In the Stillness

CHAPTER 7



I managed to get to the boys’ school five minutes before pick up, so I had time to practice slow breathing and get the splotchiness out of my face before walking into the building. Eric has texted me about ten times, going on about how sorry he is at how he treated Danielle, mixed with his anger at my lack of respect for him in front of a student.

That girl wasn’t just a student. Dammit. Thinking about her causes me to wipe my eyes again while the boys chase each other at the playground. The pride she had when telling me her boyfriend is a Marine, steeped in her conspicuous fear, was heartbreaking. I know exactly how she’s feeling right this very second and there’s absolutely nothing I—or anyone else—can do for her.

Stop thinking about this, Nat . . .

Eric’s texts finally stop around dinner. I haven’t responded to a single one, and keep myself busy making forts and laughing with my boys. After dinner and bath, it’s time for bed. Max, named after Eric’s grandfather, picks out a Batman book.

Oliver, named after—you guessed it—my grandfather, joins in, “Mommy, when I get bigger I can be a superhero.”

“Absolutely,” I say, closing the book. “You can be a police officer, or a firefighter—”

“Or an Army guy!” Max cheers.

“Yeah, an Army guy!” Ollie agrees with a yawn.

“Mhmm,” I divert the topic, “or a doctor, they’re superheroes too, you know.”

“I want to be an Army guy.” Max yawns. Ollie’s already asleep.

“They’re called soldiers. Night, Baby.” I tuck them in and kiss their cheeks.

“I love superheroes,” Max says as he drifts to sleep.

“Me, too,” I whisper, kissing his cheek once more.

I close their door tightly behind me and take a deep breath with my hand still on the handle, trying not to put too much weight into the words of carefree four-year-olds.

As soon as I walk into the kitchen, Eric comes through the door.

Can I catch a damn break today?

I only look at him from the corner of my eye before turning my back, reaching for one wine glass and pouring myself a slightly too-full glass.

“Please be quiet, they just fell asleep.”

“Natalie, I understand that you’re upset—”

“Clearly you don’t, or you’d leave me the hell alone.” I gulp the wine three times, causing my eyes to water. “You were an absolute prick to that poor girl today, Eric, and it was totally uncalled for.” I toss the wineglass into the sink. It shatters, and I don’t care as I turn for the hallway.

“Hey!” He lunges for me and grabs my arm, spinning me around. “You disrespected me in my office in front of one of my students, and you’re mad at me?” When he’s mad, really mad, a vein pulses down the center of his forehead.

“The girl was a mess and you were a total pompous ass.”

“Students come to us all the time with stuff, Natalie. Only so many grandparents and aunts can die before you become a cynic.”

I try to tug my arm away, but he grips harder. “Did you not see the horror on her face? What the hell is wrong with you? She was as scared as she’s ever been in her whole life, and you didn’t even look at her; you couldn’t be bothered to address her.” As the tears fall, it hits him.

“She’s not you, Nat.” His tone is somewhere between condescending and remorseful.

“That’s what you don’t get. She is me—they’re all me—and to talk to her about her responsibilities—”

“Is this all because you went to that kid’s grave the other day? Is that why you’re being so sensitive?”

“F*ck you, Eric,” I growl.

“Well, that’s two “f*ck you’s” for me today, you got any more?” I jump when he shouts.

“Yeah, I do. F*ck you for forgetting that that kid has a name—it’s Lucas, Lucas Fisher. F*ck you for pretending I don’t know exactly how Danielle felt standing in your office. And . . . just . . . f*ck you.”

I turn again to leave and he tugs me back once more.

“Let go of me,” I let out in a low, calculating tone.

He shakes his head, hopeless panic in his eyes. “I’m not going to let you go. Not ever. We need to figure this out, Natalie. I know the past few years have been hard for you, Honey, I really do, but I’ll be done with my degree in just a few weeks. Then the boys will be in kindergarten in the fall and you can go back to school.”

“If they even accept me, Eric. I got my master’s, taught a few community college classes, and then had the boys. I’m not super employable either; I haven’t worked in so long. And, even if I did get in to the program again, we’d have to spend another two semesters in residence at the university. For research I’ll have to travel, study, and move. A lot. That’s what excited me about the program in the first place, moving all over the world in the name of research.” I tug my hand away. “No one cares about the anthropology of Amity Street. I’m taking a bath.”

“I’m sorry,” he says so quietly I can’t be sure if he’s talking to himself or me.

Yeah, me too.

* * *

“Jesus, Nat, you’re a mess. Come here.” Tosha led me to the bed when I got home from saying goodbye to Ryker.

