This is a bit more risque than I usually write... just stretching my writing muscles to see if I could do something erotic. If this isn't your cup of tea, don't read... Just remember this is an experiment.
Storms
From the journal of Christine Sullivan-Dunbar
I can truthfully say that I am relieved that matters have finally come to a head--and frankly I'm terrified! Since Jimmy was the one who made the suggestion that we talk to someone about our problems, I'm hopeful, but I'm also afraid of what will come out. If he is willing to be honest, can I be any less, no matter who or how much it hurts? Why did it take the possibility of losing Hank to make this happen? Maybe, deep down, that is what hurts most of all. XXXXXXX
Esther Hoffman waited patiently for one of the Dunbar's to start talking. She had honestly thought it would be Jim because it was he who made the appointment.
It was, instead, Christie who got the ball rolling. "Our problems run much deeper than his forgetting to call me back about a trip to Boston or asking me to cancel my dinner engagement. It's about issues of trust and commitment and about secrets and lies. More than anything, it's about a failure to communicate. We talk AT each other not TO each other. We argue; we don't discuss. For example, I understand his need to be independent but why can't he understand my need to be helpful? I feel like I'm just a part of his support system, like Hank or his money reader or his new computer software; just one of the things that make his life easier and lets him do his job."
Jim Dunbar had the good grace to look sheepish.
When Esther suggested they each keep a journal and only write what they felt was their real feelings Christie smiled. She had been doing that even before the bullet changed their lives.
XXXXXXX
Why am I jealous of Hank? Jealous? Of a dog! Because Jimmy will accept his help and not mine? Why do I feel like I'm being taken for granted--again? Shut out--again? He tells me repeatedly that he needs me. For what? To match his socks? That stone wall that sits between us has not eroded one little bit. Why does he have to be so damn stoic? Why does he feel that he has to put on this brave front and tell me that everything is fine? Only once has he even hinted at how difficult it is for him. He is so focused on proving himself to the entire world that he still has what it takes to be a cop--that he's still as good a man--that I'm afraid that we are falling back into the same old habits, the same old patterns, and I won't go through that again. I can't.
XXXXXXX
Christie watched the storm build. Propped against the headboard of their bed, she was tired but unable to sleep because her mind kept going in a hundred different directions. Jim was sound asleep, curled on his right side, the blanket pulled tight under his chin. He didn't stir when she gently laid her hand on the back of his head and ran her fingers over the crisp hair down to the nape of his neck. Even though he had had a fever and was exhausted from broken sleep, Jim insisted on going in to work today. After his third cup of coffee, Christie had made the casual suggestion that he might consider taking the day off, taking a sick day. To give Jim credit, he did make the pretence of thinking it over, but she could see his quick mind working behind those deliberately bland features: 'What would they think? One rough day and he has to take time off? See, I told you he can't handle the job!' Can't let them see that Jim Dunbar is only human! He went to work and Christie even tried not to think about it anymore.
XXXXXXX
Hank is watching me. I finally decided to get out of bed and all I see are his dark eyes glittering in a flash of lightning. At least he resettled with a soft snort, secure in some doggy sixth sense that Jimmy wasn't getting up any time soon. I guess I am not considered a threat. Other than shadowing Jim more than usual, Hank seems to have suffered no ill effects from his "misadventure". It was a miracle that someone found him and called. Though I tried to reassure Jimmy that he would turn up, New York is an awfully big place to be lost. What I had found more disturbing was the fact that Hank had been stolen while Jim was undercover. Undercover! He said that he had back-up. He reassured me over and over that he was fine--the drug dealers only wanted their cocaine and had mistakenly driven off with Hank still in the car, leaving Jim in a shipping yard in Hoboken, alone. Alone. Every fibre of my being wanted to scream: 'What were you thinking? Couldn't someone else have gone? Why did it have to be you?' He made it sound like he did this kind of thing every day but I couldn't get this image out of my mind that instead of looking for Hank, we might still be looking for Jimmy's body...
