stubborn, thirty-four-year-old man. I refuse to use a cane.
Canes scream helplessness, weakness, and deterioration.
That’s not me.
I may not be able to feel my legs from the waist down, except for occasional pinpricking pain, but I will not use an aid like an old man. A broken old man.
“Kira, darlin’, can you do me a favor and put that in my room?” I want to douse it in gasoline and light it aflame on the W…E mat in a proper act of defiance and protest. I also can’t help but find irony in the fact that it’s been left on a mat that no longer says welcome. This cane is not welcome. The W…E mat just became the unwelcome mat.
She picks up the cane in one hand and the envelope in the other. “What about the letter? It has your name on it.” She’s looking at the handwriting, reading it.
“Just put it on my bed with the…” I can’t even say the word, “with that.” I point at the cane.
We spent the afternoon playing board games and watching movies on Netflix while it rained relentlessly outside.
The kids are in bed now. When I kissed and hugged them all goodnight, I saw three happy, content faces smiling back at me. I haven’t seen them all smiling like that in a while. Too long. Even Kai was grinning. And Kai only does something when he means it. The honesty in him is born in his bones and seeps out into the rest of him, which means every inch of him is truth. When he feels it, it’s projected. And today he was happy.
And that makes me happy.
I set aside the bitter.
Every last inkling of it.
Until I walk back to my room and see the cane lying on my bed.
And now I’m a jumble of emotions, pissed leading the charge. Someone’s made a judgment of me. I let my mind go so far as to wonder if it was Miranda, which is crazy because she lives in
another state. Unfortunately, it’s not beneath her to rub my nose in something or to belittle me. She’s always been good at belittling. Jesus Christ, what did I ever see in her?
I tear open the envelope and as I read the note the flash of relief I had earlier reappears.
So does the embarrassment.
But not the anger.
Faith. Of course, it was Faith. It was left with good intention. Not ridicule.
Even so, I’m not using it. I’m stubborn. I may as well wear a sign around my neck that says I’m useless.
Putting it in the back of my closet, I bury it along with the letter behind a stack of magazines and a pile of shoes. And when I can no longer see it the relief vanishes into thin air and all that remains is embarrassment. It jabs at me. Taunts me. And I don’t know where it came from because it’s a new kind of embarrassment. A branch that grows on the embarrassment tree, but not a limb I thought I’d find myself climbing on. It feels shaky and thin, too small in diameter to hold my weight. It’s embarrassment tied to manliness and virility. Embarrassment tied to attraction and sexual prowess. It’s the realization that men with health issues, men that need things like canes to function, especially at my age, aren’t desirable and I feel like I’ve just lost something else to this disease. I feel like I’ve lost the ability to attract a partner, if and when I’m ever ready for that again.