We moved to Dallas later on that summer. Henry got a position in architectural engineering with Davidson, Wilbur, and Wayne. Even in the beginning, his salary was enough that our entire lifestyle changed. No longer did I have to worry about holding down two jobs at once. In fact, I didn’t have to work at all. I could stay at home and take care of the house, and be a good wife. The kind of wife who had supper ready when my man got home, kept his clothes cleaned and pressed, and kept the house straightened. And, I must admit, I enjoyed it for a while.
I sent Momma money every so often, not a lot, but enough so I was sure she would have a little something to live on if her mending or sewing slowed down. At first she sent it back to me, but then I guess she figured out I wasn’t going to stop sending it, so she kept it.
I still worried about her being so far away from me, and I missed her terribly. The first six months we were in Dallas, I had the most incredible case of homesickness. Almost everything got me thinking of Momma, and reminded me of home. I spent most of my days upset until Henry came home. He was pretty patient with me though. He never scolded me, or told me I was being ridiculous.
After a while, I got used to it. As I met more people and found other wives with whom I could spend some time, it didn’t seem so bad. Dallas is a big place and it’s real easy to feel alone there. With all kinds of stores and malls there was always shopping to do, but of course you can’t do that every day and stay out of trouble. A few of us got together in a little group, and we’d take turns having lunch at each other’s homes. Sometimes we would play cards or dominoes, other times we would sit and talk with each other. It felt good to have other women to share with about things.
Henry, of course, adapted well. He always did make friends as easy as anyone I ever knew. He had the guys he knew from work, and it seemed like almost everywhere we went he would start a conversation with someone. He started playing cards with a few of his friends. Usually it was just spades or pitch; once in a while they played blackjack. They met every Tuesday night. One week it would be at one house the next week it would be at another. That helped me a little too, I guess. Usually his friends would bring their wives along, and we could sit together and talk, while the men played their games.
After we had been in Dallas about a year, I started talking to Henry about going back to school. I was looking for something to get involved with, and I had always wanted to continue my education. I guess my daddy instilled that in me. He told me, “Never stop learning, Abby Lynn. No matter what you do or who you meet there is always some learning you can take away from the experience.”
When I brought the subject up with Henry, I was a little surprised by his reaction. I figured he had started getting used to having me at home, and wouldn’t be too excited at the idea of college.
“Are you sure you don’t mind, Henry,” I asked, as I set the table for supper.
“Of course I don’t mind. That was the deal, Abby Lynn,” he said. “I would finish school and get a job, while you worked. Then you could go back to school, and get your education. It seems fair to me, if you want to take some classes.”
I was so excited. Being a good wife was fine, but I was starting to get a little restless. I had worked at one thing or another for most of my life, and staying around there waiting for Henry to come home was starting to grate on me a little.
“What if I’m not home when you get off work or if I haven’t had time to get supper ready? You remember what being in school was like. I may have papers to work on or finals to study for or maybe I’ll have to spend some time at the library. That won’t bother you?”
He smiled as he filled his plate. “Then I guess I may have to learn to cook for you.”
So, it seemed everything was decided, but things don’t always work out as they are planned. Our conversation took place in July, and I started making plans to start school at the beginning of the fall semester. I had a strong desire to get a teaching certificate. I always liked working with little kids. I guess that’s why I used to enjoy babysitting so much. To me, children always have this way of making all of the little things in life seem so much more interesting, and at the same time making the difficulties of life much less complicated.
Aside from having my own children, I felt teaching would be the most rewarding experience in which I could ever be involved. However, just before the semester started, I found I would receive the first of life’s little rewards before I would experience the reward of teaching. I was two months pregnant when school started, and that was certainly going to change my plans, at least a little.
Henry was so excited, and Momma was too. I called her on the phone. I hated to tell her that way, but I knew it would be a while before we would see her. I would have loved to have been there to see the look on her face. I knew she would make a terrific grandma.