“Oh my God, Tosh, it was awful, just . . .” I broke into heavy sobs and pressed my face into the pillow as she rubbed my back. “Little kids were saying goodbye to their dads, and moms, and a guy’s wife was pregnant.”

“Yep, it’s a bitch. Not all soldiers are unattached eighteen-year-olds,” she sighed as she played with my hair.

“I’ve gotta shower or something,” my voice stuttered uncontrollably against my tears. Screaming wouldn’t help, crying hadn’t helped, but something had to.

I ran to the bathroom and fell to my knees in front of the toilet. I painfully heaved my breakfast for several minutes before leaning back and thumping my head against the tiled wall. I slammed my fists behind me a little harder than planned. But, it felt good, somehow, to force the frustration, anger, and fear out of my body onto the cold tile. The pain it returned was a physical echo of my emotional hell. I punched it again. And again. And again.

Ryker’s gone.

My parents don’t care.

They think it’s great that this “distraction” is out of the picture for a while.



At some point I started yelling and screaming between my punches, causing Tosha to force her way into the bathroom.

“Natalie! Natalie, stop, you’re bleeding!” She grabbed my wrists.

Yep. I was bleeding. The skin on the outside of my hands cracked open against the ragged grout. I was breathless with adrenaline when I met Tosha’s eyes.

“Sorry,” I panted, standing to head to the sink.

“Feeeeeel better?” She stretched out with exaggerated question.

I gripped the sink and stared at my reflection as relief washed over me.

“Yeah, actually, I do.” My hands shook but I felt amazing. It felt like I was literally bleeding my anxiety away.

“Okay,” she spoke cautiously, “look, your mom called earlier. She said she called your cell phone a bunch of times . . .”

My mom and I had a huge argument the day before when I tried to get her off the phone to spend time with Ryker.

“Make sure you don’t lose your focus on school,” was her main concern.

My dad was more understanding; told me to tell Ryker he was proud of him. I’m sure he said that out of my mother’s earshot. She thought soldiers were all dumb or poor; it ruffled her cashmere f*cking feathers when I told her Ryker was a student at Amherst College.

I didn’t call my mom back. I took a shower instead, and washed all the blood and the pain from the morning down the drain. The pain felt strangely good. I controlled it. It felt like the only thing in my life I could control inside that moment.

* * *

Now I sit in the bathtub, feeling good again. Pulling the razor across my hip, slow like a bow on a cello, every skin cell bursts open along its path. Just one time will do. Just one. My hair stands on end; my body jumps into fight-or-flight mode as my heartbeat thuds through my chest. My body knows a normal person would run away from this pain, but my brain knows I’m not normal.

That poor f*cking girl.

Seconds after Danielle left I was reliving Ryker’s deployment, and I wanted to cut. The urge muscled its way to the front of my brain to focus on a pain I could control.

Inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I revel in those first few seconds when the pain goes away. It feels so good to have pain go away, just like that. Then I make another cut. Just one more, I promise this time.

As I drain the bathtub, I reach for the almost-empty bottle of peroxide splash it over the razor; wincing a little as it spills across my hip. I sit in the empty bathtub until I hear Eric get into bed.

I have to leave him.

We don’t love each other. I don’t love him, and there’s no way he can really love me after what I’ve put him through over the last four years. He’s not blameless in that regard; he had choices, too. We all have choices. It’s pointless to wonder what our relationship would be like if we hadn’t had the boys. I know what it would have been; we’d either be broken up or in some strange long-distance relationship. I was supposed to be traveling the world and studying cultures for my Ph.D. He would still be in that lab. It wouldn’t have worked.

But man, it would have been awesome.

I dread the thought of going to bed right now, to lie next to the man I once cautiously planned a future with in my head before one was planned for us. I suddenly remember I have fresh laundry folded on the living room couch. Grabbing my cell phone, I tiptoe over to my favorite dress. It’s just warm enough outside for the paisley boho dress that makes me feel ten years younger. I call Tosha.

“Nat?” She’s clearly in a bar.

“Where are you? I’m coming to meet you for a drink.”

“Woo! Praise the Lord, Natalie Collins is busting out! I’m at The Monkey Bar, you snit, get your ass over here.”

Thank God I can walk there, I’ve got some drinking to do.

Half a block and a world away, I find Tosha smoking outside. Ditching her conservative professional wardrobe, she’s wearing an almost too-short sleeveless black dress with ridiculously high red pumps. I love her.

“And just how often do you and your sexy-ass girlfriend come drinking a thousand feet from my apartment?” I hug Liz—Tosha’s girlfriend—first. She’s wearing red skinny jeans and a black tank. They match but I don’t mention it. They’d kill me.

“A few nights a week. You know that.” Tosha smacks my butt as we head inside to the glorious noise of anything but toddler screams and marriage cries.