Leave if you must, but let me keep my dignity.
My re-kindled self-worth and I are waiting for him to arrive.
It’s 11:58am. Leaning on the stool at the kitchen bench, I look over at the clock. Still 11:58am. Pushing the stool in, I adjust it to be exactly in line with the others before turning my attention to the dining chairs behind me. 11:59am. I run my hand along the bench to make sure there are no stray crumbs, and straighten up the bunch of flowers on the table. 12:00pm.
Will he just walk in? Will he knock? Where should I be waiting?
12:01pm.
Up the trio of stairs from the kitchen I am fluffing and puffing the ridiculous number of cushions on the lounge. 12:02pm. I sit down. At 12:03pm I am jolted off the cool leather by a light tap and a ‘hey’. He’s gone with option A: just walk in.
My cheeks rattle with the force of my breath. Phooomph. He is here.
He’s holding the letter, a letter that I have no intention of reading. This is on my terms today and I want to hear words from his mouth rather than read his deposition. Prior to G-day, I was willing to cast aside facts in order to retain status-quo, but they have come to matter a great deal to me now. Today I deserve the truth. The truth and I belong together like vanilla ice cream and milo.
I am not Antarctica as I have been led to believe and I am no longer terrified of a life without him. I see now that a great deal of my actions were born from the smoke and mirrors; cloaks and daggers; my increasingly hairless and hair-dyed husband.
It happened in slivers. A white lie here or there. No big deal. People keep little things like bank accounts and PO boxes from their partners all the time. To keep the peace and all that.
What I want to know is, what has happened to many of our men? Why is it that they fear retribution from their female counterparts, to the point where it is easier to lie than face the music? And how did women end up being the bringers of the music? When did we stop being cool? Are men conscious of not meeting our apparently high standards when they evade, or are they just looking for the angle that will get them what they want for the least amount of silent treatment? Or, giving them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps they choose to neither agree nor disagree because they don’t want to hurt us? Whatever the motivation, this Oedipus-like imbalance is insidious.
The gender stereotypes of pissed off, exhausted, controlling wife and skulking, trapped, martyred husband were alive and well during our 12 years.
For years I assumed that his lack of response to various decisions made was consent; an implicit yes in place of an explicit no. How wrong I was. Saying nothing was permission to wake up one day, look around and declare ‘This isn’t what I wanted.’
Take our trial separation agreement as an example. A 10 point plan of what we would and wouldn’t do. The battle lines were drawn to minimise bloodshed while I went to therapy to fix what was wrong with me and he twiddled his flawless thumbs waiting for me to say sorry for everything.
Point 1: We agree to a trial separation to be reviewed in December. Trial being the operative word. As with many other things, I’m not sure that he ever said yes to this. In any case, this point is redundant – I’ve got too many lady lumps. So why then did he ambiguously go along with something so ludicrous? The agreement seemed like a sensible option with the knowledge that I had, but in retrospect, it only made things worse for me by fanning the weak flames of hope. I would have preferred that he rip the band-aid off rather than tease it from my skin over weeks and months.
We are sitting on the stools, side by side, staring at the back wall of the kitchen. 12:12pm, 12:13pm, 12:14pm.
Just bloody say it! I urge to myself. Reaching my left hand out to hold his, I twist around to face him, and with a soft voice inquire, ‘Is there a chance that you might be gay?’
His head is bowed but he hasn’t let go of my hand. He lifts his eyes to mine. ‘Yes.’
Although this is something I all but knew for sure, the confirmation is a wrecking ball in my chest. I am stunned into silence.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out. Remember that night just before I moved out and you said to me ‘Are you gay or something?’ I wanted to scream ‘YES! I am!’
‘Well why didn’t you? Why did you let me believe that it was all my fault?’ My voice quivers as I fight to keep blame at bay. This isn’t about point scoring, this conversation is about fairness. It’s time to let myself off the hook and time for him to take some ownership. Although, I need to choose my words carefully. I can’t afford to alienate him because I rely on him for too many things: money, childcare, his opinion of me. My skin tingles with adrenaline.
‘I stand by all that stuff I said about you. And anyway, how do you tell your wife that you think you could be gay? How should I have done it?’
There are no winners in this game, that’s for sure.
‘Anything would have been better than saying nothing at all!’ I cannot believe that he is holding firm on his position of blame, even as I push him from the closet. It feels disrespectful and cruel. I begin to shake.
‘Brooke, I don’t want to be this.’ Disgusted, he goes on, ‘I wanted my family. My life. But I couldn’t do it anymore. All those months laying on the lounge while I was sick gave me plenty of time to think about things.’
‘Are you going to tell your parents? Your brothers? I can come with you if you want.’
‘Not right away, I need time to think this through. I never intended on coming out.’
His words galvanise. He would have left me holding the baby and the bathwater if Mike hadn’t encouraged me to see the light.
‘So what, it was easier for you to pin it all on me rather than tell the truth?’ I don’t wait for an answer. ‘Is there someone else?’
‘No. Of course not! I can’t believe you would think that.’ He’s offended. Lying is a more palatable sin than adultery.
I have a firm hold on the edge of the bench. Grimacing, I dare to ask, ‘Was there…ever anyone?’
This is the missing puzzle piece that I have been looking everywhere for.