XXXXXXX
Christie threw on her robe and snugging the sash tight as she padded barefoot out into the kitchen. Hoping that some camomile would help her to relax, she put a mug and water into the microwave. 'Thank heavens, I had had a relatively quiet day at work--I'm definitely not at my best on only four hours of sleep,' she thought. Like the night they had gotten home with Hank, Jimmy had insisted on checking him over and giving him a bath. Together they towelled him off and Christie teased Jim that he might consider taking a shower himself before coming to bed. Not only had Hank shook dirty rain water all over him, but as they were giving the dog his bath, Hank had covered Jim's face with wet doggie kisses. Jimmy couldn't stop laughing. Christie hadn't heard him laugh like that in ages. It felt good. She don't know who was happier--Jim or Hank. This was how they finally connected after all this time being apart. These memories would be good to
put in her journal.
Lightning briefly lit the room and Christie silently chided herself for not turning on a light; force of habit--not wanting to disturb him. Its the little things that really brought home to her just how much their lives have changed in the last two years--coming home to a dark apartment because he has forgotten to turn on a light, never moving the furniture or even rearranging the cabinets, no longer being able to kick off her shoes the minute she walks in the door. Their lives have never been so orderly, so structured. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes it would be nice to be spontaneous or even a little careless once in a while.
The microwave buzzed; Christie retrieved the mug and dropped in a teabag. Carrying it into the living room and curling up in a corner of the couch she found something half-hidden under a cushion; her red pashmina. She had just wrapped it around her shoulders when she heard Jimmy come in and then forgot about it in the excitement of Hank's discovery. Christie tucked it around her knees, idly brushing its softness as she settled back to watch the light show while sipping the tea and journaling.
XXXXXXX
I had been sitting on this same couch the morning that Jimmy was shot. Being a cop's wife, you learn to put the job into some kind of perspective. There is not going to be a crisis every single day and if you let your imagination run wild every time the phone rings, you won't even be able to function. But I'm just not any cop's wife anymore. I am 'that' cop's wife. I've had the phone call, the wild ride to the hospital and the news that life would never be the same. I felt so damn lucky Jimmy was alive that the reality of him being blind never crossed my mind. I guess that bullet hit both of us that day.
I remember I had spread a handful of photos across the coffee table to make a final selection for a layout due at an afternoon meeting I had with Clay. I remember my throat hurting from the strain because I absolutely refused to let Jimmy see me cry. We had had yet another argument. He was having the affairs. I don't know how many times I wished that Eve hadn't told me what she and Carl had witnessed in that Brooklyn diner months ago. I my heart of hearts I already knew, getting confirmation hurt like hell.
There was no phone call--an officer came to the door. To this day, I don't remember the ride to the hospital. I do remember the hours of waiting while people kept giving me cups of coffee that just went cold in my hands. Even when that woman officer barged in and claimed Jimmy was her boyfriend I was too numb to react. That poor woman was just as stupid as I had been. She didn't know I existed. At least I knew she was real had to leave early to meet with Terry about some case that was coming to trial and, since I was going in late, I suggested that we might meet for an early lunch. We had hardly seen each other all week. He blew me off, offering some lame excuse, and when I protested, he raised both his hands in that dismissive gesture I hate. I opened my mouth to say what had been on my mind the last couple of weeks but I didn't want to hear any more lies, so I told him to just go. I doubt he even heard me. After he left, I sat and stared at the pictures. Why didn't I confront him and demand to know what in the hell was going on? I had never backed down from anything in my life, so why was I being such a coward? What was I afraid of? Finding out that our marriage didn't mean as much to him as it did to me? That much was painfully obvious--he was the one. Even after the surgery was over, the doctors couldn't give me a definitive answer about his condition. Until he regained consciousness, they couldn't be sure that he hadn't suffered some additional trauma but they were optimistic that he would make a full recovery. I chose to cling to that hope.
