Little Mercies. Heather Gudenkauf
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while you were at work or, for me, when you leave your one-year-old to languish in an oven disguised as a minivan. Nine-year-old Destiny, painfully thin, averts her eyes, pulls away from her mother and busies herself with examining the fish tank in the corner of the room.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing and holding up my phone to let her know that I am not being rude, that I am not moving to avoid further conversation with her, but that I need to make a call. She nods and her attention returns to her four-year-old son, who is fighting back tears and pulling at his ear. She rubs his back in slow, gentle circles. A good mom with an evil boyfriend.
The phone in my hand pulses like a beating heart and I can’t bring myself to answer it just yet. The display reads Love of My Life just as when I call Adam the display pops up as Soul Mate. An inside joke. Early in our marriage, before we had children, we argued over something inconsequential, who forgot to buy the milk or who was supposed to write the check for the cable bill. We didn’t talk to each other for three long, excruciating days. I went about my business, stood a little taller, held my chin high and my back straight, as if this would strengthen my resolve in not being the first to speak. We had each tried to fill the silence of the house in our own way. Adam plugged earphones in and listened to music while I talked on the phone with my mother. I tried not to bring my mother into our arguments, but she was an excellent listener and would support me even if I was clearly in the wrong. Not making eye contact, Adam and I would pass each other in our tiny apartment, rap music leaking from his earphones intermingled with my mother’s sympathetic chastising of my husband’s insensitivity.
Adam broke first, he always did. It was the end of the third day and Adam was standing at the kitchen sink, eating a bowl of cereal. “You’re lucky you’re my soul mate,” he said through a mouthful of Wheat Chex.
“You’re lucky you’re the love of my life,” I countered. And it was over. Like the fight had never happened. From then on whenever we got angry or argued, those words would follow. You’re lucky you’re my soul mate. You’re lucky you’re the love of my life.
I lift the phone to my ear not to call my husband, not just yet. The phone rings and rings until it goes to voice mail. “Mom,” I say, finally surrendering to the tears that have been collecting behind my eyes. “Something happened to Avery.”
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