I love you too much not to

I step outside, quietly closing the front door, and take a deep breath. A fine mist hangs in the air, stagnant, drops suspended in time, just waiting. For what, I do not know. Maybe they are as confused and uncertain as I am. The gentle movement of the porch swing beckons me to sit. I cross the wooden boards, desperate for the soothing comfort of the swing’s back-and-forth rhythm and a few minutes of comfort. 

I lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees, and glance toward the porch boards, only then realizing my bare feet. In my haste to leave the suffocating air of the house, I forgot to put on my shoes. 

My pocket vibrates and struggle to release the phone from the grip of my jeans before it goes to voicemail. I peer at the screen and see it’s Mark. The ache for familiarity pushes me to answer.

“Hello,” I say, keeping my voice light.

“Hey Dan,” Mark says, “What are you doing right now?” 

How do I answer that? I can't tell him the truth, can I?

“Not much,” I say, “how about you?”

“Want to go grab a beer? Nina is at book club tonight. What do you say?” 

The swing moves back and forth a couple of times while I consider the invitation. A few months ago, I wouldn’t hesitate, but today, I'm worried about Lydia and what could happen in the short time I am gone. How has my life come to this? 

“Dan? You still there?” Marks asks.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just trying to decide if I should leave Lydia tonight. She isn’t feeling well.” It’s sort of the truth, isn’t it? Not a complete lie.

“Oh, what’s wrong? Everything ok with the baby?” Mark asks concerned.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s just feeling a little off today. She’s sleeping right now. I can meet you for one beer, but I shouldn’t stay out very long, just in case she needs me.” 

“Ok, Mickey’s tavern in 15?” 

“Sure” I say and hang up. 

For a Thursday night, the parking lot is unusually full. A row of bikes lines the front of the building, like dominoes. One push and the entire line would topple over. I pull my motorcycle to the end of the line and park. 

Loud music affronts me before I even make it to the door. I walk in and see Mark, sitting on a stool and talking with Mick, the owner, and nursing a beer. He’s oblivious to the two women leaning over the bar trying to get his attention. I smile and head his direction.

“Hey”

Mark looks up, smiles and stands to give me a half hug, half hand shake, patting my back in the process. “There’s my long lost brother. I was beginning to think you disowned me. I haven’t seen you since you and Lydia announced you were pregnant.” Mark says, only half joking. They were close, and Dan’s absence has been noticed. 

“I’m sorry, things have been a little crazy.” 

Mark looks over and scrutinizes me. I glance away, but I can still feel his eyes analyzing me.

“Mick, can I get a beer. Whatever you have on draft, thanks.” 

“You look like crap.” Mark says concerned.

“Gee thanks.” 

“I’m serious. You haven’t shaved in days. You’re pale and you have big bags under your eyes.” Then he looks down at my rumpled clothes. "How many days have you been wearing that?"

“I’m just tired.” Trying to extinguish the beginning sparks of a topic I would rather avoid. 

“I’m not buying it. You're my little GQ brother that always looks like he stepped off a firefighter calendar shoot. What’s going on?” 

Mick places a beer in front of me. Streams of suds roll down the sides of the mug. I pick up a napkin to wipe the table, avoiding Mark’s gaze.

“Dan, talk to me. What’s going on? Everything ok with the pregnancy?” 

“Yeah, the baby is fine.” I take a long drink of beer, savoring the cold liquid, almost moaning in pleasure. The muscles in my shoulders relax.

Cheers rise up from the corner of the room. An older man stands next to the pool table holding out his hand, a gloating smile on his face. A younger guy, barely old enough to shave or drink in a bar, tosses money in the direction of the older man before stomping out. Yells of “have a good night”and laughter follow the young man through the exit door. 

I laugh and turn back to Mark. “Thanks for asking me to come out. I needed this.” More than I realized. The stress of the last couple of months has left me depleted. There is a comfortable silence between us as we stare straight ahead at the bottles lining the back of the bar. A country song fills the space where our words are supposed to be. 

“Talk to me,” Mark says, so quiet I barely hear him. 

My hands grip the cold mug as I consider what to say. Despite the stress, despite the fear, despite the embarrassment, Lydia is my wife whom I love to the ends of the earth, and I can’t betray her. But, I need advise, and my brother is the one person I trust to be honest and discreet. An angel sits on one shoulder and a devil on the other, debating the moral code of breaking a marital confidence. I wrestle for a few more minutes, going back and forth in my mind until finally, I sigh, defeated, unable to hold the weight of my burden any longer. 

“You can’t say anything to anyone, not even Nina.” 

“Okay,” he says, furrowing his brow. Mark sits straighter, angling himself toward me, his flannel shirt stretching across his bicep. I know that stance. My big brother instinctively readying himself to protect me, even though I'm taller by two inches and we are only two years apart.

We share a lifetime of secrets between us and I trust him to keep this quiet. I continue playing with my mug of beer, watching the condensation pool around the base of the glass. I run my finger along the circular path. Mark waits, knowing I need to organize my thoughts before speaking.

