The Great Debate

I used to stack the papers and leave them for the assistant teacher to grade because I considered teaching to be my only responsibility at work. When my assistant turned in her two week’s notice and the stack turned into a pile, then into a mountain, I decided I would have to shoulder the burden of grading instead. So I sat in the study for hours. At first, the light streaming in through the windows was enough for me to see which key I clicked and which pen I held, what answer I circled and whose name I read. Eventually, though, as the sun dipped below the rolling hills and night walked in, unexpected, my only source of light came from my faintly humming computer. I checked the wall, where I was sure I hung a clock just last week. It was black. Everything around me was black. I picked up the computer drudgingly, unplugged it from the cord, and walked to the wall, using it as my flashlight.

7:36

Now, there was no way for me to be certain whether or not this was 7:36 in the morning or at night since I had been engrossed in my work for seemingly endless hours. I hoped, then decided, it was night because I couldn’t fathom going to work again so soon after that long day. I plugged the computer back in and turned it off.

Then it was dark.

My limbs were getting heavier. I shuffled around until I felt the doorway, then the hall, then the bedroom door. I heard the gentle breathing beneath the covers and I knew he was still awake.

As my eyelids grew droopy and my mind drifted in and out of sleep, I found myself plunged under the sheets and tucked, shoulder high, in the cheap cotton duvet. He rolled around and faced me, his hot breath in the crook of my neck, and I hated him even more.

I shut my eyes and rolled away. And I flipped back. And forth. I couldn't sleep.

"August," I whispered. A pause.

"Go to sleep," he breathed. I felt him fixing his position, turning onto his back to stare listlessly at the ceiling fan.

"I can't."

He rolled towards me, propping himself up on one elbow. "Why not?" he asked, an ugly smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

"I love her."

Quiet. I felt the dented mattress bounce as he flipped to the other side angrily; then, debating his next move, he flipped back to me, placing a strong hand on my shoulder. I winced beneath his iron grip and shoved his hand away in vain.

"She's got to go," he whispered, reaching to hold my hands, now clasped around my swelling belly beneath the sheets. I felt a hot tear sliding down my cheek.

"She's yours, too. Why don't you love her?"

"I'm not ready."

"We’ve been married eight years,” I spat. “When will you be ready?"

I had adjusted to the dark, and I could see his gray, sunken eyes staring into mine, searching for some compromise, some forfeit.

But I was also searching his, searching for sympathy, for the love he once promised he'd give. But there was none. His eyes were as dead as his soul.

"So you're gonna kill your daughter?" I cried, biting down on my knuckles to stop me from screaming.

"She's not even alive yet--"

"She's the size of a peach."

"I said I'm not ready."

I lunged, looming over him, holding him by the collar. I held his neck so he had no choice but to look me in the eye.

"Look at me -- Look at me! You're almost 40 years old, August. You’re a grown man. How much longer will I have to wait until you’re ready? One year? Five, ten? For eight years now I’ve been waiting for you to be ready. You will never be. There won’t be a compromise this time. I've killed my baby for you once, but I don’t care this time. I will have my daughter whether you want her or not. She's gonna live a long, happy life. This is my baby, this is my daughter, and she's yours too. I'm ready. I’ve been ready. Man up and finally act like a husband. Finally act like a father. Whether you like it or not, that’s what you are -- a father. You're ready, August, you're ready, and I'm ready, and our daughter is ready. What's holding you back now, huh? What's holding you back now?”

I sank into him, tears flowing from my eyes like a water spout. He didn't hold me, or hug me, or comfort me. He didn't apologize, or whisper in my ear, or tell me he loved me. He didn't. And I was used to it now, like how I was used to the darkness around us. I could see through the black as clear as day.

Finally, he put a hesitant hand on my back and tapped me.

"The appointment's already set."

And I sobbed louder and harder until his shirt became drenched in my tears, waiting for some pity, some sympathy, some condolence, some proof that he cares, something, anything.

He pushed me away, scratching his neck, and said, "I already told you, I don't want her." He ripped off his wet shirt and put another one on, hopping back beside me.

We sat in angry silence, each facing the opposite direction; one weeping quietly and one huffing breathlessly; both longing for freedom from the other. Then we fell into fitful sleep. The next morning, I opened my eyes, crusted over by the night's tears. I wiped away the bleariness and found him gone. All he left was the wrinkled sheets and deflated portion of the mattress beside me. I went straight to the study, packed my bag with the computer and the graded papers.

7:36

AM now, I was sure, because the sun beamed through the blinds. I am ready for a new day.