Tuesday Night

He was drunk when he came home. I could smell it on him as soon as the door opened. It wasn’t just on his breath; it hung around him like a cloud, like those cartoons with stink lines coming up from someone to indicate they smell bad. The image was that obvious. It almost made his half-hearted attempt to mask it with mouthwash comical. He kept mouthwash in the center console of his truck. He kept a bottle of whiskey under the driver’s seat. Discovery of the latter was accidental. Once, when I hopped in to drive his truck and had to adjust the seat forward, my fingertips felt the cold glass. Pulling it out to inspect, I saw that only about an inch of the golden-brown liquid remained in the bottle. My heart sank at that moment, as it had in so many. But that day, holding the near-empty bottle in my hand, it was hard to defend, hard to make excuses for him, hard to pretend things were not as bad as they really were. I was holding the evidence in my hand.

Him trying to mask the scent of liquor on his breath with mouthwash is almost like how Sawyer plays hide and seek; his head behind the shower curtain or a pillow on the bed while the rest of his body remains in plain sight. My son is two and thinks if he can’t see me, it stands to reason I cannot see him. I can hear his excited giggles as I pretend to look for him during those games.

Thinking of his laughter, innocent and joyful, brings a smile to my lips even in this moment as I am poised for conflict. I am preparing for an entirely different game right now. If this person in the doorway mistakes that smile as one of excitement because of his arrival, he’d be wrong. But I won’t correct him. I stand and walk towards him. It feels like walking into battle.

The last time I had talked with him today had been a few texts exchanged around lunch time. He had said he'd be home right after work. It was now after 11 pm. He’d been off work since 4:30. I’m used to it. Empty promises. Empty words. It hurts me. Pains me to live like this. But I know I need to keep myself and my young son safe. Given his current (and regular) condition, I understand the need to be careful. Deliberate with both my words and actions. It is all a delicate balance. I tread so lightly on the eggshells beneath my feet. I feel like my entire existence is on these damn eggshells. He is home now. Looking at me now. Expecting me to play the part. So, the dance begins.

I made and ate dinner hours ago. Lasagna. As I layered the cheese and the meat and the noodles, I knew in the back of my mind Sawyer and I would eat alone. I bathed Sawyer, read to and put him to bed hours ago. I waited. I anxiously checked my phone for a text. Nothing. I paced the living room. I snuck countless glances out the front window at the empty driveway. I can’t remember a time I ever felt excitement at his homecoming. Though, I am sure I had to have once. I’m sure there were days in the beginning, before I knew who he really was, that I felt happy when he was coming home. Now, when I see his headlights come down the driveway, it’s ominous. It’s foreboding and causes a heavy pit to form in my stomach. I used to send him a text if he was late. A “can’t wait to see you” or a “dinner’s ready”. Sometimes I’d call, but all I’d hear on the other end, if he even picked up the phone, were angry words and bar noise. “I’ll be home when I want to come home!” or “I don’t need you to check up on me!” He’d bark. And so, I stopped texting and calling when he didn’t come home.

I think Sawyer’s bedtime is when I feel the saddest about his absence. Not because I miss him, I distinctly don’t. It’s because he is continually choosing to miss out on little moments with his son. He’s missing Sawyer splash in the bath, covered in bubbles and playing with his dinosaurs. He’s missing Sawyer snuggled up in bed listening intently to Berenstain Bears or Pete the Cat, his little finger pointing out the mouse on every page of Goodnight Moon. I think about Sawyer’s perspective about his dad’s regular absence. He doesn’t know it any other way. He doesn’t know it is supposed to be different. Supposed to be better. And it rips me apart.

It happens often, his not coming home. His absence. My fear. The absence itself isn’t unpleasant. My son and I enjoy a brief sense of peace. I can laugh freely. I can let my guard down a little. But the dread of knowing what it will be like when he finally gets home is brutal. And the longer he’s out, the drunker he gets. The drunker he gets, the more unpredictable he will be. The less predictable he is, the more challenging it is for me to keep the semblance of peace. It is a complicated formula in my head and one miscalculation results in dire consequences. Experience is a callous teacher.

Tonight, he'd opened the front door far more forcefully than was necessary. It slammed against the wall behind it. The sound reverberated in the tense air that hung between us. I tried to hide my flinch. His eyes hold a coldness I’d come to expect. It’s like looking at someone else entirely. It’s him, of course. But it also isn’t. The distinction between the two is always in his eyes. There’s him and then there’s him. I hate these nights. The ones when he comes home a stranger, hardly even resembling the man I thought I once knew. From his left hand dangled a 6-pack of Bud Light. Only three cans remained in the plastic webbing. He nonchalantly swung them back and forth, eyes hardened, still aimed at me. No, not nonchalantly, that’s too casual of a term. Tauntingly is more accurate. He was staring at me, almost smirking, swinging the beers closer and closer. It was only yesterday that I’d mustered up the courage to ask him—no, beg him—to stop drinking and driving. I had been scared to ask that of him. Just as I’m afraid to ask anything of him.

