Post by hoosier on Nov 5, 2005 15:50:44 GMT -5
This is my third fanfiction. It takes place the day after Doggone. Comments and feedback welcomed and appreciated!
I can truthfully say that I am relieved that matters have finally come to a head--and frankly terrified! Since Jimmy was the one who made the suggestion that we talk to someone about our problems, I'm hopeful, but I'm also afraid of what will come out. If he is willing to be honest, can I be any less, no matter who or how much it hurts?
Our problems run much deeper than his forgetting to call me back about Boston or asking me to cancel my dinner engagement. Its about issues of trust and commitment and about secrets and lie. More than anything, its about a failure to communicate. We talk AT each other not To each other. We argue, we don't discuss. For example, I understand his need to be independent but why can't he understand my need to be needed? I feel like I'm just a part of his support system, like Hank or his bill reader or his software, that makes his life easier and lets him do his job. Why am I jealous of Hank? Jealous? Of a dog! Because Jimmy will accept his help and not mine? Why do I feel like I'm being taken for granted--again? Shut out--again? He tells me repeatedly that he need me. For what? To match his socks? That stone wall has not eroded one little bit. Why does he have to be so stoic? Why does he feel that he has to put on this brave front and tell me that everything is fine? Only once has he even hinted at how difficult it is for him. He is so focused on proving himself to the entire world that he still has what it takes to be a cop--that he's still as good a man--that I'm afraid that we are falling back into the same old habits, the same old patterns, and I won't go through that again. I can't.
I had been watching the storm build, propped against the headboard of our bed. I was tired but couldn' sleep because my mind kept going in a hundred different directions. Jim was sound asleep, curled on his right side, the blanket pulled tight under his chin. He didn't even stir when I gently laid my hand on the back of his head and ran my fingers over his crisp hair to the nape of his neck. He had insisted on going in to work today even though he was exhausted. After his third cup of coffee, I had made the casual suggestion that he might consider taking the day off or maybe taking a sick day. To give him credit, he did make the pretense of thinking it over, but I could see his mind working behind those deliberately bland features:'What would they think? One rough day and he has to take time off? See, I told you he can't handle the job!' Can't let them see that Jim Dunbar is only human! He went to work and I didn't argue.
I noticed Hank watching me when I finally decided to slip out of bed, his dark eyes glittering in a flash of lightning. He resettled with a soft snort, secure in some doggy sixth sense that Jimmy wasn't getting up any time soon. Other than shadowing Jim more than ususal, he seems to have suffered no ill effects from his--'misadventure". It was a miracle that someone found him and called. Though I tried to reassure Jimmy that he would turn up, New York is an awfully big place to be lost in. What I had found more disturbing was the fact that Hank had been stolen while Jim was undercover. Undercover! He said that he had back-up. He reassured me over and over that he was fine--the drug dealers only wanted their cocaine and had driven off with Hank still in the car, leaving Jim in a shipping yard in Hoboken, alone. Alone. Every fiber of my being wanted to scream: 'What were you thinking? Couldn't someone else have gone? Why did it have to be you!' He made it sound like he did this kind of thing every day but I couldn't get this image out of my mind that instead of looking for Hank, we might still be looking for Jimmy's body...
I threw on my robe as I went barefooted down the hall, snugging the sash tight. Hoping that some camomile would help me to relax, I put a mug and water into the microwave. Thank heavens, I had had a relatively quiet day at work--I'm definitely not at my best on only four hours of sleep. When we had gotten home with Hank, Jimmy had insisted on checking him over and giving him a bath. As we were towellling him off, I teased Jim that he might consider taking a shower himself before coming to bed. Not only had Hank shook all over him, but as we were giving him his bath, the dog had covered Jim's face in wet kisses. Jimmy couldn't stop laughing. I haven't heard him laugh like that in ages. It felt good. I don't know who was happier--Jim or Hank.
