21. Ben
TWENTY-ONE
Ben
M y muscles tense as I hear her car in the driveway. Seconds afterward, Jonny is running into our living room and into my arms, giving me a big hug. "Hi Dad!"
I lift him up and squeeze tightly."How’re you doing, kid?"
As I set him down, he shrugs, "Okay, I guess.” He adds quietly, “Mom is in a mood."
Unfortunately Shelby walked in and heard. “What makes you think I'm in a mood?”
Jonny runs into his room.
What makes you think I’m in a mood? I’ve learned from reading up on it, what gaslighting is. Needed to. Didn’t know how insidious it is, because he and I were both in it for so long. Gaslighting puts the problem back on you. What makes you think I’m in a mood. Fucking tricky. Messes with your perception and makes you doubt your own instincts. You begin to think, Am I wrong? Is it me? That’s just an example of the game. I fell for it for years, because I didn’t know what it was. Now that I know, I can identify it. Not fall for it.
I don’t even know if she knows she’s doing it. But would it matter? Yeah, I guess so. It would make the gaslighting, the twisting of mine and Jonny’s perception, intentional, calculated and malicious.
Either way, it sucks.
I’m not interested in the game.
“Shelby, why don't you just accept that you were in enough of a mood to make him notice? Why can't you just let him have his fucking feelings?"
"Because he said I am something I’m not!”
"I'm looking at you and I can tell you're pissed off."
“You’re seeing things. Look, I’m smiling. We had a nice drive. I slept well. It’s you who makes me tense.” Gaslighting. She points to the painted wood lying on our coffee table atop a spread out newspaper. "What's this?"
“ I said, let our son have his feelings.”
“Who said I wasn’t?”
“By your denying them, you said it!”
“He can have his feelings all he wants as long as they’re accurate.”
“Feelings don’t work like that. And I’m saying they were accurate!”
“What is this painting you’re making? I’ve never seen one of these before.”
“Not your business. ”
With disdain, she stares, reading the two words over and over, now that it's complete. "Does this have something to do with me?"
Nothing I do has anything to do with you anymore, I want to say, but instead I grunt, "No." She keeps staring at it, which makes me angry. I’m proud of that painting, and it’ll mean something to the person it’s intended for. I’m irritated Shelby won’t take her eyes off of it, so I grumble, “Not everything has something to do with you."
She moves curls out of her eye to glare at me from half-profile. “Have any coffee?”
I walk to the kitchen, pour her a cup from the pot I just made for my second wind. “Take it with you when you go — now.”
“I was talking about it with my mother. I’ve decided I want the house."
I growl, “Not gonna happen."
“It’s important for Jonny to stay in the house he grew up in.”
“And he will when he stays with me half the time.”
“I’m getting custody.”
“No, you will not!”
She turns around to leave, "We'll see about that,” curls bouncing in a way that lets me know they're newly washed. Weird that I can dislike someone so much yet know them so well. I don’t want to know she showered. I don’t want to see her face anymore. Divorce is a terrible thing, but being married to someone who makes you this angry, who used up so many years with a whole lot of nothing , is worse.
I used to love those curls.
I used to love her.
I fell for her bullshit.
Lost my family.
And worse, lost myself.
Who knows how this all will affect our son in the long run. Not just the divorce but the years he spent with a mother who manipulated everything to get her own way. My innate family loyalty was twisted to serve her. How it did that and cut out the rest of my family is something I will regret for the rest of my life.
Grabbing the counter I squeeze until my knuckles go white. As soon as she's gone I call to my son. Our son. The person who, regardless of anything I may want, or not want from her, will connect us for our entire lives.
He pokes his head out of his room downstairs, looks around. “Is she gone?"
"Yes."
Dragging his hand through sandy brown hair, Jonny frowns his way into the room, green eyes disturbed. "Who is the woman with the long black hair, Dad?"
Shocked I ask, “The woman with the long black hair?”
"Mom kept talking to Grandma about the woman with the long black hair being her new friend. But that she didn't like her. I thought it was weird. "
I head to the kitchen, fatherhood driving me forward. “You eat lunch?"
“Just breakfast.”
"I'll make us turkey and cheddar sandwiches with some sautéed veggies.”
He takes a seat at one of the barstools of our kitchen island while I julienne broccoli, carrots, and brussel sprouts, considering what to say to him about this all the way until I add into the pan sun-dried tomatoes. Do you think it's nice for someone to call somebody else a friend and then say they don't like them?"
"No, that's why it was confusing." Jonny tilts his head, green eyes narrowed in perfect skin. "Sometimes girls are confusing." He reaches over and picks up a hot carrot sliver, eats it and winces at the burn. "At school they talk about each other even though I see the same ones hanging out together later. I don't like it.”
“Gossip is a dangerous thing. If someone is a gossip then just know you’re not immune.”
“Immune?”
“If they’re talking dirt about someone else on a regular basis, that’s showing who they are, not who they’re talking about. It means you could be the next person they gossip about. Be careful. Don’t get too close and never share your secrets with them.”
“Who is the lady with the black hair? Have I ever met her? Why doesn’t Mom like her?”
How do I explain that the reason Shelby doesn't like her is because she's beautiful? And that maybe the natural threat hit her lizard brain, that primal part in all of us that instinctively tells us when danger is near. And how do I tell my son that I'm interested in somebody other than his mother?
