Edward

Chapter Two

Washington, DC 2018

The night air grew cool and a slight breeze was a sigh of relief. It was over. It. Your infidelity. It was five years into our marriage and it was so crushing a blow that I couldn't' breathe most of the time. The baby was so little and so new. My body was still healing. I had three-year-old Maddy and Alexander, a newborn. The three of us were an organism, one living being. Why did you do it? I think maybe you felt my darkness, the postpartum mental illness, was one more time you'd have to save my life. But, how many times do I have to say it? I never asked you to save my life.

No dark corners, the night of Maddy's third birthday, I couldn't hide from you. I couldn't look into your eyes because I couldn't lie to you. You knew how I felt and so there I sat on that august night. Willing you to leave, not expecting you to come in the first place. Or worse if you did come to Maddy's second birthday party—and why shouldn't you? You are her father...this was your home. She had begged me. She had an instinct about these matters. Even at three years old. She knew if she begged me to invite you (I would have any way) then maybe you would come.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen you but it was the first time since I got my body back. I was myself again. Annie.

I caught your glance twice during the party. Once when I lit the candles. By that time Maddy was on your lap. Her chubby fingers holding both your hands while she closed her eyes to blow out the candles. When I looked up to start singing Happy Birthday, your eyes found mine.

My own mother. Her new mantra. Her adaptation to the new you, the cheater.. "I love Edward but I do not like him" She loved you but she didn't like you? "How can that be mom? How can you love Edward but not like him?" I know though, it's her posturing, ready to love or hate him, whatever is necessary to align with me.

"You're fragile. You're a flower, Annie." This half meditation on her youngest child: me. Ever since I left your family that first time at seventeen. Ever since the night I almost drowned at your family's home on Slaters Beach. My body so bruised from the tide or those foggy hallucinatory events—that you witnessed—that I will not let you expose. Even 10 years later, to mom, I am a flower. A darkness fell over me, with my mom and dad as witnesses. I missed the Fall semester at Georgetown and that's what worried mom the most. I'd been so excited, ready for college and that fall I hid in darkness...until I didn't. Edward, that is my objection to your enduring commitment to "processing" "the trauma." In that way, I am strong and you are not. Healthy people get on with things. That is resilience-when there are events or unforeseen problems a strong person weathers them. I am weathering the postpartum mental illness and when it ends I will not spend years analyzing it. I will re-enter my life and choose happiness. That is the fundamental difference between us.

It was absurd. "So what if I'm a flower?" That's how families are. I never asked "what do you mean? I"m a flower?" Instead my anemic rebellion, "so what if I am?"

It was completely dark and it was time to put Maddy to bed. She was floppy and when I turned to her again and began to whisper "It's time for..." your hand was on my shoulder. I looked up and into your eyes. You were my friend again and a cool trickle entered my heart. My resolve, not my pain, my resolve was melting. This was our house, our home-despite all of it we'd created it together. The aesthetic. We were always so awed by our shared sense of taste. The glistening oak flooring. Wide, restored barn wood planks. Bleached. It reminded us of the chateaus in the French Country. Our honeymoon. That was the pinnacle of our love affair, our infatuation so contagious other guests at the inns wanted to take pictures of us. With us. Everyone friendly giving us food or wine. Telling us what beautiful newlyweds we were. Constantly intoxicated. Then to the English countryside, our kitchen island...how did we find it? And so much money—you didn't care. it was so beautiful, the deep worn butcher block top, the depression a concave smooth surface...years of bread making there it was not at the French flea markets where we found our carved four poster bed or our sofa-a foolish extravagance—the painful decision to remove the antique silk fabric, that faded pink and salmon stripe. So old and lovely. But worn. The arms, torn and horsehair stuffing revealed, the acorn colored spines darkened from dirt. Really, it was better after we overstuffed the cushions and covered them with —do you remember?— "lawn green" the decorator had said. "Chartreuse" you whispered in my ear. I nudged you with my elbow. You always had me on the edge of laughter, breaking down.