Lightning briefly lit the room and I silently chided myself for not turning on a light. Force of habit--not wanting to disturb him. Its the little things that really bring home to me just how much our lives have changed in the last year--coming home to a dark apartment because he has forgotten to turn on a light, never moving the furniture or even rearranging the cabinets, no longer being able to kick off my shoes the minute I walk in the door. Our lives have never been so order, so structured. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes it would be nice to be spontaneous or even a little careless once in a while.
The microwave buzzes and I get the mug and drop in a teabag. I carry it into the living room and curl up in a corner of the couch. There's something half-hidden under a cushion and I pull out my red pashmina. I had just wrapped it around my shoulders when I heard Jimmy come in and then forgot about it in the excitement of Hank's homecoming. I tuck it around my knees, idlely brushing my free hand over its softness as I settle back to watch the light show while sipping my tea.
I had been sitting on this same couch the morning that Jimmy was shot. Being a cop's wife, you learn to put his job into some kind of perspective. There is not going to be a crisis every single day and if you let your imagination run wild every time the phone rings, you won't even be able to function. But I'm just not any cop's wife anymore.
That morning I had spread a handful of photos across the coffee table to make a final selection for a layout due at an afternoon meeting I had with Clay. I remember my throat hurting from the tears I absolutely refused to let Jimmy see me cry. We had had yet another arguement. He had to leave early to meet with Terry about some case that was coming to trial and, since I was going in late, I suggested that we might meet for an early lunch. We had hardly seen each other all week. He blew me off, offering some lame excuse, and , when I protested, he raised both his hands in that dismissive gesture I hate. I opened my mouth to say what had been on my mind the last couple of weeks but I didn't want any more lies, so I told him to just go. I doubt he even heard me. After he left, I sat and stared at the pictures. Why didn't I confront him and demand to know what in the hell was going on? I had never backed down from anything in my life, so why was I being such a coward? What was I afraid of? Finding out that our marriage didn't mean as much to him as it did to me? That much was painfully obvious--he was the one having an affair. I don't know how many times I wished that Evie hadn't told me what she and Carl had witnessed.
There was no phone call--an officer came to the door. To this day, I don't remember the ride to the hospital. I do remember the hours of waiting while people kept giving me cups of coffee that just went cold in my hands.
Even after the surgery was over, the doctors couldn't give me a definitive answer as to his condition. Until he regained consciousness, they couldn't be sure that he hadn't suffered some additional trauma but they were optimistic that he would make a full recovery. I chose to cling to that hope.
Jim was in a chemically-induced coma for a week and was more or less comatose for a week after that. My world was defined by the four walls of his hospital room and the beeping of monitors, the gentle whoosh of oxygen and the comings and goings of the critical care nurses. When they told me that he had been shot in the head, I had imagined disfigurement, brain damage, paralysis but, when I first saw him, despite the bandages, he was the same Jimmy. When the doctors came to examine him, I worried that I might not be asking the right questions or even understanding their answers. When the nurses changed his bandages, I asked them to show me what to do since I would be the one caring for him once he was released. I was surprised at how small the wound was. Where he had hit his head on the pavement looked much worse. With all the tubes and monitors, I was almost afraid to touch him, my own husband! I would hold his hand, stroke his cheek when he became restless, tried to reassure him that he wasn't alone. I was so scared. I wished that there was someone I could hand this over to--to make the decisions, to consult with the doctors, to update the family and friends that called every day, and even what to tell the press who wanted a follow-up on their story. Jimmy would have done that but our roles were reversed. It was up to me.
As I sat by his side or lay on the cot that they had set up for me, I had plenty of time to think. Did he know I was here? Would he want me here? How had we come to this? Did we even know each other--I mean really know each other, or had our entire married life been lived on the surface? When had our conversations dwindled down to 'how are you?' or 'what's for dinner?' or, and more frequently, 'I'm going to be late, so don't wait up'?
We argued more than we talked, mostly over trivial matters. We just could not seem to stop taking jabs at each other. When I would ask him how his day had been, he would say fine, end of story, and I would get angry. Why? Because he wouldn't even share office gossip with me? Because most evenings were spent going over case files at his desk--that is, if he was even home. Because when he wanted to go out, he would expect me to just drop everything even if it was at the last minute? When was the last time he told me that he loved me? If there's no love, no trust, no communication, how can there be a relationship much less a marriage? How can you love someone and hate them at the same time?
All marriages have their ups and downs and I told myself that we had just hit a bump in the road. We just needed the time--just the two of us--to reconnect. I couldn't blame Jimmy for all of our problems. I often had long hours at the office and with fashion shows and shoots, parties and the occasional business trip, I could be late getting home--if I got home at all. How do some women manage? My sister seems able to juggle a husband and children and still have a career and a home that looks like it stepped out of Architectural Digest. Modern women are supposed to be able to have it all! Are we really that busy? Too busy that we can't find the time to put the same effort and commitment into our marriage as we do our jobs? Or am I rationalizing and trying to find any excuse rather than face the fact that we are drifting apart?
It seems that before I realized--no, before I was willing to admit that we had a serious problem, I learned about HER! I felt betrayed. I felt humilated. I even felt dirty. I wasn't interested in how or when or how often. My first reaction was to pack a bag and leave. If our marriage--if I-- wasn't important to him, why stay? His actions had spoken louder than any words. But, I didn't walk out that door. I didn't even pack a bag. Why? Because I had never failed at anything in my life and I wasn't about to admit to a failed marriage? Because I wasn't going to leave the field open for HER? Love? I love him but I hate him but I love him and I couldn't just walk away.
I thought that if I could just understand what had gone wrong, I could fix it but I didn't even know where to begin. I didn't know what he was thinking or feeling. I was frustrated and resentful, emotionally bruised by his rejection. If we weren't arguing, our time was spent in an icy silence. If we had to go to some function as a couple, he was charming and attentive but then we went home to our respective sides of the bed. It was like we were doing this elaborate dance around each other--don't ask questions, don't dare volunteer information, don't presume you understand, don't assume anything. To me, marriage means sharing the good and the bad, its about give and take and having a willingness to compromise. Its about loving someone more than yourself. But where is the marriage if only one shares, if only one gives, when there is no compromising, only giving in? How had we become just two people who happen to share the same apartment and little else?
Wedding vows are a promise two people make to each other but, unfortunately, like all promises, they are easily broken. When I was a little girl, promises were forever and there were consquences if they were ever broken. Jimmy made the same promise I had--to love, honor and cherish. Am I so naive that I still want to believe in promises made and kept? Promises where you cross your heart and hope to...
die
He nearly did die.
For Jimmy, surviving the shooting but being left blind, was almost worse than dying. On the day that he regained consciousness, he turned towards me and asked me why it was so dark. I was so surprised that I even glanced up at the lights to be sure that they were on. His eyes--those brilliant blue eyes that had laughed and teased and flirted with me but which had been so cold and indifferent--were soft and unfocused. He needed me, probably for the first time in his life. Did all my resentment and anger towards him suddenly disappear? Hardly. I didn't forget or forgive what he had done but I had to set those feelings aside. I'm not saying that those emotions didn't surface from time to time. I'm no saint. On the bad days, it was too easy to remember and I would feel the resentment and the frustration simmering. And lately these feelings are becoming harder to control and sometimes they boil over, like yesterday.
