My hands shook as I waited for my son to show up, take his stuff, and exit my life like his mother had done those years ago. I blamed her then, but I wasn't blaming him. When the rage had dissipated I saw what I had done, and what I had almost done, I saw that I could have killed him.
I was unable to control myself, and I could lie about running out of patience, about work being stressful, but it didn't excuse me. It didn't fully explain the rage that suddenly came upon me, like a tornado out of a clear blue sky. I couldn't think when I was caught up in it, and I couldn't control myself, and Craig was right to leave. He was right to stay gone.
What had I done to him? I knew I had hit him, punched him, strapped him, threw him against walls, kicked him. I knew I had fractured his ribs. I knew I had, I saw the bruises, I saw the way he winced and moved carefully. I would pretend to myself that he wasn't as hurt as that, even as I saw the signs clearly in front of my face. I pretended that things were more okay then things were, I pretended that my anger was a loss of patience and not the consuming red storm that it was, obliterating thought, obliterating reason, creating the monster. I was the monster to be feared in my son's life, and I wondered what all that rage and uncertainty and violence had done to him. Just how damaged was he?
He flinched from all sudden movements, and not just in my presence. I had seen him do it at school, with friends. The movement was slight at times, and he hid it, but I saw it. My trained clinical eye saw most things. This was a conditioned response, this flinching. He stuttered, and the more upset he was, the worse it became. When I was angry with him, when I was out of control and hitting him he always stuttered, always. Stuttering is a funny thing, connected to trauma in some academic circles, and he did not stutter when he was younger, before the escalation of violence.
These were physical manifestations of the abuse. There could be no more sugar coating it. I had abused him. I had traumatized him. Joey told me in no uncertain terms that he had tried to kill himself, my own son was suicidal. Where would this lead? What had I done to his future relationships? How was the trust that was damaged in our relationship destined to effect the relationships to come? Would he associate love with being hurt? Would he hurt those in relationships with him, would he become the aggressor because it was what he saw, what he experienced? Would he strike a woman like I had with his mother? Would he take his children or child and shake them, squeeze their small wrists, shove them against the wall?
What had I done? How could I have screwed this up like this? How could I have lost control? There was no going back, but maybe atonement was possible. Maybe I could become someone my son would be proud to know. Perhaps I could spend my life making this up to him.
He was on his way with Joey, and I knew something of Joey, too, despite not liking it and not liking him. Joey was more patient than I was, Joey was able to control his anger, Joey was what he needed, like he was what my wife needed. They didn't need me. My wife didn't need my perfectionism and my rage. My wife didn't need to cry over the sink and pretend that she wasn't upset, pretend that her eyes weren't red rimmed and her voice shaky. My son didn't need to wonder every day if he would get beaten.
I glanced out the window and glanced at the slight tremors in my hands. They weren't visible along the road, not yet, but I could feel them coming. Could I try to convince Craig to stay, to give me another undeserved chance? Could I plead for his mercy?
I blinked, touched the top of the table and the collar of my shirt, and I knew that I could not ask that. If I asked that the answer would be no. He wasn't safe here and that was the truth. It wasn't fair to him and maybe it wasn't fair to me. I had a lot of work to do before I could parent him full time again. I had a lot of depths to plumb, a lot of habits to break, a lot of coping skills to learn and to hone. I had failed as a husband and as a father. I had reached almost rock bottom as a parent, but I wasn't at the bottom yet. There was still a chance for Craig, and for me. Away from me, within the chaotic but safe household of Joey Jeremiah he could heal, his body could learn that not every movement would end in violence.
Craig was afraid of me, I saw that clearly even when I wasn't angry, even when we were having a good day, a good week, a good month. I saw the wariness in his eyes, I saw how he weighed his words. I saw what he wanted and what he expected, and they were very different things. He wanted things to be okay. He expected a beating, pain, he expected to be punched and kicked and hit with belts. He expected anger and fear and shame.
I saw the car in the distance, just a tiny flash of red metal. I could feel it coming, I could feel the rumble of the engine. It was time to say goodbye. I took my glasses off and rubbed their surface with a tissue. I had done this to myself, to Craig, to all of us. This was my fault. Was I man enough to own it?
The car grew large in the window and turned into the driveway, now obscured. I could hear the car door open and close, and I heard his footsteps on the walk. I felt his arm raised to knock on the door and I opened it before his fist struck the wood. I was not man enough to own any of this. I wanted him to stay with me. I loved no other person with the heartbreaking intensity that I felt, that permeated every cell, every drop of blood. I would beg him to stay and pray that he would refuse me.