Festering

Standing in the kitchen of the home I owned and shared with my husband and partner of fifteen years, I found myself vaguely thinking of the way the glass in my childhood bedroom had looked as the contents inside festered over the course of days, and then weeks. There had been a ring, about half way down, rust in color, and a mossy cloud of mold forming on one side. Below that, rested a thin film, tangible but transparent. And below that, there appeared to be perfectly drinkable juice, the color of sunshine. “Are you listening? Why aren’t you saying anything?” I heard him say, tentatively, the way someone does when they believe someone familiar is inside the dimly lit home they’ve just entered. It was a tone that suggested trust but was also muddled with fear.  The tone you use when you are vulnerable. And the truth was, I had been listening. What prompted these questions was the sentence “my therapist gave me homework, and I’d like to tell you now that I find your quirkiness adorable and charming” followed by a proud and definitive “there my homework is complete.” It was a declaration, the way you might say “I’ve bought a new dishwasher” or “these socks really did keep my feet dry as advertised!” I registered that an appropriate response would be to be relieved, or even elated, that my husband had finally had the wherewithal to actively acknowledge the ways in which I had value. I had after all, begged for it. “Thank you for telling me. That is so nice.” I noticed myself responding. The words felt hollow coming out of my mouth and I was certain, the smile did not reach my eyes. My bad acting illuminated the fear in his voice as all the lights inside the home flipped on to reveal a stranger. “I thought this was what you wanted. You need me to be more open. More appreciative. I did exactly that.” I knew then that the box had been checked for him; he was a meticulous box checker. He was the type of person who liked to see affection filed alphabetically, in neat piles, that could be banked. I pictured him pouring over a spreadsheet dating back to the early 2000s. It would reveal that there had been affection stored in the past, there it was right there. “I can point to it, and I’ve added this one token, what is the problem?” he would ask.  What I did not know was how to tell someone who is trying that their effort is not enough? How could I suddenly scream so loud that my voice cracks and blood seeps down the back of my throat, that one lousy sentence, prompted by another person, does not undo years of loneliness? And how could I then, in the very same breath, ask for more? More, more, more. So much more that what began as a drop of water on cracked lips, turns into a stream pouring from the garden hose, that fills the pool and keeps filling until the whole yard is flooded and you think you might drown, because it is now over your head, but there is no need to worry because you’ve always been a strong swimmer. That that was how much I needed in that stupid bank, and one measly drop was so little, I’d rather die than have any at all. I couldn’t. So instead, I again found myself thinking of that glass. I pictured myself dipping a spoon into the cup, and carefully plucking out the mold, so I could then begin peeling the film off, and would finally be left with something the color of sunshine, albeit sort of old. Of course, I also knew no one in their right mind would do such a thing and for that reason I simply said “Don’t worry so much, what you said was nice. Help me get rid of these dishes, I don’t want them to fester.”