Hank isn't my dog. He isn't even our dog, He is strictly Jimmy's dog. I was prepared to be supportive. I was even prepared to be ignored. While I was concerned about Hank, I was more worried about what Jim would do if worse came to worse. I was hardly prepared for him to suggest that we see a therapist. If I had brought it up, I know he would have felt cornered. There would have been excuses and forgotten appointments and that damnable stone wall. Once he had finished rehab and had gotten Hank, Jimmy's sole focus was on getting reinstated to the force. I had hoped that once he was back at work and felt more comfortable with his condition, that we could try to get back to some sort of a normal life. See some friends, maybe go out on occasion, nothing major. I thought accepting Clay's invitation was a good opportunity--a few friends, a casual dinner. It was a fiasco. I was embarrassed and angry but it was Jimmy who lashed out once we were home, accusing me of thinking of having an affair with Clay. Now, I can see that it was his insecurity and his own guilt that made him say it but when he threw it in my face, I was shocked and hurt--shocked that he would even think such a thing and hurt that he didn't trust me. That time I did pack a bag. I could not, I would not, go through that again--the animosity, the accusations, the silences, the distance. But I came back. Why? Pity? Some sense of obligation? Love?
A few weeks later, Jimmy asked me for a mulligan--a 'do-over'--of the last year. It was the evening that he brought me the lovely flowers that I accused him of regifting. Have I become so suspicious of his motives that I automatically assume the worse? Why couldn't I have just been thrilled that he actually thought of doing something just for me? He tells me that he's changed, that he's not the same man he was a year ago. Is he? That Jimmy Dunbar would never have suggested a therapist. He promised me that he will never do that again. I knew he was refering to the affair, to HER. That is one issue we have managed to sidestep. I know and he knows that I know. The fact of the affair isn't nearly as important to me as the WHY of the affair. Am I the same person I was a year ago? I'm still carrying around that emotional baggage, so yes, I am. Can we salvage our marriage,more than salvage it, rebuild it?
A sharp clap of thunder rattles the windows and I am jerked back to the present. I look up and am surprised to see the rain coming down in sheets. I set the mug on the coffee table and fold the pashmina and lay it on the back of the couch. Propping my feet on the coffee table, I lift my hair in both hands and lean back, letting it fan out. Turning my head, I see, in the dim light, the scuff marks on the wall where Jimmy practices what he calls his "ear-hand coordination" with the ball. Once I obsessed that the paint was chipping and flaking but now I choose to see that wall as a small triumph. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, telling myself it will only be for a few minutes...
An ear-shattering crash seems to explode right over my head. I sit bolt upright, wincing at a blinding flash of lightning. Another crash ,as loud as the first ,follows immediently. Hearing a muffled cry from the bedroom, I jump off the couch and stumble against the end table, grabbing at the tottering lamp. As I rush through the doorway, I find Jimmy fighting with the covers. It hadn't been storming when he went to bed. He had woke up confused and disoriented by the crashing thunder and pounding rain. Hank was by the bed, pushing at him with his nose. I brush him aside.
"Jimmy, Jimmy--its alright! I'm here, I'm here!" I say as I pull at the bulky comforter, throwing it aside.
He stops thrashing and lays back, covering his face with both hands. I perch on the side of the bed and lay my hand on his chest, feeling his heart race. I glance at Hank and lay my hand on his head to reassure him that Jimmy was really okay. After taking a few deep breaths, Jim pushes himself into a sitting position then reaches out cautiously and takes me in his arms, burying his face in my neck. Another sharp clap of thunder makes him flinch and I tighten my arms around him, kissing his shoulder. He inhales deeply, his nose pressing against my neck. It tickles but I don't move. I savor the closeness. He slowly begins to relax. Several minutes pass in silence and I begin to think that he is embarrassed by his show of weakness. I go to get up but his arms tighten and I settle back.
"Thank you" he whispers.
"For what?"
"For being here. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. I'm sorry--for everything. I promise to try and be better..."
I lean back to lay one finger against his lips. Promises. Promises to keep? Promises kept? That's for tomorrow. I have to let tomorrow take care of itself. I run my finger along his stubbled jaw. A most opportune flash of lightning gives me a brief glimpse of his hooded eyes, his spikey, sleep-rumpled hair. He slowly leans forward, coming closer until his cheek touches mine. His nose slowly traces its curve as his fingers thread their way into my hair.
"You're worth it." I whisper. I had told him that once before. I meant it then and I mean it now. I can't help smiling and I feel him smile against my cheek in response. His lips seek mine and I turn to meet him. We have found each other, there in the dark, and, for now, it has to be enough.