Of course, Henry’s parents were excited as well.
“Now, Henry you be sure and name that child right if it’s a boy,” his daddy teased him.
“Sorry, Dad. I know you want us to name him Henry Newburn IV, but we’ve known for a long time what we would name our first son. He’ll be Michael, after Abby’s dad.”
“I understand, son,” Mr. Newburn said. Then he added, “I’ll name the next one.” And they both laughed.
It seemed everyone was taking this well, except me. Oh, I was excited, but part of me was apprehensive at the same time. I didn’t see how I was going to handle school, and being a mom at the same time.
“It’s okay, babe,” Henry consoled. “You can keep going to school, and after the baby is born we can get someone to baby-sit in the morning. That way you can take at least a few classes to keep things rolling.”
Michael didn’t see things the same way. He was born a month and ten days early, not bad in today’s world with all our technology, but still very early. He was a pretty sick little boy. There wasn’t a babysitter around that would have taken him, and even if there was, I would have been too worried about him to concentrate on my schoolwork anyway. So, I decided it would be best if I put the schoolwork on the back burner for a while.
He was a beautiful little baby. His skin was as smooth as silk. He had his father’s blond hair and blue-eyes, and he captured my heart from the moment I laid eyes upon him.
From the beginning I could tell something wasn’t right. Though his eyes were wide and alert for his age, he could never stay awake for very long. He took everything in while he was awake, but it never lasted long. He seemed to tire quickly. He rarely made a sound, just a little chirp once in a while.
The doctors said his lungs had not fully developed. Nearly every breath was a struggle and he was plagued by respiratory problems. His little body couldn’t seem to keep up with the demands of life. Eventually, the demands became too much for him. We lost Michael when he was two months old.
Momma didn’t even get to see him. She came for Michael’s funeral and she stayed with me for a couple of weeks. She offered to stay longer, but I knew there were folks counting on her back home. So, I asked her to go home.
She took that pretty hard.
“Baby, I think I should stay a little longer, until you get to feeling a little better.”
I could tell she really wanted to stay and I didn’t want to hurt her, but I felt this desire to be alone with my feelings. Besides, she had sacrificed so much for me throughout my life; I hated to ask for more. Looking back I can see it was probably a mistake on my part.
Depression gripped me for the next several months. I was so pained and saddened; I could hardly find the strength to get out of bed. Though he tried to hide it, I know Michael’s death tore Henry apart as well. He’d always been that way and it made me angry that he seemed to go on with life because life for me had stopped the day Michael took his last breath.
He started working later, and not coming home for lunch, which were most likely signs we needed to talk. Most of the day he wasn’t there to talk to, and when he was there, he didn’t seem to want
to talk. I started to feel like I was going through everything alone. In fact, I started to feel like I was the only one in the world with that kind of hurting going on inside.
One night, I found out just how he was really dealing with Michael’s death. I was already in bed, but then that’s where I had spent most of my day anyway. I could tell he had been drinking; there was alcohol on his breath and the smell of stale cigarettes on his clothes. He didn’t smoke, so I knew he’d been to a bar. He didn’t say much. He stepped into the bathroom and started getting ready for bed. When he came out again, I could tell something was wrong. There was a peculiar look in his eyes.
He dropped himself into the chair in the corner of the room, and buried his head in his hands. Suddenly he exploded with emotion, and I could hear the sobs coming from across the room. They were deep, mournful sounds. His body convulsed with each breath.
I got up from the bed and, kneeling next to him, I laid my arms over his shoulders, and buried my face in his hair. In all of our trials together, I had never seen him so torn up, and for a moment I was able to forget my own grief to help him through his. I stroked his hair gently and felt his tears dry against my skin as my cheek met his.
Through his moans and weeping I could hear him mumbling over and over again.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Abby.”
“It’s okay. I hurt too.”
It was relieving to see he had finally begun to release his grief.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Henry, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was Michael’s time to go. Baby, I hurt, too. We’ll get through this.”
