The Good Bye

The Goodbye

“I suppose you’re leaving then.”

I considered the reclining figure of my husband, slouched in the corner of our black faux leather suite. His corner. You could tell it was his corner because it was bowed where he’d sat in it day in and day out, getting fatter and heavier. His T-shirt barely covered his belly now and his chin nestled among folds of fat. “Yes,” I said, quietly. “I take it the boy’s going with you?” He didn’t bother looking at me, just carried on watching whatever was on TV. I barely breathed. I knew it was over. Finally. But, I also knew that this was probably the lull before the storm. The heat of the summer’s day outside was nothing compared to the rising temperature of the tension inside me. I nodded and went upstairs to pack some clothes for me and my son. My heart thudded as I messaged my sister to come and get me. 

Back downstairs my husband hadn’t moved but sensed me hovering in the doorway. “Going to your sister’s?” I hardly had the energy to speak so I just ‘hmm’d’. “Well, you need to take the dogs with you.” My heart sank but I knew it would be futile to point out that my sister’s house was much smaller than ours. Or that she already had two dogs of her own. Or that she had three children as well. In my head I punched myself. For God’s sake! I’m finally leaving! Say no! But I just felt that one more drop of emotional turmoil would make the dam burst and I was scared of the unstoppable flood that would inevitably follow. I just wanted to get out of that house and never go back. I never wanted to see again the threadbare carpets that had been down for forty years, constant reminders of broken promises and shattered dreams or the rarely used boat sitting in the front garden that had eaten its way through my inheritance. I’m sorry son. I’m sorry I let you down. That money should have been yours. And I let him have it. I remember that day, standing in the front garden. The horses in the stables opposite our house were peering over the hedge and the sun was shining on the chrome handrails of the boat. He needed more equipment and tools for repairs but I’d said we couldn’t afford it. My resolve was already weakening when I saw the look in his eye, felt the anticipation of his ‘let’s sell the kids’ X-boxes and cancel their hobbies then’ routine. I knew I wouldn’t stand up to him then let alone when his sister arrived to support him. 

I stood on the back doorstep and squinting in the sunlight, looked out across the long garden to the yellow and green patchwork of fields stretching into the distance beyond. I should have felt sad to leave this little piece of heaven but I didn’t. It was a prison and I hated it. Our raspberry bushes waved in the warm breeze. Perhaps they were sending me on my way. It was because I was picking raspberries that today had turned out the way it had. I should have been indoors making tea and sandwiches for him and his brother. Like every day. When he found me in the garden, that final criticism, that last telling off had broken my back. My eyes rested on the vegetable patch and my muscles gave an involuntary twitch. How many times had I been out there, in pain, weeding and digging because it needed to be done and he was too ‘ill’ to do it himself? How many times had I convinced myself that if I could just push on and get the onions up then he would be happy and not spiteful to his kids or mine? Because that was my Achilles heel. The kids. And he knew it. While I stood there on the back step the sun’s glares bounced off the silver car in our long, thin driveway and I could make out the heat shimmers above the bonnet. I felt sick. I had needed to drive that car but he had taken my self confidence and stamped it into the ground. I had been isolated in the middle of nowhere while the kids had been at the mercy of his cruel games of pretending not to take them where they needed to be. When he lost his licence through drink-driving the car had just sat there, unused. I carried on taking the bus. I never thought I would ever be so weak. 

Right behind the car was the massive workshop that he had built. The furthest end of it he had given over to me which had been a lovely idea, at first. But over time my little space had become filled with all of my belongings - musical instruments, books, DVDs, desk. But eventually time spent there was on a clock. There seemed to be so much else to do that it became unenjoyable. The house, the garden, the kids, the dogs. I was always so tired. So, so tired. My eyes closed, reliving the pain of fighting fatigue. When I opened my eyes our dogs were trotting to the middle of the lawn to sprawl out on the grass, their pink and brown spotty bellies rapidly moving as they began panting in the heat. I smiled though my eyes filled with tears and suddenly all I could see was my husband marching up the garden loudly threatening to shoot the dogs for barking. My throat burned as the bile rose. 

My emotions and thoughts had become a swirling maelstrom of sadness, misery, self-hatred, submission and defeat. Yet, I knew that my face had remained blank, impassive. I was beyond showing any feelings now. A car horn jolted me out of my reverie. The dogs jumped up and began yapping at the gate while I fetched their leads from the cupboard under the stairs. As I turned back to the step my eye rested for a split second on the hole he’d made in the living room door. I had jumped out of my skin the night he punched that door. A frisson of heat wafted over my body as I remembered it. I passed the downstairs loo as I stepped out of the back door, my heart a weight of leaden embarrassment. Never again would I clean up someone’s drink-induced vomit or urine. Never. I clipped the dogs’ leads to their collars and with just three bags and the clothes on my back I led them up the driveway to my sister’s Renault. Once in the car, as I silently removed my wedding ring, in my mind saying goodbye to that house, that man, that existence. And hello to the rest of my life.

1152 words

JAM 03/06/2020