I can truthfully say that I am relieved that matters have finally come to a head--and frankly terrified! Since Jimmy was the one who made the suggestion that we talk to someone about our problems, I'm hopeful, but I'm also afraid of what will come out. If he is willing to be honest, can I be any less, no matter who or how much it hurts?
Our problems run much deeper than his forgetting to call me back about Boston or asking me to cancel my dinner engagement. Its about issues of trust and commitment and about secrets and lie. More than anything, its about a failure to communicate. We talk AT each other not To each other. We argue, we don't discuss. For example, I understand his need to be independent but why can't he understand my need to be needed? I feel like I'm just a part of his support system, like Hank or his bill reader or his software, that makes his life easier and lets him do his job. Why am I jealous of Hank? Jealous? Of a dog! Because Jimmy will accept his help and not mine? Why do I feel like I'm being taken for granted--again? Shut out--again? He tells me repeatedly that he need me. For what? To match his socks? That stone wall has not eroded one little bit. Why does he have to be so stoic? Why does he feel that he has to put on this brave front and tell me that everything is fine? Only once has he even hinted at how difficult it is for him. He is so focused on proving himself to the entire world that he still has what it takes to be a cop--that he's still as good a man--that I'm afraid that we are falling back into the same old habits, the same old patterns, and I won't go through that again. I can't.
I had been watching the storm build, propped against the headboard of our bed. I was tired but couldn' sleep because my mind kept going in a hundred different directions. Jim was sound asleep, curled on his right side, the blanket pulled tight under his chin. He didn't even stir when I gently laid my hand on the back of his head and ran my fingers over his crisp hair to the nape of his neck. He had insisted on going in to work today even though he was exhausted. After his third cup of coffee, I had made the casual suggestion that he might consider taking the day off or maybe taking a sick day. To give him credit, he did make the pretense of thinking it over, but I could see his mind working behind those deliberately bland features:'What would they think? One rough day and he has to take time off? See, I told you he can't handle the job!' Can't let them see that Jim Dunbar is only human! He went to work and I didn't argue.
I noticed Hank watching me when I finally decided to slip out of bed, his dark eyes glittering in a flash of lightning. He resettled with a soft snort, secure in some doggy sixth sense that Jimmy wasn't getting up any time soon. Other than shadowing Jim more than ususal, he seems to have suffered no ill effects from his--'misadventure". It was a miracle that someone found him and called. Though I tried to reassure Jimmy that he would turn up, New York is an awfully big place to be lost in. What I had found more disturbing was the fact that Hank had been stolen while Jim was undercover. Undercover! He said that he had back-up. He reassured me over and over that he was fine--the drug dealers only wanted their cocaine and had driven off with Hank still in the car, leaving Jim in a shipping yard in Hoboken, alone. Alone. Every fiber of my being wanted to scream: 'What were you thinking? Couldn't someone else have gone? Why did it have to be you!' He made it sound like he did this kind of thing every day but I couldn't get this image out of my mind that instead of looking for Hank, we might still be looking for Jimmy's body...
I threw on my robe as I went barefooted down the hall, snugging the sash tight. Hoping that some camomile would help me to relax, I put a mug and water into the microwave. Thank heavens, I had had a relatively quiet day at work--I'm definitely not at my best on only four hours of sleep. When we had gotten home with Hank, Jimmy had insisted on checking him over and giving him a bath. As we were towellling him off, I teased Jim that he might consider taking a shower himself before coming to bed. Not only had Hank shook all over him, but as we were giving him his bath, the dog had covered Jim's face in wet kisses. Jimmy couldn't stop laughing. I haven't heard him laugh like that in ages. It felt good. I don't know who was happier--Jim or Hank.