We eat our lunch at the kitchen island like a couple of bachelors ignoring the fact that we have a dining table. Why get it dirty when you're just gonna have to clean it? While we eat, I ask him about how his time was, and he tells me of the TV shows he watched.
“Did you do anything other than watch TV?”
“We went to the store to get groceries.”
I exhale, changing the subject, “Wanna help me do some work on the farm?"
Jonny nods. "What's a narcissist?"
Frozen, I try to think of how to answer that question. I don’t want to badmouth his mother to him, but he’s gotta know the truth, too. I want him to make his own decisions about her as he grows up. His experience with Shelby will be very different from mine. Still, should I arm him with knowledge? How do I do that, delicately? All of this is spinning through my head until I settle on the truth: “I’m just learning that myself."
With the tentativeness of someone who knows they overheard a conversation they weren't meant to, Jonny confesses, “You called Mom a narcissist when you were arguing."
That was a couple of weeks ago and he's held onto it for this long. After a few moments, I explain, "A narcissist is someone who has an unhealthy viewpoint of their importance in the world."
"Isn't everyone important?"
The innocence of the question, the kindness of it, hits me. One thing our son always is, is kind. He was born that way. He's so conscientious of living things he even take spiders outside rather than killing them. No matter how dangerous they may look, he always calls them Little Buddy and transports them by way of his hands or something safer, like Tupperware, depending on the arachnid. I don't want him to ever lose that innocence, so I affirm, “Everybody is important. Very important. That’s the problem. A narcissist tends to think they are the most important, even at the detriment of the needs of others."
Jonny thinks about it. "Is Mom a narcissist?"
"I can't diagnose her."
"Diagnose?"
"It can be considered a mental illness. Personally, I believe it's a learned habit. But I’m not a doctor. When you live without considering the needs of others for long enough, you harden. You don’t think about other people anymore. It’s all about you. But Jonny, the more energy you put into something, the more it grows. Even the bad stuff. Even selfishness."
"Do you think Mom is selfish?"
I think she is the most selfish person I have ever met in my entire life. "I think she could do more for others. "
With a kid’s distracted stare he nods. "Like waking up to take me to school?"
"That really bother you?”
He shrugs. "A little."
Relieved he's talking to me about this and not holding it inside, I ask, “What is it about it that bothers you? You want to spend more time with her?"
"It feels like she doesn't care." He meets my eyes.
I don't know if she does, but I tell him for his own self-confidence, “She does care about you.”
“It doesn't feel like she does, Dad. I looked up narcissist and it seems like Mom might be one. And I don't know what to do about that. I want to help her."
I have been holding my fork like in a vice, I realize now, as I set it down. "How would you feel about talking to somebody who knows about these things?"
"A therapist?"
"Yeah. I was thinking maybe…well…how would you feel about that?"
"What are we gonna do on the farm today?"
My jaw clenches, mind racing to figure out a way to keep this conversation open. Having no tools I come right out with it. "I was thinking about making you an appointment. I would go with you, but I wouldn't go in the room.”
“Why don’t you want to go in?”
“I’d want you to have a safe place to talk about anything you want to.”
“I wouldn’t be talking about you, Dad.”
Walking around the island, I pull him into my arms, and kiss his head. He hugs me as I say, “I love you, Jonny. I wish this was easier on you. I wish I knew how to make it easier.”
“Do you want me to go?”
Pulling away, I tenderly take hold of his shoulders. “I want you to give it a try. We’ll find someone you like and when we do, I want you to try it for seven times.”
"Seven?!"
I let him go and straighten up. “That's enough time to make the right decision about wanting to continue. It’s rough to do something new, for anyone. If you just go for only a few times, you don’t know if it could’ve been a really good thing if you’d stuck it out. Does that sound fair?"
Resistance shrugs his shoulders. “Okay.”
"Help me wash these dishes."
I rinse and he puts ‘em in the dishwasher, like we normally do. My parents taught me to always have children help with chores as soon as they are able. They’re more a part of the household, and trained for having their own when they’re adults. Maybe it’s because of this that Jonny isn't like his mother — he likes to work. He's like me in that way.
Out there on the farm, just like me, he gets a thrill when new growth appears. From seed to fruition, and doing all that’s necessary in between to ensure healthy produce, makes him happy because he can see the results of his efforts.
Our efforts.
My son’s and mine. Damn if I’m going to let her get full custody so he can sit around and watch TV every day of his fucking life. I will beat her at this. I have to.
“Let’s get some work done and then head over to Sunflower. I have plans this afternoon to guide the guests in…” My phone rings an interruption, and I relax at the sight of Dad’s photo lighting up the screen, him smiling on their porch with a cup of coffee. Answering the call, and feeling good about Jonny agreeing to try therapy, I say a relaxed, “Hey Dad."
“Ben. No horseback riding today. Too hung over. They just told me."
A reminder of their dance party would normally make me smile, but my disappointment at not having an excuse to see Willow, wins the day. “Okay.”
“Hey Grandpa!” Jonny yells.
“Put my grandson on the line.”
I hand over the phone, walk outside and close the door, letting them have their conversation. In the late afternoon sunlight, I lean on a post and stare in the direction of Sunflower, thinking to myself, How am I going to do this? How am I going to see Willow again?