Imaginif...the spirit of Christmas lasted.

Anticipating change:  Fiction, Short Story

Twelve months of seeking and I was again anticipating him to change: to keep his promise to seek the right person. How long did he think I would wait? I was so sick of his promises, so fed up with his gifts and really bloody bored with his research into which counsellor was the best. I would never tell him that though.

He sat at the end of the table, his omnipresence smelt from behind the double barrelled newspaper he was never without. Obvious only ever by his smell, and never by his courteous or meaningful family focused conversation, he always smelt good. Damn good. He smelt expensive and suave; sophisticated and cultured. Shame he was such an arse hole. Shame more that he didn’t smell like one! It’s easier, I think, to leave a smelly person.

The paper acted as his ventriloquist doll: it moved and spoke on his instruction, never mine. His paper, in a condescending tone, spoke right at me,

“I made contact yesterday with a Dr Mary Bridges. Doctor by philosophy you understand; no, you probably don’t. She is not a medical doctor. Not a proper doctor. She just has a bit more study in psychology than those other morons I spoke to, nothing special.”

Underneath my cooking oil spot stained bright orange ten seasons old T-Shirt, my heart cosily stirred. I had been anticipating this. This was good. He WAS changing. He really did love me and he really did want to make our relationship work. I wonder if he’d let me go and buy some new clothes today?

“Shut up,” my naughty brain huskily whispered to my heart. “He’s full of shit. He’s an arse hole. Don’t believe him.”

My heart was stronger than my brain. My heart, my love, my dream of a perfect relationship, enmeshed with the fantasy that smell good husband behind the newspaper WAS really fighting for our relationship this time. He cared. He loved me. He didn’t have to breakfast with the twins and I, he could have taken his new Jag off to work like he usually would in the mornings but today he promised to give me a Jag driving lesson. Bless him.

Naughty brain kicked up with some rather unsavoury thoughts. “Arse hole! I’ve been driving for over 10 years and NEVER had an accident, unlike him who constantly loses points for speeding, suffers from road rage, yells at learner drivers and always, always runs over the twin’s bikes. My entire fault though, according to him:  My fault because I apparently distract him.”

“Shh,” I growled myself internally. “He’s trying.” Again my faithful heart stopped my silly, naughty thoughts and refocused those thoughts to much more positive and realistic points of discussion.

“Tell me about her?” I encouraged him. “I am so pleased that you’ve found a counsellor you think will help us.”

He never even bothered to put the paper down. He just yelled through it and scared the life out of the twins and myself.

“There’s nothing wrong with our relationship. There’s something wrong with you! Where’s my toast? I’m going to be late. Can’t you even time manage breakfast, woman? You are a disgrace and not fit to be a mother or my wife.”

The smallest twin, Angie, white faced and still to her father’s regular outbursts, muttered in a scared wee little voice, “Mummy?”

Angus, more like his father than sensitive little Angie, threw a piece of toast at her, “Shut up. You’re stupid.”

Newspaper moved up from his chair and ominously teetered. Without warning, the paper erupted like double barrelled lava flying in several directions across the kitchen.  This was a serious move by him, a serious mistake I had made. Nothing, but nothing, took his morning news away from him.

Both children looked at him. Angie cried silently, her fragile hands stuck in her mouth to stifle sound, her elbows tight against her body. Big, fat, constant tears ran down both her quivering cheeks. Angus just stared at his father, mouth open in disbelief and fear, watching, anticipating his father’s next move. Angus looked like he was role playing with the young cowboy next door; his mind was deciding whether the lay of the land was hostile or friendly.

“If only this was a game of Cowboys and Indians,” I silently assessed. “I need to immediately apologise for my stupidity and settle things down before the neighbours hear.”

“Oh Andrew, darling, let me sort that paper for you. I am so sorry. You are right. There is something wrong with me and I do need to go to a counsellor. Can you give me Dr Bridges number and I will ring and book an appointment today.” I lied. I lied to arse hole because I was scared of him and because I didn’t want my children to see how weak I was when he assaulted me with his cruel words. His words always made me cry.

“Ohhh. There must be something wrong with me. Why do I put up with this?” Contrary to what he always told me about my stupidness, how fast my mind worked in silence to escape a bad and dangerous situation.

Andrew, minus his beloved newspaper that he had slapped from my trembling hands, smelt the air.

“This place stinks like a pig sty. Clean this house up you lazy pig. You are an embarrassment to me and do not deserve my charity to you. Clean it up or I am taking the children away from you. You will never see them again.”

Pale and still, with eyes of saucers, Angie silently cried while she pleadingly looked at me. Her fear gave me strength of fight; she gave me strength to lie to my husband, Andrew, one last time.

“Darling, I’m so sorry. It does stink in here. I promise it will be clean by the time you get home. No stench. No mess. What would you like for tea tonight? How about that beautiful Quail and Guinness Pie that you loved last time I cooked it?”

Mr Smell Nice Andrew stormed out without responding. He took his Jag, without the kids or I obviously, and screeched out of the driveway, collapsing the rose trellis as he left.

I buckled to the floor and loud sobs emitted from my chest. Both children ran to me. They each hugged me but Angie’s tears and shakes melded mine. I felt Angus’ little arm creep around onto his sister’s hand and he patted her in a comforting and regulating beat. So like his father in many regards but so the traumatized little man as well. I had to protect him. I had to break what he was learning by watching his father and I fight.

Amidst my grief and bewilderment, my shame and my thoughts of failure, I heard the words of the Lifeline telephone counsellor that I had been secretly accessing: “Domestic Violence follows a pattern, a cycle of violence that keeps getting worse. After the explosion, comes remorse, after remorse buyback, after buyback, honeymoon, with sneaks of habitual behaviour, tension build up, standover, explosion and it keeps going until the explosions happen without all the good stuff happening too. Children learn this pattern and copy it.”

Reflecting on her words and trying to piece the morning’s events into the cycle of violence, the naughty side of me, the tenacious me, took over. I must have been mad because it was like I was schizophrenic and had another voice talking inside me.

“Arse hole. That’s the last time I anticipate good behaviour and help from him. How long does he think I’m going to wait for him to realise it is his behaviour that is destroying this family. I’m cleaning up all right. I’m cleaning up our smells, our clothes, our presence and leaving him an arse wiped house of nothing.”

The kids and I left for the north coast late that afternoon. From affluence to a women’s shelter, it was the best thing I had ever done. I found an excellent counsellor: a free community counsellor. She wasn’t a doctor; she wasn’t even well dressed with a flash city office that was impossible for a mother and children to access. She was however, a breath of fresh air. Her fresh air blew away all the stinking thinking that was in my head and left me instead with the voice of tenacity, the voice that said, “I am worth it. How long did you think I would wait for you to change your bad behaviours? I am responsible for my behaviour and you are responsible for yours.”

I anticipated change. I did it myself.

© Megan Bayliss, 2010

This story is fictional and part of Megan Bayliss’ daily writing practice.