Lightning briefly lit the room and I silently chided myself for not turning on a light. Force of habit--not wanting to disturb him. Its the little things that really bring home to me just how much our lives have changed in the last year--coming home to a dark apartment because he has forgotten to turn on a light, never moving the furniture or even rearranging the cabinets, no longer being able to kick off my shoes the minute I walk in the door. Our lives have never been so order, so structured. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes it would be nice to be spontaneous or even a little careless once in a while.
The microwave buzzes and I get the mug and drop in a teabag. I carry it into the living room and curl up in a corner of the couch. There's something half-hidden under a cushion and I pull out my red pashmina. I had just wrapped it around my shoulders when I heard Jimmy come in and then forgot about it in the excitement of Hank's homecoming. I tuck it around my knees, idlely brushing my free hand over its softness as I settle back to watch the light show while sipping my tea.
I had been sitting on this same couch the morning that Jimmy was shot. Being a cop's wife, you learn to put his job into some kind of perspective. There is not going to be a crisis every single day and if you let your imagination run wild every time the phone rings, you won't even be able to function. But I'm just not any cop's wife anymore.
That morning I had spread a handful of photos across the coffee table to make a final selection for a layout due at an afternoon meeting I had with Clay. I remember my throat hurting from the tears I absolutely refused to let Jimmy see me cry. We had had yet another arguement. He had to leave early to meet with Terry about some case that was coming to trial and, since I was going in late, I suggested that we might meet for an early lunch. We had hardly seen each other all week. He blew me off, offering some lame excuse, and , when I protested, he raised both his hands in that dismissive gesture I hate. I opened my mouth to say what had been on my mind the last couple of weeks but I didn't want any more lies, so I told him to just go. I doubt he even heard me. After he left, I sat and stared at the pictures. Why didn't I confront him and demand to know what in the hell was going on? I had never backed down from anything in my life, so why was I being such a coward? What was I afraid of? Finding out that our marriage didn't mean as much to him as it did to me? That much was painfully obvious--he was the one having an affair. I don't know how many times I wished that Evie hadn't told me what she and Carl had witnessed.
There was no phone call--an officer came to the door. To this day, I don't remember the ride to the hospital. I do remember the hours of waiting while people kept giving me cups of coffee that just went cold in my hands.
Even after the surgery was over, the doctors couldn't give me a definitive answer as to his condition. Until he regained consciousness, they couldn't be sure that he hadn't suffered some additional trauma but they were optimistic that he would make a full recovery. I chose to cling to that hope.
Jim was in a chemically-induced coma for a week and was more or less comatose for a week after that. My world was defined by the four walls of his hospital room and the beeping of monitors, the gentle whoosh of oxygen and the comings and goings of the critical care nurses. When they told me that he had been shot in the head, I had imagined disfigurement, brain damage, paralysis but, when I first saw him, despite the bandages, he was the same Jimmy. When the doctors came to examine him, I worried that I might not be asking the right questions or even understanding their answers. When the nurses changed his bandages, I asked them to show me what to do since I would be the one caring for him once he was released. I was surprised at how small the wound was. Where he had hit his head on the pavement looked much worse. With all the tubes and monitors, I was almost afraid to touch him, my own husband! I would hold his hand, stroke his cheek when he became restless, tried to reassure him that he wasn't alone. I was so scared. I wished that there was someone I could hand this over to--to make the decisions, to consult with the doctors, to update the family and friends that called every day, and even what to tell the press who wanted a follow-up on their story. Jimmy would have done that but our roles were reversed. It was up to me.
As I sat by his side or lay on the cot that they had set up for me, I had plenty of time to think. Did he know I was here? Would he want me here? How had we come to this? Did we even know each other--I mean really know each other, or had our entire married life been lived on the surface? When had our conversations dwindled down to 'how are you?' or 'what's for dinner?' or, and more frequently, 'I'm going to be late, so don't wait up'?
