52stories

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Loud noises assaulted his senses. Bright flashing lights. His eyes weren’t even open, but he felt panic, terror. He struggled for recognition. Where was he? Concentrate. Think. Where was he?

Only a moment ago, he had been someplace he recognized. The living room? Yes, he had been watching TV. Okay, he must have fallen asleep. He was sitting down, his hands felt the velvety cloth beneath him. Was he in his recliner? If so, the remote would be close. He reached to the right, feeling for it, and found it right where he expected. Before opening his eyes, he turned off the source of the infernal noise.

He felt the blanket of darkness envelop and caress his senses. His eyes could have been open or closed now, the view would be the same. The silence was a welcome lover, enticing him back into the pleasures of sleep. He didn’t move, not yet. His nerves were still resting from the encounter with later night television.

No matter how many times he watched that cartoon with the kids, waking up to the sounds of a talking sponge in pants would drive anyone closer to insanity. It reminded him of a comedian he’d seen a few days ago. Talking about how lucky we were to have sponges in the ocean, absorbing so much sea water, or we might be flooded.

Dumb joke. Dumb show. But they both made him laugh, at times. Sometimes that was as good as it got. He nestled in the chair, resting as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The grandmother clock on the wall ticked quietly, hypnotically. He would fall back asleep if he took no initiative.

But she would want him in bed beside her. Even after they fought, she liked him in the room with her.

He hated fighting with her. They had only been married for two years, but it felt like much longer. An eternal type of bond. They had known each other for twenty years, but had lived separate lives for most of that time. But when the divorces were final, they found themselves together.

Tonight had been another night of their “fun and games”. Another discussion about the kids. Although they always agreed in principle, their upbringing had created two very different parents. And he, being the step-parent in this home, was slow in learning how to act.

But he was, slowly, painfully, learning. And the fights were getting better. They still happened too often, but were getting shorter, and tempers were starting to fall in line.

Tonight, she had fallen asleep, and he came down to stew in front of the television, letting his mind wander somewhere else for a while. Sleep came quickly.

Now it was time to return to bed. He’d sleep better there, and she would let him cuddle behind her. It was how they made up. Let the bad feelings out, let the good feelings in. They were very much in love, but hadn’t found the balance yet. Sleeping it off was often the only solution.

Her son had called from Paris tonight. He was visiting friends at the University, where she had lived when her children were younger. She missed it. She missed the people, and the happier memories of her children as babes. Homesickness was hard for her, and if she was tired as well, it made for a difficult night at home.

It was strange how their fights always started. They could have a great day together, but as night approached, and they both felt the strain of the day, their reserves exhausted, words came out in the wrong way. It was always the same. He often thought they’d be better off if they went to bed directly after dinner. But the kids wouldn’t approve. So as he got tired, he got frustrated. And as she got tired she got defensive.

Silly. No reason for these fights. What a waste of time. He had to learn to control his anger better, as he had been doing for many years. Their marriage seemed to have released some floodgates. His anger wanted out, and with all the other problems in their lives, he found himself acting like another person.

She had been repressing her emotions for many years, caught in a marriage that was good enough, but highly contentious. It was simpler to hold it in. When she fell in love with this new man, though, she lost the fragile control over a flood of emotions — fear, anger, frustration, worry.

They only had each other to blame. And only had each other to depend on. They knew they would make it, but with decades of past baggage dragged into the marriage, they had a lot of work to do. When they weren’t tired, they took very good care of each other. But when the defenses came down, or went up, things changed. Like Jekyll and Hyde, he thought.

Or maybe more like the Three Stooges, poking each other in the eyes, and clubbing their heads with whatever was at hand.

He was still very much in love with her. And he knew she felt the same. When they had weekends away together, things went well. Love and attention for each other. Kindness, and support. It was the real life that caused their problems. Problems that hit them faster than they had time to face together. They hadn’t even met the other team members before they had to play their first game.
He stood up and stumbled to the bathroom, needing some relief. As he finished, the coolness of the air and the feeling of release combined to make him shiver. The warm bed, beside his beautiful wife, would be a welcome.

He walked to the steps, tripping over something unexpected. He felt himself fall, slowly, realizing that it would hurt. He landed on his sore knee. The one he had damaged in high school, but had never taken care of. He landed hard, and then fell into a sitting position, holding his knee in pain, wondering who he could blame for his fall.

The throbbing eased, and he felt around for the intruder. It was a weekend bag, full, with a piece of paper on top. Against his desire for darkness, he stood gingerly and turned on the hallway lamp. It sat on the dresser near the front door, next to the little boot that held her favorite candle. She turned it on during the day, and the melting wax filled the entry way with tasty aromas of a fruit orchard or a flower garden, depending on her mood. It was always a pleasant smell, and he noticed that the little melting pot was still on. He reached down the cord, fumbled for the switch, and turned it off.

The bag was at the bottom of the stairs. The paper was a ticket. He picked it up and studied it in the semi-darkness, trying to get his eyes to focus on the small print. Paris. For the next day. She was going to Paris. The homesickness had won this battle. And, probably in her anger, she had decided not to tell him.

He rubbed his knee, still feeling the pain from the fall, and tried to maintain his composure. There would certainly be a valid reason for this trip. Maybe just a get-away. Or perhaps her son wanted someone to travel with. But why would it have to be a secret?

Of course, with the bag in full view in the hallway, it wasn’t really a secret.

The clock crept quietly into his consciousness, the gentle and constant tick helping him to relax, to focus. The knee was feeling better. Breath in the cool air, breath out the anger, the frustration. Get rid of the uncertainties.

He didn’t really mind if she needed a trip like this. He had even offered it several times, but never really expected her to take him up on it. He was actually more saddened that he hadn’t been invited. But maybe a few days apart would do them some good. He tried that on; it sucked, but he decided he could accept it.. No reason to be upset and make a big thing of it. He would watch the younger children, she would have a nice trip, and might even realize that the places she remembered weren’t quite the same any more.

He drew the bag closer, wanting to be check it for any missing items. She packed well, but always seemed to forget one thing. He looked through the bag gently, not wanting to disturb its organization. All her clothes were there, her toiletries, several shoes.

But underneath, in the very bottom of the bag, were some of his things as well. She probably forgot to take them out before she packed, he thought. Probably in a hurry.

He left everything in place, and stood to ascend the steps to their bedroom. But as he went to turn off the light, something under the dresser caught his eye. He reached to pick it up.

It looked like another ticket. Maybe it had fallen when he fell over the bag. He squinted again, trying hard to read the tiny print without looking for his glasses. Another ticket to Paris. This one etched with his name.

He put the ticket on the bag with the first, turned off the light, walked up the stairs. Climbed into bed. And, tears in his eyes, as well as in his heart, slept close to his wonderful wife for the rest of the night.