“You are so fucking stupid, Courtney,” he’d said as a response to my teary-eyed pleading. “You can’t get drunk off a couple beers. I’m fine.”

And now here we are eye-to-eye in the entryway of our home. House. I silently correct myself. This is no home. A home is where all its inhabitants feel safe and cared for. A home is filled with love and laughter. I dream of one day living in a home, but I exist in a house; a house with so many secrets, so many patched holes in walls.

Say something, the three remaining cans seem to say each time they swing closer to me. Say something. Say something.

I steadied my breath. “Hi,” I managed weakly. He laughed, but it was the mirthless kind. The laugh he does just before he says something cruel or condescending. And here it comes.

“What? No warm welcome from my dear wife?” He threw the beers down onto the table near the door as he said the word wife. I tried to calculate my response carefully. What could I say to appease him and not cause him to get even more angry?

“Don’t act like you're all high and fucking mighty,” he spat, before I had a chance to respond. I lowered down on the bottom step of the staircase desperate to become as small and invisible as possible, knees up to my chest. I felt beaten down already and the only word I had uttered was “hi.” This was going to be a long night.

“Yeah, so what if I had a few beers, ok? Don’t fucking look at me like that.” He shook out of his jacket, letting it fall to the ground. He picked up his beers and walked into the kitchen, his boots loud and echoing on the hardwood floor. Even his footsteps sounded angry, I mused. Menacing. I heard the refrigerator door open. I heard the tab of another beer pop and I immediately had to fight off the panic and bile rising into my throat. That sound. I’ve grown to fear it. There is no other sound that instantly puts my entire body on high alert, that sets me into a spiral. First the pop of the tab, then the words, and then the yelling, and then the violence. I’ll be getting no sleep tonight. I know all too well how this is going to go.

He slammed the refrigerator door shut so forcefully that a water bottle fell from the top and skittered loudly across the tile floor. I glanced up the stairs to the closed door of my son’s room hoping the noise hadn’t woken him. So many nights I have that same fear. One loud crash, or yell, or punch through the wall, or thrown bottle, or tipped table would awaken Sawyer. What would he perceive when he opened that door and saw whatever had caused him to wake? What would his reaction be to see his dad in a rage? I plead to that closed door most nights. Please, please sleep soundly. Don’t hear this. Don’t see this. Please don’t be like this when you’re grown.

“Fuck!” I jumped, his voice startling me out of my mental reverie. I see the water bottle go flying across the floor as he angrily kicks it. I feel dizzy as I walk over to it and gently place the water bottle on the counter. Taking a long swig of his beer, he peers over the top of it and asks pointedly, “What are you still doing up anyways,” crushing the now-empty can in his hand and throwing it into the garbage can, awaiting my reply.

“I was just waiting for you to get home. I couldn’t sleep, but I'll try to now. I am tired. I love you.” God, my voice sounded so meek, so small. I said it all without breathing, said it all too fast. I get so mad at myself for how scared I get and how scared I sound. He capitalizes on my fear if he can sense it. And he always does.

I turn to walk back towards the stairs. “Wait,” he demanded, reaching out and forcefully grabbing my arm to show he was stronger. He was in charge. His hand gripped tightly around my forearm, painfully contorting my arm. I turned to face him, immediately alleviating the tension from his grip.

“You're not even going to give me a kiss?” His voice dripped with contempt. Before I can reply, his mouth is on mine. Not in a sweet or romantic way, but hot and forceful and laden with alcohol. I have to kiss him back. If I don’t, if I pull away, it will only infuriate him and I’ve already made it this far. Fighting back revulsion, I part my lips ever so slightly and allow the kiss to happen. It fills my mouth with the sickly-sweet taste of entirely too much alcohol.

I quietly go up the stairs, my eyes drawn to his fingerprints indented in my forearm. I don’t want to celebrate just yet, but I seemingly have succeeded. I’m on my way up to bed and there are no new holes in the wall, no broken glass anywhere for me to frantically clean up, I haven’t had to load Sawyer into his car seat and drive around all night. Still, I won’t sleep tonight. The fear is coursing through me, feeling like my skin itself is vibrating. But all I have left to do tonight now is wait him out. Eventually, he’ll pass out either on the couch downstairs or in his office chair and then I can slowly exhale. And do it all again tomorrow.

An Old Kind of Mad

Hair Regime