We argued more than we talked, mostly over trivial matters. We just could not seem to stop taking jabs at each other. When I would ask him how his day had been, he would say fine, end of story, and I would get angry. Why? Because he wouldn't even share office gossip with me? Because most evenings were spent going over case files at his desk--that is, if he was even home. Because when he wanted to go out, he would expect me to just drop everything even if it was at the last minute? When was the last time he told me that he loved me? If there's no love, no trust, no communication, how can there be a relationship much less a marriage? How can you love someone and hate them at the same time?
All marriages have their ups and downs and I told myself that we had just hit a bump in the road. We just needed the time--just the two of us--to reconnect. I couldn't blame Jimmy for all of our problems. I often had long hours at the office and with fashion shows and shoots, parties and the occasional business trip, I could be late getting home--if I got home at all. How do some women manage? My sister seems able to juggle a husband and children and still have a career and a home that looks like it stepped out of Architectural Digest. Modern women are supposed to be able to have it all! Are we really that busy? Too busy that we can't find the time to put the same effort and commitment into our marriage as we do our jobs? Or am I rationalizing and trying to find any excuse rather than face the fact that we are drifting apart?
It seems that before I realized--no, before I was willing to admit that we had a serious problem, I learned about HER! I felt betrayed. I felt humilated. I even felt dirty. I wasn't interested in how or when or how often. My first reaction was to pack a bag and leave. If our marriage--if I-- wasn't important to him, why stay? His actions had spoken louder than any words. But, I didn't walk out that door. I didn't even pack a bag. Why? Because I had never failed at anything in my life and I wasn't about to admit to a failed marriage? Because I wasn't going to leave the field open for HER? Love? I love him but I hate him but I love him and I couldn't just walk away.
I thought that if I could just understand what had gone wrong, I could fix it but I didn't even know where to begin. I didn't know what he was thinking or feeling. I was frustrated and resentful, emotionally bruised by his rejection. If we weren't arguing, our time was spent in an icy silence. If we had to go to some function as a couple, he was charming and attentive but then we went home to our respective sides of the bed. It was like we were doing this elaborate dance around each other--don't ask questions, don't dare volunteer information, don't presume you understand, don't assume anything. To me, marriage means sharing the good and the bad, its about give and take and having a willingness to compromise. Its about loving someone more than yourself. But where is the marriage if only one shares, if only one gives, when there is no compromising, only giving in? How had we become just two people who happen to share the same apartment and little else?
Wedding vows are a promise two people make to each other but, unfortunately, like all promises, they are easily broken. When I was a little girl, promises were forever and there were consquences if they were ever broken. Jimmy made the same promise I had--to love, honor and cherish. Am I so naive that I still want to believe in promises made and kept? Promises where you cross your heart and hope to...
die
He nearly did die.
For Jimmy, surviving the shooting but being left blind, was almost worse than dying. On the day that he regained consciousness, he turned towards me and asked me why it was so dark. I was so surprised that I even glanced up at the lights to be sure that they were on. His eyes--those brilliant blue eyes that had laughed and teased and flirted with me but which had been so cold and indifferent--were soft and unfocused. He needed me, probably for the first time in his life. Did all my resentment and anger towards him suddenly disappear? Hardly. I didn't forget or forgive what he had done but I had to set those feelings aside. I'm not saying that those emotions didn't surface from time to time. I'm no saint. On the bad days, it was too easy to remember and I would feel the resentment and the frustration simmering. And lately these feelings are becoming harder to control and sometimes they boil over, like yesterday.
Hank isn't my dog. He isn't even our dog, He is strictly Jimmy's dog. I was prepared to be supportive. I was even prepared to be ignored. While I was concerned about Hank, I was more worried about what Jim would do if worse came to worse. I was hardly prepared for him to suggest that we see a therapist. If I had brought it up, I know he would have felt cornered. There would have been excuses and forgotten appointments and that damnable stone wall. Once he had finished rehab and had gotten Hank, Jimmy's sole focus was on getting reinstated to the force. I had hoped that once he was back at work and felt more comfortable with his condition, that we could try to get back to some sort of a normal life. See some friends, maybe go out on occasion, nothing major. I thought accepting Clay's invitation was a good opportunity--a few friends, a casual dinner. It was a fiasco. I was embarrassed and angry but it was Jimmy who lashed out once we were home, accusing me of thinking of having an affair with Clay. Now, I can see that it was his insecurity and his own guilt that made him say it but when he threw it in my face, I was shocked and hurt--shocked that he would even think such a thing and hurt that he didn't trust me. That time I did pack a bag. I could not, I would not, go through that again--the animosity, the accusations, the silences, the distance. But I came back. Why? Pity? Some sense of obligation? Love?