“I’m just so sorry.”
I couldn’t understand why he was apologizing for how he felt. My gosh, we’d lost a child. How could he help but hurt?
Then it came to me, and my heart sank. It was amazing how quickly it dawned on me; how quickly the picture cleared. I knew why he was telling me he was sorry without any more explanation. I just knew.
It wasn’t because of what happened to Michael. Michael certainly might have had something to do with it down deep inside, but without hearing another word from him; I knew Michael’s death wasn’t the reason. While I had been at home lying in bed with my sorrow, he had taken his sorrow to someone else.
I guess the only way to describe my initial reaction is that I was dumbstruck. I wasn’t sure how to feel. Should I be angry? Surely, that would be the only reasonable reaction, but yet another part of me was explaining it away, just as I always had. Looking back now, I can’t believe how ridiculous that was. I started coming up with all of these excuses for him.
Had I pushed him away, closed him off with my own grief? Maybe it was my fault; maybe I was so concerned with how I felt that I hadn’t tried to help him over his own emotions.
Then the anger broke through; some might even say the sensible side of me took over. Why was I making excuses for him? Why couldn’t he have come home and held me? Who was she? Was it a stranger or did I really want to know?
I was becoming angrier with each passing moment and not just at him.
“Abby, you’re such an idiot! When are you going to learn?” I thought.
I almost explained it all away. How could I do that to myself? How could I even consider allowing him to cheapen something so sacred, without so much as an explanation?
“You jerk. How could you do this to me? To us? I hurt, too,” I shouted. “Why weren’t you there? Were you laughing and giggling with that wench when I was here crying my eyes out? Did she grieve over your son? Did she spend her days weeping for him? Did she visit his grave every day she could force herself to get out of bed? Tell me Henry!”
I stood up and turned away, the heated blood coursing through my veins. Every muscle in my body was tensed to strike out at him. I reached for the nearest thing to throw, to use as a missile launched in my fury. The vase flew over his head.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
Before the pieces of the vase had hit the floor, I had launched another missile.
“I was here alone.”
The lamp shattered.
“I needed you.”
Our wedding picture flew through the air.
“I trusted you.”
The frame crumpled as it hit the wall.
Again and again I repeated the motions going around the room, letting my anger shatter into shards of glass and imbed itself into the wall behind him. Through it all, he sat there with his head in his hands, not even flinching as the bombs exploded around him. It made me even angrier that I still didn’t have his attention.
And finally, grabbing another weapon, I stopped motionless. It was Michael’s picture.
I froze. I wasn’t sure what to do next. I staggered; my knees grew weak. I was spent, emotionally exhausted. I slumped, my body falling onto the bed, and I sat, staring at Michael. His eyes stared deep into my soul from behind the frame and the glass. Those eyes that had been so wide and alert, but touched with sorrow, met mine and I wanted to hold him again. I wanted to feel his soft skin; I wanted to smell his hair.
For so long, I had felt only sorrow, not anger, not bitterness, not joy at his memory, and certainly not love. Where was the love? Had I pushed it away with everything else?
I’d loved Henry for as long as I had understood what love meant. I’d loved him even when I felt he didn’t deserve it. I’d loved him even when he hadn’t always shown it in return, but where was it now?
Daddy’s words came to mind almost any time I had trouble finding my own words and they came back to me once again.
“When someone hurts you, love them in spite of it. That’s the best way to get back what’s yours, Abby Lynn, to love them. They can’t help but love you back, eventually.”
But how could I love Henry when he had done something so despicable? I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be near him. I was so confused and disgusted with him I did the only thing that seemed natural. I did what I had learned to do. I prayed.
When I was finally able to speak, I heard a calm, almost tired voice. I didn’t look at Henry; I just continued to stare at the picture.
“Where were you when I needed you, Henry? Why didn’t you come to me with your pain? Why couldn’t we have gotten through it together? If what we have is so important, so special we could create someone like Michael, then why isn’t it strong enough to draw us together to grieve for him?”
