Waiting

It was with an empty hope that she waited, perched behind her desk with her heart thrumming quickly in her chest. Concentrating on that sensation alone she believed she felt her heart beat rattling her ribs. The sensation of nervousness radiated out farther than her chest, tingling danced down her arms and pooled in her palms with the slick sweat that it met there. Alone in anticipation, she felt anxiously restless, her leg bouncing as the balls of her feet pressed repeatedly against the carpeted floor. The day was only just getting started, the gentle light peaking in through her almost closed curtains, cast a subtle shadow of her frame against the wall adjacent to her, the wall of shelves that held her life’s collection of novels. Each and every one having shaped her in one way or another. All of which gave her an escape from reality, the stories that allowed her to transcend her own life and imagine the alternative. Her eyes swept across the collection now, hovering over a collection that was kept slightly apart from the rest. This collection was the collection of her childhood. It was during her childhood that she needed and craved the escape most of all. Sitting in her bedroom with a book open in front of her, headphones in place introducing soft melodies that blocked out the noise of the next room. She routinely found herself in that position, isolating herself and engaging her mind in one form of alternate reality at a time. Her love of fiction chased her into adulthood and would never fail to captivate her attention. While she didn’t need the escape lately, she knew that that comfort would always be available to her, that knowledge alone often saw her through the difficult days. Or the more challenging of days. Her husband did not understand her willingness to wait for a person, to have waited as long as she had to feel important is a feeling she would not wish on her worst enemy or even the evillest of characters. She could not reconcile her feelings with herself let alone begin to attempt giving an explanation to her husband. Even so she knew that he was there and would always be there. She could hear him now, talking to their daughter showing an interest in whatever unbelievable story she was spilling now. I wondered if she were telling him about a dream she had had, or perhaps a nightmare. The only way she could see herself pressuring her daughter was in the aspect of reading, she so hoped that her daughter would become an avid reader, she debated with herself about how much to push the issue, she knew that if she were to push it relentlessly that her daughter would eventually do the opposite out of spite. That would be devastating and so she reconciled with herself, allowing herself to read to her daughter and to provide her daughter with her very own collection of books; beyond that her daughter would hear or feel no coaxing but would rather witness the joy of reading presented to her through her mother. Giggling broke her out of her revere, she became caught up in spirals of thought often, not understanding the repetitive catching of some thoughts in her mind she just allowed them to circulate until they faded out. Like now, the giggling of her young daughter allowed her mind to jolt out of its incessant repetition of reliving an event or a moment over and over. She listened to the sound of blissfully innocent laughter, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. She rested her chin on her clasped hands and settled comfortably in the audio of her husband playing nicely and gently with their daughter. Her husband was the only man she completely trusted, she would never cease thanking God for blessing her with a man as gentle and kind as her husband. It never ceased to amaze her that he had never given up, had never considered her to be too damaged, too hurt and far too insecure. He found her enticing, wonderful and never tired of hearing her speak, he competed with his past self, always trying to outdo himself when it came to making her laugh. She was fascinated by her husband, would never tire of his antics and would always trust him with their daughter. She thought now that regardless of the outcome, her husband would always be here, she would talk to him about it and he would never judge her, but he would always protect her, even if she wanted to stumble naively toward danger he would intercept her. It was difficult having a child, thinking of all the ways she was hurt and trying to prevent unconsciously harming her daughter, always calling on patience even in frustration. Rationalising with herself and her husband she was forced to come to terms with the fact that there was no such thing as the perfect parent. It was an ideology that everyone always fell short of, it did not however, stop her striving toward it.  Even now, she hoped that she was making the best decision possible for her daughter. She was trying in vain to reconcile a relationship that perhaps needn’t be reconciled, in the hope that through it she could be a better parent for her daughter. Through this waiting and anticipation that is the concept that held strong, bettering herself for the sake of her daughter. Her husband of course would rather she hadn’t have opened up this line of communication, but it was a circumstance of if she didn’t do this, she would probably live in wonderment of how it could have gone. She waited, looking around the room, listening to her family in the other room, not blocking out the noise but relishing it; the quiet of peace and the lack of tension. Buzzing broke into her calm revere, she watched her phone for a second before lifting it up with a shaking hand and pressing the slim object against her ear. She would not speak first so she listened, it could not have been for more than ten seconds, but she felt herself enter into a haunting silence with a held breath she listened to the person on the other end of the line, he was breathing steadily, in and out, in and out. The sound was interrupted by a voice she hadn’t heard in ten years. 

“Bronnie?” He said, unsure but hopeful. 

She felt the overwhelming urge to cry, the lump building in the back of her throat and tingling in her nose but she fought the emotion. Rather she swallowed, took a deep breath and responded, “hi dad.”