A few weeks later, Jimmy asked me for a mulligan--a 'do-over'--of the last year. It was the evening that he brought me the lovely flowers that I accused him of regifting. Have I become so suspicious of his motives that I automatically assume the worse? Why couldn't I have just been thrilled that he actually thought of doing something just for me? He tells me that he's changed, that he's not the same man he was a year ago. Is he? That Jimmy Dunbar would never have suggested a therapist. He promised me that he will never do that again. I knew he was refering to the affair, to HER. That is one issue we have managed to sidestep. I know and he knows that I know. The fact of the affair isn't nearly as important to me as the WHY of the affair. Am I the same person I was a year ago? I'm still carrying around that emotional baggage, so yes, I am. Can we salvage our marriage,more than salvage it, rebuild it?
A sharp clap of thunder rattles the windows and I am jerked back to the present. I look up and am surprised to see the rain coming down in sheets. I set the mug on the coffee table and fold the pashmina and lay it on the back of the couch. Propping my feet on the coffee table, I lift my hair in both hands and lean back, letting it fan out. Turning my head, I see, in the dim light, the scuff marks on the wall where Jimmy practices what he calls his "ear-hand coordination" with the ball. Once I obsessed that the paint was chipping and flaking but now I choose to see that wall as a small triumph. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, telling myself it will only be for a few minutes...
An ear-shattering crash seems to explode right over my head. I sit bolt upright, wincing at a blinding flash of lightning. Another crash ,as loud as the first ,follows immediently. Hearing a muffled cry from the bedroom, I jump off the couch and stumble against the end table, grabbing at the tottering lamp. As I rush through the doorway, I find Jimmy fighting with the covers. It hadn't been storming when he went to bed. He had woke up confused and disoriented by the crashing thunder and pounding rain. Hank was by the bed, pushing at him with his nose. I brush him aside.
"Jimmy, Jimmy--its alright! I'm here, I'm here!" I say as I pull at the bulky comforter, throwing it aside.
He stops thrashing and lays back, covering his face with both hands. I perch on the side of the bed and lay my hand on his chest, feeling his heart race. I glance at Hank and lay my hand on his head to reassure him that Jimmy was really okay. After taking a few deep breaths, Jim pushes himself into a sitting position then reaches out cautiously and takes me in his arms, burying his face in my neck. Another sharp clap of thunder makes him flinch and I tighten my arms around him, kissing his shoulder. He inhales deeply, his nose pressing against my neck. It tickles but I don't move. I savor the closeness. He slowly begins to relax. Several minutes pass in silence and I begin to think that he is embarrassed by his show of weakness. I go to get up but his arms tighten and I settle back.
"Thank you" he whispers.
"For what?"
"For being here. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. I'm sorry--for everything. I promise to try and be better..."
I lean back to lay one finger against his lips. Promises. Promises to keep? Promises kept? That's for tomorrow. I have to let tomorrow take care of itself. I run my finger along his stubbled jaw. A most opportune flash of lightning gives me a brief glimpse of his hooded eyes, his spikey, sleep-rumpled hair. He slowly leans forward, coming closer until his cheek touches mine. His nose slowly traces its curve as his fingers thread their way into my hair.
"You're worth it." I whisper. I had told him that once before. I meant it then and I mean it now. I can't help smiling and I feel him smile against my cheek in response. His lips seek mine and I turn to meet him. We have found each other, there in the dark, and, for now, it has to be enough.