The noise of the music fades into the background. Mick slides us a bowl of peanuts before walking back to the other end of the bar, leaving us alone to talk.

“Lydia is bipolar.” Those three words. So simple, yet so complicated. 

I keep finger painting on the dark wood, avoiding Mark’s gaze. 

“I didn’t even know until after we were engaged. It’s never been an issue. In fact, I had forgotten about it. Meds have controlled it and it has never been a big deal.” I finish the glass of amber liquid courage sitting in front of me and hold up the empty glass for another. Mick nods. 

“When we found out she was pregnant, she decided to go off her meds. I thought nothing of it. I mean, like I said, there has never been an issue.” 

Mick sets a beer in front of me and picks up the empty glass. 

“Another?” He asks Mark.

Mark nods then turns back to me, prompting me to keep going. 

“Mark, it’s a nightmare.” I shake my head, trying to knock the images from the last several weeks out of my mind. 

 “One day she’s up, more energy than I have ever seen. She stayed up all night last week painting the babies room. She never went to bed! She ordered thousands of dollars worth of stuff for the baby. Celebrity babies don’t even have that much stuff. She ordered two cribs. One for our room and one for the babies room. Two cribs!” 

I take another long drink of beer. Guilt from telling Lydia’s secret to Mark forms in the pit of my stomach, yet I’m unable to stop now that I have started. 

“She gets angry at the littlest things. Last week she screamed at my for leaving a glass in the sink instead of putting it in the dishwasher. She went ballistic, throwing the glass against the wall, and shattering it. I tried to calm her down, hug her, hold her, apologize, but she just started hitting me. She ended up cutting her foot when cleaning up the glass. That was my fault too, apparently. She’s never acted like that before. We aren’t that couple. We don’t throw things and hit each other.” 

Mark kept his eyes trained on Dan, the strain on his brother's face evident as his jaw worked, attempting to disguise his emotion. 

“This week, she’s lived in bed. She has been crying for days, apologizing over and over again for spending so much money, for throwing the glass, for being a terrible wife. She keeps talking about how bad of a mom she’s going to be, and maybe it would be better if she just disappeared after the baby is born. It kills me to see her like this.” 

A sob forms in the back of my throat, and I stop talking, trying to swallow. Tears pool in my eyes. I grab a napkin and pretend to blow my nose, wiping away the evidence before Mark can see. 

“There are three Lydia’s living in our home right now. The Lydia I know and married. The manic Lydia, that is exhausting and frankly, very scary. And the depressed Lydia, unable to get out of bed to even take a shower.” 

Mick sets a beer in front of Mark, drops a couple more napkins and says, “You good?” 

“Yeah, thanks Mick,” Mark answers absently.

“What are you going to do?” The sound of Mark’s voice sounds foreign, speaking for the first time since I started vomited out my problems. 

“I don’t know. Her doctor has given Lydia medication options considered safe for pregnancy, but Lydia is refusing to take them. I’m going to call her doctor in the morning. I think…” I stop, unable to release the words locked in the back of my throat, refusing to come out. I clear my throat and try again. 

“I think I might need to check her into a mental health facility.” Choking out those words feels like admitting failure, and my heart breaks. How can a loving husband lock away his pregnant wife? Bile rises in my throat and I take a sip of my beer to wash away the acidic taste. 

“I don’t know if she will ever be able to forgive me.” I whisper. 

“You have to do it, because you love her and you love your baby.” 

That’s all Mark says. I’ve been rambling on for almost an hour and he summarizes my feelings into one sentence. I have to do it because I love her and my baby. And I realize it’s true. My feelings of inadequacy have to take a back seat to Lydia’s health and wellbeing. 

The next morning I wake up Lydia with breakfast in bed, with the hope she will eat something, and selfishly, soften the blow of what I need to tell her. A stale smell and unwashed oily brown hair are the first things I notice when I walk in the room and it’s confirmation I am making the right decision.

She picks at her toast, crumbs littering the sheets and the front of her nightshirt, left without concern, evidence of her mental state. The mattress sags when I sit, and she looks at me with eyes so vacant, I wonder if she even knows I am there. I grab her hand, and caress it, aching to glimpse a sliver of the woman I know inside this shell. I stroke her fingers, committing to memory the feel of her soft skin, to get me through the next several months. 

“Lydia, I need to talk to you about something.” I move the breakfast tray to the nightstand and scoot closer, resting my hands on either side of her, wishing for the intimacy we once shared. 

“I’m worried about you. I called Dr. Bestos and together, we agree it would be in your best interest for us to check you into the hospital and get you some help for your bipolar.”

A single tear escapes Lydia’s deep blue eyes and streams down her cheek, the only evidence she heard me or understood what I was saying. A tital wave of love and heartbreak overwhelm me, and I reach over to caresses her stomach, the life we made together. My lips find the tear on her cheek and kiss it away.  

“Lydia, I have to do this. I love you and the baby too much not to.”