Foolish Thoughts

We made a life together.  It wasn’t perfect but it was ours.  We talked about life and money.  We talked about marriage and babies.  We talked about commitment and the years to come.  But that was the beginning and in the beginning we talked.

You were sweet and spontaneous, always doing little things.  In the mornings after your shower you would write me notes on the bathroom mirror, telling me to have a great day.   You would call me several times during the day, just to say hello.  You always rubbed my back before bed no matter how tired you were. Do you remember making love, then singing me to sleep?  You always knew how to walk me into a room, keeping one hand on the small of my back.  If we were separated at a party, you always found my eyes.  You always made me feel like I was the only woman in the room.  Do you remember the night at Claire’s, sneaking off to the upstairs bathroom, and when we came back down everyone was starring at us?  Apparently we were loud.   We went home and had sex.  The next day we sent Claire a card, apologizing for breaking the towel rack.  Do you remember our walks in the park and you holding my hand?  Do you remember all of the good we had?

Though, we had our problems. We fought about my frivolous spending and my bad habit of leaving clothes and wet towels on the floor.  You couldn’t understand why I needed so many books and journals, and why I left them strung all over the house.  You got tired of yelling, so you hired someone to come clean up after me every week. I hated the way you folded laundry and the fact that your mother called three times a day.  I hated sleeping alone when you were away. I remember fighting about the scratch on your car.  I lied, convincing you that I had no idea how it got there.  Then later, feeling guilty, I confessed and told you that I had accidentally bumped into it with a cart at the store.  You were mad for about an hour, but you caved when I sat in your lap and I apologized with kisses.  But eventually all this ended.

You became distant, started working late.  You always had some place to be.  Private phone calls and conversations pulled you away at dinner and then randomly throughout the day.  We stopped touching and started fighting.  You hated when I questioned where you’d been.  You reassured me that you loved me and that my assumptions were wrong, and I naively I believed you.  But then I saw you one evening.  You were with her.  And finally, everything made sense.  Late nights at the office, phone calls in the night, and many nights of not coming home.  You were with her.

I was hurt and I was angry, though not sure of what or how to feel.  I was shocked, but somewhere in my heart I knew.  I wanted to know why and every detail.  I wanted to know for how long.  I wanted to know if she was better.  I wanted to know if she knew I existed or if I was a joke the two of you shared.  I wanted to know if you whispered to her gently.  I wanted to know if you sang her to sleep.  I wanted to know if you held her after sex.  I wanted to know where and when and how many times.  I wanted to know when you kissed my lips, if you tasted her.  I wanted to know when you held my hand, if it was her that you felt.  I wanted to know when you looked in my eyes, was it her that you longed to see. I wanted to know everything.  But then I didn’t want to know anything.  I just wanted it all to go away.  I wanted you to come home and hold me.  I wanted to forgive you, but I couldn’t.

You told me that you were sorry, and that you never meant to hurt me.  You said it wasn’t something that you planned.  You said that you loved me, but that you loved her too.  I told you I didn’t want your apologies that you needed to pack your things.  I didn’t want to look at you; I didn’t want to see your face.  I told you if you loved her, then you should be with her.  Though, it was only because I didn’t know what else to say.  I cried until it hurt to breathe.  Then everything went numb.     

Tonight I want to be seven again, waiting by the phone for my daddy to call.  I want to tell him about my day and how much I miss him.  I want him to tell me he’s proud of me.  I want him to kiss me on the forehead and tell me good night.  However, his “good night” phone calls stopped coming a long time ago, but I need to hear his voice.

When my father was away during the week he would call every evening at or bedtime to tell us good night.  The evening’s events would lead up to his phone call; homework, dinner, bath, Fraggle Rock, Daddy, then bed.  My sister’s and I could tell it was him by the ring, it sounded different when he called.  The three of us would race to the phone, which was attached to the wall in the kitchen and included a cord that stretched all the way into the living room, it went on for miles. I would become fascinated by how many times I could wrap it around my body…I know, its mind blowing.  Our mother was usually the one to answer, with us screaming in the background, “Daddy, I love you.”  “No daddy, I love you.”  “I love you more.”  At this, my mother would give “The Mom look” and we knew to shut-up and let her talk.  I cannot recall specific conversations they shared, mainly because I was too concerned with what I was going to say to him.  I wanted to give him a complete account of my day, leaving no detail out.  I would include what I had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; also I would not forget to tell him what I had for a snack once I got home from school.  I would tell him about my day, always including art and gym…I rocked those.  (Not a year went by that I did not receive the Presidential Fitness Award, yeah, I was that cool.  There is even a plaque hanging in my elementary school with my name on it because I was such the Presidential Fitness Champ).  Then, when I would run out of things to tell him, I would begin to say anything and everything, stalling for time.  “Ummmm, there was something else I wanted to tell you.  Um, let me think……………Mommy, what was that thing I was going to tell Daddy?”  Now, being the Super Mom that she was, like always, my mother knew all my tricks, “Brooke Alexandra, please tell your daddy good night and you love him.  Give your sister’s a turn.”  “Daddy, Mommy says I have to go.”  “Well, we better listen to her.  We don’t want Mommy mad at us, do we?”  “No.”  “Ok, night Baby Doll.” “Night Daddy, love you.”  “Love you too.”