A SORT OF RESOLUTION

A SORT OF RESOLUTION

HAPPY NEW YEAR!  he shouted, a glass of scotch clinking with ice in his large hand, this man whom I had lived with for over 30 years, bore a son and daughter with, curled under a large comforter, turned an angry back to when he would come home, intoxicated, belligerent, or just dopey, stumbling up the stairs, relinquishing his body to the alcohol that had claimed it. 

He placed a slobbery kiss on my lips that tightened when the taste of alcohol was on his. His pale blue eyes darkened, glared at me; anger had overtaken the playfulness drink had coerced him into. He shoved me, spilling the liquid and struggled his way upstairs, falling onto the bed.  I stood downstairs, feeling the flip flopping in my chest, fear out winning the rage. I wanted to smack him, leave a throbbing red mark on the face I had fallen in love with when young, thinking physical passion was everything. For an insecure 17 year old, wanting to run from the home where she had been abused by a cold, irate father, an hysterical, sickly mother, dropping out of school due to phobias and anxiety, he seemed like a Prince Charming right out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.

I was working in a publishing company in the city when a co-worker convinced me to go on a blind date, with one of her friend’s buddies. It was then that I met him, dazzled by his slim body in a navy blue suit, blonde hair swept to the side and those soulful blue eyes. We danced all night, me in heels that were killing my feet, but I bore the pain for the feeling I had when his body was pressed against mine. I never noticed how many drinks he had consumed, I, who had never had more than a half a glass of Manischevitz wine at Passover Seders. I consumed 2 gin and tonics and became loopy for hours, wondering afterwards what he thought.

After that first date, I waited anxiously for him to call, knowing I would have to hide the relationship from my parents who forbade me to date non-Jews. His mother, who was raised by nuns, frowned, well more than frowned, on my unwelcome presence but since she was widowed and he was part of the family support she greeted me, but not without obvious disdain.

And so began the almost 3 year turbulent romance that eventually got me pregnant and married at nineteen, when I became the mother of a son and 8 years later, a daughter.

The years were filled with fights, anger, drinking bouts that rocked whatever stability we called home. I was plagued with IBS, anxiety attacks, phobias and was in and out of therapy most of the marriage.

Why couldn’t I leave, even after the kids were grown, I’d ask myself, over and over. The answer would do a juggling act in my mind: I loved him, no, maybe it wasn’t love—and so what if it was? I only had a part-time job, no real skills…I could never support myself. I was afraid to be alone. I had nowhere to go. He paid the mortgage. Sometimes he even showed a tender moment or two. I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for myself. I felt sorry for the kids. I felt sorry for the dog. Sorry, Sorry, Sorry!

I went to Vibes—the abused women’s services, Alanon meetings, AA meetings, trying to understand the dynamics of what they labeled a ‘disease’.  A lawyer informed me if I filed for divorce I would have to live in the house until it was finalized and he would as well. I wondered how we would live together after I had served him with papers. I really believed I would not have long on this earth.

Some ten or so years later he finally stopped drinking, due to a doctor’s reference to ‘saving his liver’. And my great hope was that now we would somehow have a normal life. He would become that kind and loving husband I had hungered for all those years.

I would love him without reservation, not have to wait for him to show up for dinners, got out publicly without embarrassing scenes. Since he had never, as they say in AA, ‘worked the program’, things never really changed much. The anger he had inherited couldn’t be diminished and my hopes were squashed.

After years of sobriety, that New Year’s Eve he came home intoxicated, that night he wished me a Happy New Year and tried to put his mouth on mine, I looked at him, a long hard look. His face was red in the dim light, his shirt hanging out of his pants, his eyes almost unable to focus. He had broken his sobriety. My eyes blurred with tears as I watched him stumble up to the bedroom. I stayed downstairs, almost unable to move before I went to a drawer and took out the legal envelope with the papers the lawyer had drawn up. I stared at it a long time, turning it over and over in my hand before I went upstairs to put as many things in a suitcase I could fit. I stared at him on the bed, helpless, unable to exorcise the demon that had possessed him all his life then placed the envelope next to him where he would see it when he finally awoke. I cried silently, muffled so he wouldn’t hear. I dragged the suitcase down the steps and went outside and to the car. I had no idea where I was going.  It had begun to snow so I ran back in to get an ice brush. I can’t deny my heart was pounding so hard it made me almost weak.

There was a picture on the wall at the top of the stairs, a family portrait—one of the four of us, all smiles for the camera. His arms were around me and my daughter; my son was almost as tall as his father. Before I could think anymore, I went into the room, picked up the envelope, grabbed a scissor on the desk and cut it quickly into shreds before tossing it into a wastebasket. In my mind I was still asking that perplexing question: Why?  Why?

It was 12:00. Outside there was the blowing of horns, some firecrackers and shouts of HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR!