chapter eight. #2
Before I can answer, Mother says, “You know he’s the best doctor they got at that hospital. They headhunted my baby to work there when it first opened up. Head ER doctor. I’m so proud of the man I raised. So proud.”
“We raised him together, dear.”
“Yeah, well, it was my breasts that nursed him.”
Did she really…?
“Ma—”
“I wasn’t asking you anything, dear,” Dad says as calmly as he can. “I was asking Brix.”
“It’s okay, Dad. Mom’s right. Work is going well.”
Despite the posted speed limit of sixty-five, I do close to eighty so I can get out of this car and get some air.
I need to breathe. If this is any indication of how the next four days will go, I’m in trouble.
Between their arguments and my fake situation with Cyn, I’m going to need therapy after all of this is over.
We pull up. I get out quickly, and so does Dad. He opens the door for my mother while I get their suitcases out the back. Her suitcase feels like it weighs a ton. Women and their overpacking…
“Well, look who we have here, looking as pretty as a picture,” I hear my mother say.
I glance in the direction she’s looking and see Cyn standing there in a burnt orange sweater dress and brown boots, holding a bouquet of flowers.
The sight of her so elegant, her hair in curls, rocking a bright smile with blushed cheeks – she’s a dream.
And for all intents and purposes, she looks like she’s about to play her role well.
For that, I’m thankful, but I wish it weren’t all pretend.
I want us to be like we used to be – in love and happy with a world of possibilities open to us.
For the time being, I’ll take what I can get.
“It’s so good to see you, Faith,” she tells my mother after she wraps her arms around her. “These are for you.”
My mom is touched. I can tell. She’s usually never at a loss for words.
Never.
She smells the flowers and says, “These are quite lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Cyn responds, then says, “Hey, Pops,” and reaches to hug my father.
He embraces her warmly – the daughter he never had. “It’s so nice to see you, Cynnamon—looking beautiful as always.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Pops. Come on inside, family, and get comfortable.”
They follow her into the house while I roll the suitcases to the stairs, lift them up, and set them down on the porch.
I pause when I see the fall wreath Cyn hung on the front door.
It’s amazing how women think about little things like this.
It never occurred to me to hang a wreath, so changing one surely hadn’t crossed my mind.
I pull the bags inside, leaving them in the foyer for now because the smell in my home is warm, like freshly baked apple pie, mixed with a little love.
I see that Cyn has made more changes since I’ve been gone.
There’s a candle flickering on the mantle.
That’s where the apple-cinnamon scent is coming from.
When I round the corner, I see a lunch spread on the island.
There’s a fruit bowl, sandwiches, chips, cookies, pickles, and a pitcher of lemonade.
There’s another candle in the center of the island.
Cynnamon says, “I whipped up some lunch for y’all. I know travel can be very taxing.”
Dad chuckles. “I see what you did there, Cynnamon. Taxing–you know like the plane does when it lands.”
“That’s taxiing, Dad,” I clarify.
“That’s what I said. Cyn, ain’t that what I said?”
“It sure is,” she agrees, her cheeks reddening as she looks at me knowingly.
I walk over to Cyn and ask discreetly, “You did all of this?”
“All of what? It was nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. It’s nice. Thank you for putting this together.”
“You’re welcome, dear,” she tells me, then proceeds to take plates from the cupboard. She gets glasses, fills them with ice, and pours lemonade to the brim. Then she places them on the table, hands out plates, and says, “Dig in. I made ham and Swiss and turkey and cheese.”
“You ain’t got to tell me twice,” Dad says, snatching up two sandwiches.
I take a ham and Swiss along with some chips and a pickle. Funny how simple this meal is, yet it tastes exquisite because Cyn made it.
“Mmm, hmm,” my father says, singing her praises. “Now this right here is a good sandwich! Thank you for thinking about us, daughter-in-law.”
“Always. How can I not when you gave me this handsome husband of mine?”
Cyn brushes the back of her index finger across my cheek.
The feeling is so foreign, I almost pull back, but I quickly catch myself.
My parents need to think we’re still together.
Before this all popped off, I was thinking about how much pretending Cyn would have to do.
Turns out, I need to do just as much pretending.
The only difference between me and her is, I still love her.
“Aw…ain’t that sweet,” Mom says. “How many years y’all comin’ up on now? Five?”
“Almost,” Cyn says, smiling. “Four years and eleven months.”
“Nice. I bet you got something special planned for anniversary number five, huh, son?” Mom inquires, poking around into something I hadn’t come up with a story for.
Dad chimes in and says, “If I were you, I’d be on a plane somewhere.”
“No, you won’t!” Mom says, laughing. “You couldn’t een handle the flight here. What you talkin’ ‘bout? You ain’t going nowhere unless it’s by car or train.”
“You had a rough flight, Pops?” Cyn asks.
“Don’t pay her no mind, Cyn. The flight was fine.”
“If you say so,” Mom tells him.
Cyn says, “Well, you know with Brix having such a demanding job, we haven’t been able to travel much in the last two years, so that’s out of the question, Pops.”
“That’s okay,” Mom says. “You can always go out to eat at a nice restaurant.”
“Yep,” Cyn answers tight-lipped, a smile still pinched on her face like it hurts. It probably does.
“Speaking of work, how’s work coming along for you, Cynnamon?” Pops asks her.
“It’s going well. As a matter of fact, they offered me a managerial position.”
“When?” I ask, looking at her, feeling lost and not liking the feeling that I didn’t know this about her. This is news to me, just like it is to my parents.
“A few weeks ago. It was a pretty hefty offer, too, but I turned it down.”
“Why?”
“Because no job is worth all my time. I would’ve had no life. Every day would be just work, work, work. What kind of life is that?” she asks. We lock and hold gazes for a moment before she flashes a fake smile and looks away.
“One thing is for sure,” Mom says. “If you don’t work, you don’t eat according to Jesus.”
“Jesus ain’t say that,” Dad says.
“It’s in the Bible,” she says, then takes a bite of her sandwich.
“Just because it’s in the Bible don’t mean Jesus said it.”
“Then who said it, since you a Bible scholar now?”
Dad sighs and shakes his head.
Cyn takes a sip of lemonade.
I take a bite of my sandwich. I’m not thinking about the tit-for-tat between my parents.
I’m trying to wrap my head around things I don’t know about my wife.
I used to know everything where we were concerned.
Now, she’s somewhat of a stranger – a stranger I know well, yet I’m not privy to the current state of affairs in her life.
It’s odd still having the title of husband, yet being so far detached from her that it no longer feels like we’re married.
It bothers me, and maybe this job news bothers me even more because I asked her a few days ago how it was going.
She didn’t mention anything about a promotion – one I think she should’ve taken.
She’s brilliant – an ace at numbers. She should reward herself for that.
“Paul!” Dad shouts. “That’s who said it. You don’t work, you don’t eat.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Cyn says, pushing back from the table. “Be right back.”
She goes upstairs, and I’m wondering why. She leaves me with so many questions. So many thoughts. I hate being on the outside when it comes to her.
I excuse myself and go upstairs to see where she ran off to. Just as I make it to the top of the stairs, she comes out of the bathroom.
I say,” You know there’s a washroom downstairs, right?”
“Yep–just wanted to come up and give you some alone time to catch up with your folks.”
“It seems we’re the ones who need to catch up.”
She crosses her arms. “Meaning what?”
“Cyn, I asked you how your job was going. You didn’t mention anything about a promotion.”
“That’s because it’s none of your business.”
“But it’s okay to discuss with my parents?”
“I was making conversation. That’s why I’m here, right?”
“Yes, but if you can tell them about your job, what’s preventing you from telling me?”
“You know what’s preventing me from telling you.
Don’t let these few days make you forget that we’ve spent this year apart, Brix.
And why are you so pressed about my job situation?
You’re so wrapped up in that hospital, nothing concerning me ever really mattered to you.
So, what would be the point in discussing my insignificant job, especially now that we’re no longer together? ”
“I still care about you, Cyn. I care about your life. Your goals. Your dreams.”
“I hear you—”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Oh, trust me, I do. I just think it’s a little too late for that. Now, go hang out with your parents. I’ll be back down in a lil’ bit.”
She walks away from me, heading toward the bedroom. I hang my head and go downstairs to entertain my folks, hoping my mother is done teasing my father about flying.
Around five when my parents have simmered down, finally (thank God), and made their way to the guest bedroom for a nap, I walk to the back door, watching Cyn pace the yard with her phone up to her left ear.
I know it’s none of my business, but it irks me that I don’t know who she’s talking to.
More specifically, I want to know if it’s a man.
Has she moved on from me? It’s another thing I hadn’t considered, because I haven’t thought twice about seeing any other woman, so I didn’t think she wanted to see anyone else, especially given the fact that we’re still married.
I have always held out hope that something would eventually put us back together where we belonged, but the more time passes, the more a reconnection seems out of reach.
As she paces, she looks over at the door as if she could feel someone watching her. She waves me outside to my surprise. I open the door, walk out onto the porch, and down the stairs to join her.
“I love you, too. Bye,” she says to whoever she’s talking to.
A pain hits me in the chest. She loves who, exactly? I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but—
“Hey, um, so how do you think it’s going?” she asks.
I try to form a smile, but my face is tight with envy. “It’s going okay, I suppose.”
Who were you on the phone with?
“You suppose? Am I doing something wrong?”
“No, Cyn. You’re doing—um—” I take a breath. “The lunch was the perfect touch. Thank you for taking the time to do that.”
“It wasn’t a problem at all. Besides, I love your parents.”
Yeah, just not me…
“I noticed the wreath and the candles, too. Nice touches to make it feel like a woman actually lives here.”
She smiles. “No problem. Now that I know you’re good with everything, I’m going to go relax for a minute. We’ll probably have to order out for dinner.”
“For who?”
“Your parents.”
“Nah. Those sandwiches put them right out. Mom probably put one in her purse so she doesn’t have to come back down later.”
“True.” She grins. “You really think they’re down for the count?”
“Yeah. Travel is rougher on old people and babies. They’re done. Trust me.”
She laughs silently and nods.
Who were you on the phone with?
I don’t ask. I just stare into her brown eyes, wishing I could reach over and stroke her face like she did mine earlier. Instead, I just stand here, staring. Wishing.
I look at her lips. I remember their sweetness. Their softness. I’m tortured by more questions.
Who’s kissing them?
Who’s touching them?
Who’s touching her?
The thoughts make my skin crawl.
She frowns and asks, “You good?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” I flash a smile, hoping it’ll help make my lie believable.
She says, “Well, I’ll see you on the inside when we have to pretend again.”
“Yeah, and Cyn.”
“Yes?”
“Please know that I do care about your welfare, your job, and everything that’s going on with you. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”
“It’s all good.”
“No, it’s not. I’m being real with you, Cyn. Can’t we be real with each other for a minute?”
Her eyes narrow.
“And for the record,” I continue, “I think you’d do very well in a managerial position. You have the discipline for it.”
“Thanks for saying that.” She smiles sadly and walks away, her shapely hips swaying effortlessly in that body-contouring dress.