He was silent. Nothing would undo what he had done.
I could feel myself growing weaker; the emotional ride of adrenaline and anger was coming to an end. I drew the picture to my chest, folding my arms around it. The grief was still there, it would always be there. But I felt the beginning of something else as well. I rolled over on my side drawing my knees up near my chest and, clutching the picture, I held my son.
I heard him rise from the chair. I heard his steps as he moved toward the bed. I heard his labored breathing growing nearer. I heard him kneel at the end of the bed. Then I felt his hand reach for mine and I let him take it, but it was lifeless. He held it, but it did not hold his in return. I heard him draw a breath, and I knew he was about to speak. I knew he was about to tell me how his grief drove him to her and how she was there to listen. He was going to tell me how it got out of control, and one thing led to another, and he never meant to hurt me, but he couldn’t help it. He was going to tell me how she really meant nothing to him and she was just there. It didn’t mean anything.
Those were the things I knew he was going to say, and I really didn’t want to hear them, but I knew he was about to speak, so I stayed there and listened anyway. And after what seemed like an eternity, his words finally came out.
“I’m sorry, Abby. I’m so sorry. I let you down. I can’t change it, I can’t take it back, but I’m here. I’m here, now, Abby.”
He made it sound so simple, but then nothing he could have said would have made me feel any differently. Then he drew back the little lock of hair aroun
d my ear and I wanted to recoil at his touch, but I didn’t. He laid his head upon mine, and I hated it, but I didn’t move.
As quickly as they had dried up, the tears returned. I cried …he cried …we cried. That night we cried ourselves to sleep, he at the end of the bed, holding my hand and me curled up with the picture of our love, wrapped in my arms. It was the deepest sleep I had ever had, with the most vivid dreams, dreams of Michael the way he would have been if life had only allowed him the chance. He was running around, playing ball and laughing, with those big, blue, loving eyes.
Some wounds take longer to heal than others. Sometimes it takes real effort to get back what you have lost. I’d been through this with Henry before in one way or another and what it really came down to was a decision as to whether or not I was willing to try it yet again. Maybe I was into personal pain. Maybe I thought the pain of being alone was worse than the pain of heartache. Maybe I loved him so much I was willing to do whatever it took to work it out. I don’t know which was at work, but somehow he was always able to convince me to give him another chance.
Ours was an endless cycle of hurt and healing. I guess it was because I always wanted to forgive him. I always wanted to believe it would get better. I was weird in that way. I saw love as a commitment, and I couldn’t accept the thought that we might come against something we couldn’t work out. And so, it seemed, I always took the first steps. I was always the one to try to set the hurt aside. So that’s what I did.
It didn’t happen overnight. I didn’t just push it out of my mind and pretend it didn’t happen. I simply allowed things to ease their way back into place. It was always there in the back of my mind. The seeds of doubt had been planted long ago and it seemed like every once in a while Henry would get the watering can and the fertilizer and give them some room to grow.
My folks raised me to believe that the vows of marriage were sacred and they were meant to be life-long. When I married Henry, I said, “For better or for worse, ‘til death do us part.” No matter what came along, I meant to try to live up to my part of the deal.
It wasn’t like one of those relationships where the wife doesn’t care what the husband does any more. I made it clear that I expected him to change. He knew there was no bond of trust and he worked harder to make sure I knew where he was and what he was doing.
We did spend more time talking with each other over the next few months. Communicating seemed to help, but even that was difficult at times. Strange thing begin to happen when you actually start communicating with other human beings. I began to see things in ways I never had before. My eyes grew open and I became more sensitive to those subtle changes which indicated we weren’t who we thought we were. Neither of us were the same. I certainly wasn’t that dazed, infatuated child I used to be. Innocence, faith, naivety had disappeared. I was beginning to discover that there were things missing in my life, things which never seemed to be all that important before. And finding that out can change everything.