22

claire

Last February, when Chris had been out of work for ten months, my worry turned to fear. I lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose, and I slept horribly. Chris seemed to never eat or sleep at all. His clothes hung on him and the circles under his eyes turned a frightening shade of purple. Over the course of one week he spoke exactly eleven words to me; I counted. The effort required to shield the kids from the situation emotionally exhausted me, and I ran interference constantly because Chris simply didn’t have the mental bandwidth necessary to deal with them.

One evening, after being holed up in the office all day, he finally walked into the kitchen when I was cleaning up after dinner. Against my better judgment, I tried to talk to him. I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so worried about you, Chris.”

He recoiled from my touch and lashed out at me like a caged animal backed into a corner. “Really, Claire?” he yelled, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Because I’m worried about a lot of things.” He started ticking them off on his fingers. “Let’s see. I can’t find a job, we’re going to run out of money, and eventually we’ll lose our health benefits. Should I continue? I’m sure I can find some other shit to add to the list.”

“You’re scaring me. You’re scaring the kids.”

I saw a flicker of guilt in his expression when I mentioned the kids.

“I have a family to support and no means by which to accomplish it,” he said, clenching his jaw so hard he could barely speak.

“We’re better off than most. People have lost their homes. Some households don’t have health insurance at all.”

“Well, that might be us soon. When our benefits run out, we’ll be lucky if we can afford some crap policy. And if we can’t, we’ll be at the mercy of the state of Kansas. I don’t know that you’ll be able to keep your pump. What if you have to go back to syringes, Claire? Would you be able to handle that? Injecting yourself twice a day, every day?”

“If I have to, yes.” But he had me over a barrel and he knew it. When I switched to the insulin pump I was so happy. I felt truly blessed by the freedom it provided and my quality of life improved dramatically. Chris knew I loved my pump; I’d once told him I couldn’t fathom going back to needles.

“I’m worried about us,” I said. “You and me.” If someone had told me a year ago that my marriage could disintegrate so rapidly, it’s doubtful that I would have believed them. Yet there we were.

He threw his hands in the air, as if our marriage was the last thing he was worried about. “There is nothing wrong with us that a job won’t fix!” He swept his hand along the counter for emphasis, knocking a pile of the kids’ artwork, yesterday’s newspaper, and a stack of library books to the floor. The crash that accompanied it sounded like glass breaking and when I looked down I spotted the sculpture of a puppy that Jordan had made in art class, the one she cherished but had given to me two days earlier. “You look sad, Mommy,” she said. “I want you to have my puppy so you’ll smile.” The sight of it, on the floor in pieces, enraged me.

I whirled around and faced Chris. “What is the worst thing that could happen?” I yelled. “We have to sell this house? One of the cars? Both of them? So what? We have each other. We have the kids. We have our health. Even me. If I have to inject again, I’ll inject. I don’t care what happens as long as we’re still a family.” I dropped to the floor and started picking up the pieces of Jordan’s sculpture. “You are not the only person in this household. You can’t shut me out when it hurts. You can’t stomp around here while I walk on eggshells. I need you to talk to me!” Frustrated, stressed out, and emotionally fragile, I felt my tears fall fast and furious.

“I don’t want to talk. I want a goddamned job!”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m done, Chris. If you won’t let me help you, then go see a doctor. Get some antidepressants, counseling, whatever. If you don’t, the kids and I are going to stay with my parents for a while.” Judging from his expression, I knew those words hurt my husband more than anything I could have said. I regretted having to utter them, but I didn’t know what else to do. We couldn’t continue like this. Chris needed help and resorting to drastic measures was the only way to ensure that he’d seek it out.

Josh came inside, followed by Jordan, the door slamming behind them. They stopped in their tracks when they saw me on my hands and knees, crying, and Chris, hands clenched and red-faced, gearing up to start shouting again. Chris spun on his heel and left the room, to escape to the sanctuary of his office.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” I tried to pull myself together and act as if everything was fine. By the worried looks on their faces, I knew I was failing miserably.

“What happened?” Josh asked.

Jordan spied the pieces of her sculpture on the floor. “Mommy! Is that my puppy?”

“I’m sorry, honey. I knocked it off the counter when I was cleaning.” I tried to put my arms around her but she pushed me away and ran toward her bedroom. I knew she was hurt and that she’d be more accepting of my apology if I gave her time to cool down.

Josh started walking toward me but I threw up my hand to stop him. “Don’t walk over here. I don’t want you to step on the pieces. They’re sharp.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched in silence as I cleaned up the mess. “Are you and Dad gonna get a divorce?”

I looked up at him, my heart breaking at the anxious expression on his face.

“No,” I said quickly. At least I hope not. I threw the broken sculpture into the trash and grabbed the broom and dustpan. After I swept up every last shard I hugged him and said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” He hugged me back and then I walked toward Jordan’s room and knocked softly, hoping to make amends. She was lying in bed on her side, and I sat down next to her. “I’m so sorry, Jordan. I know how hard you worked on that puppy. And I’m so happy you gave it to me, and so sad that it’s broken. It was my fault. Do you think you can forgive me?”

She rolled over to face me, her eyes swollen and red. “I forgive you, Mommy. I know it was an accident.” I hugged her tight and left the room, feeling as if I’d failed her somehow.

That night, shortly after 1:00 A.M. when neither of us was sleeping, Chris walked into the bedroom. I put down the book I was attempting to read. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said. “I’ll call the doctor tomorrow. Just please don’t leave. Please don’t take the kids away.”

I wanted to go to him. Put my arms around him and tell him the same thing I told Josh. That everything would be okay. But he looked like my touching him was the last thing he wanted, so I stayed put. “I won’t.”

He turned around and walked back out.

Two days later, Chris got in his car and left and when he came back he walked into the kitchen. He withdrew the half sheet of paper from his wallet and threw it on the island. “I don’t want to take pills,” he said.

“Did the doctor say anything about counseling, instead?”

“He wants me to do both.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to sit in some doctor’s office and talk about what’s wrong. I know what’s wrong.”

If he wasn’t willing to talk to someone, then the pills were his only option. I had expected him to be resistant to the idea and were it not for the kids, and the promise he made, I doubt he would have ever considered antidepressants.

“Just try them,” I said, the memory of our fight still too fresh to believe that there was any other way for him to dig his way out of the depression. “You said you would do whatever it took, Chris.”