Reconciliation

By Quinn Kelly

Ironically, the smoke hurts my eyes. That’s why I smoke alone and always outside. Most smokers are inconsiderate by nature and just don’t have the sensitive eyes I do. I blow my smoke into the outdoor ceiling fan.

I scan our backyard and chuckle at how pathetic it looks without landscaping. It’s basically a mud hole from the late summer rains and I know our dumbshit dog is going to be tracking it in the house for months. The clouds spilling over the mountains tell me we won’t see the end of it anytime soon. Arizona weather is moody – a thought I contemplate often. I’m stalling the trip back into the house. Cigarette breaks might be the only thing keeping me sane. Somehow I know I'm being asked to do more than I'm capable of. The challenge exhilarates me for a moment, so I take a deep drag, flick the butt into the mud, curse under my breath and walk into the house.

My parents were furious when I eloped with a 35 year old with two kids. This situation only validates their materialistic views. We had no money then and we still don’t. I was only a boy then and I still am. At 23, I was only a decade older than her teenage girl. It was an impossible situation and I knew I would get no respect. I couldn’t possibly be a dad to these kids; hell, I was practically her third kid. So I fought. I fought for my marriage and I fought for my kids’ respect. I have spent the last two years protecting our kids, seeing them through high school, keeping them away from drugs – seemingly impossible tasks but we did it.

When we found out her daughter was killed in a car accident, I had no idea what would be asked of me. I’m not sure what’s worse: avoiding conflict or fighting through it just to see what I built crumble with one accident.

Since the accident I creep silently around the house- careful not to stir her. The stillness in the house is oppressive today. My wife hasn’t left her bed for weeks. A child without a parent is called an orphan. But there isn’t a word to describe a mother who loses her child because the thought is too fucked up to think about.

At the bottom of the stairs I stop to think about how I am going to do this. How the hell I am going to ask a broken woman to be strong for a night? Ask her to hold it together and interact with people? I had no choice but to arrange a potluck service tonight for our daughter at our house because we just don’t have the money for anything else. I walk softly into the room and discover the outline of my wife in the bed. I lay down cautiously next to her. The grief is palpable and I realize how painfully underequipped I am to comfort her. I place my hand on her back.

She starts to sob uncontrollably. I am reminded that my cross to bear is nothing next to hers. I can do nothing right now but simply be present. Words are worthless in moments like this.

I hold her for hours. “It’s time,” I whisper. She says nothing and walks into the bathroom, softly closing the door behind her. I sit on the edge of the bed and wrestle with my inadequacy. Did I say enough? Hold her for long enough? Should I cancel this fucking thing and let my wife heal? I pick up an old t-shirt off the ground and pull it over myself. I feel cloaked in failure and guilt. My friends are out riding dirt bikes and getting laid. I’m here in the thick of grief and pain, taking care of a broken woman.

Our friends start to pour in and help out: bustling about and dishing out food. I see my parents walk in and sense they immediately feel out of place in this low-income situation. They sit uncomfortably on our hand-me-down couch. I see my dad silently judging my friends that are smoking outside next to the mud pit. It’s fitting, really, but they would slit my father’s throat if I asked them to. My folks can’t hide their disappointment. In some way, this situation only adds to their resentment. If I had married who they wanted, they wouldn’t have to feign grief right now.

No one in my family has the guts to say it to me, but I know they think the accident was my wife’s fault. Bad parenting, getting knocked up by a dead beat – no one dies like this in wealthy suburbia. Only the poor bury their children. Deep down I know the pity my mother exudes only masks her jealousy. She wishes her husband would defend her the way I defend my wifethough at this point she wouldn’t trade her Benz for it. My wife comes down the stairs like a ghost. Her face is emotionless. My folks get up to approach her. I get up and circle them like a shark. The look on my face communicates to everyone in the room they better tread carefully around her. The rest of the night I stand behind her like a bodyguard. I repeatedly whisper how

proud I am of her in her cold ear.

The struggle and conflict seem to never end. We couldn’t afford a proper funeral. We will barely be able to pay our mortgage next month. I’m sure I will have to spend the next few months trying to drag my wife out of bed. I might have to get two jobs. I will have to carry a load few 27 year olds ever have to. She will be cold to me and reject me in a way I will have to endure for a time. I hope that if I ever hit rock bottom that she would do the same for me. Maybe she won’t. My parents are confused why I would choose a life that is so turbulent. The ups and downs of our relationship have become part of our history now. We forgive, we reconcile. Then hurt each other again. We forgive, we reconcile...

I walk our last friends out and thank them. My wife lies still, a corpse on the couch. I dim the light and sit on the edge of the couch next to her. I push the strands of hair behind her ear. She smiles with her eyes closed. I keep pushing the hair behind her ears until there is no hair left to corral and tears are streaming down my face. Her cold hand holds my face. She says nothing but the touch comforts me in a way I desperately needed. I scoop her up and carry her up the stairs. She feels lifeless and depleted in my arms. I tuck her in and she is asleep before I can kiss her forehead.

On the patio I light my last cigarette of the day. Even the dog needs a fucking vacation. This shit is hard – relationships, life. So I fight. Honestly, I don’t have much else to offer. Her and I, we only have grief and each other. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.