Jim was in a chemically-induced coma for a week and was more or less comatose for a week after that. My world was defined by fifteen minute intervals within the four walls of his hospital room and the beeping of monitors, the gentle whoosh of oxygen and the comings and goings of the intensive care nurses. When they told me that he had been shot in the head, I had imagined disfigurement, brain damage, paralysis but, when I first saw him, despite the bandages, he was the same Jimmy Dunbar I fell in love with. When the doctors came to examine him, I worried that I might not be asking the right questions or understand their answers. When the nurses changed his bandages, I asked them to show me what to do since I would be the one caring for him once he was released. I was surprised at how small the wound and the surgical scar were. Where he had hit his head on the pavement looked much worse. With all the tubes and monitors, I was almost afraid to touch him, my own husband! I would hold his hand, stroke his cheek when he became restless, tried to reassure him that he wasn't alone. I was so scared. I wished that there was someone I could hand the rest over to--to make the decisions, to consult with the doctors, to update the family and friends that called every day, and even what to tell the press who wanted a follow-up on their story. Jimmy would have done that but our roles were reversed. It was up to me.
When he was finally out of ICU I sat by his side or lay on the cot that they had set up for me, I had plenty of time to think. Did he care I was here? Would he want me here? How
had we come to this? Did we even know each other--I mean really know each other, or had our entire married life been lived on the surface of a world where depth was needed? When had our conversations dwindled down to 'how are you?' or 'what's for dinner?' or, and more frequently, 'I'm going to be late, so don't wait up'?
We argued more than we talked, mostly over trivial matters. We just could not seem to stop taking jabs at each other. When I would ask him how his day had been, he would say fine, end of story, and I would get angry. Why, because he wouldn't even share office gossip with me? Because most evenings were spent going over case files at his desk--that is, if he was even home. Because when he wanted to go out, he would expect me to just drop everything even if it was at the last minute? When was the last time Jimmy told me that he loved me? If there's no love, no trust, no communication, how can there be a relationship much less a marriage? How can you love someone and hate them at the same time?
All marriages have their ups and downs and I told myself that we had just hit a bump in the road. We just needed the time--just the two of us--to reconnect. I couldn't blame Jimmy for all of our problems. I often had long hours at the office and with fashion shows and shoots, parties and the occasional business trip, I could be late getting home--if I got home at all. How do some women manage? My sister seems able to juggle a husband and
children and still have a career and a home that looks like it stepped out of Architectural Digest. Modern women are supposed to be able to have it all! Are we really that busy? Too busy that we can't find the time to put the same effort and commitment into our marriage as we do our jobs? Or am I rationalizing and trying to find any excuse rather than face the fact that we are drifting apart?
It seems that before I realized--no, before I was willing to admit that we had a serious problem, I learned about the first HER! I felt betrayed. I felt humiliated. I even felt dirty. I wasn't interested in how or when or how often. My first reaction was to pack a bag and leave. If our marriage--if I-- wasn't important to him, why stay? His actions had spoken
louder than any words. But, I didn't walk out that door. I didn't even pack a bag. Why, because I had never failed at anything in my life and I wasn't about to admit to a failed marriage? Because I wasn't going to leave the field open for HER? Love? I love him but I hate him but I love him and I couldn't just walk away. No matter how many women Jimmy played with, he always came home to me.
I thought that if I could just understand what had gone wrong, I could fix it but I didn't even know where to begin. I didn't know what he was thinking or feeling. I was frustrated and resentful, emotionally bruised by his rejection. If we weren't arguing anymore, our time was spent in an icy silence. If we had to go to some function as a couple, he was charming and attentive but then we went home to our respective sides of the bed. It was like we were doing this elaborate dance around each other--don't ask questions, don't dare volunteer information, don't presume you understand, don't assume anything. To me, marriage means sharing the good and the bad, it's about give and take and having being willing to compromise. It's about loving someone more than yourself. But where is the marriage if only one shares, if only one gives, when there is no compromising; only giving in? How had we become just two people who happen to share the same apartment and little else?
Wedding vows are a promise two people make to each other but, unfortunately, like all promises, they are easily broken. When I was a little girl, promises were forever and there were consequences if they were ever broken. Jimmy made the same promise I had--to love, honour and cherish. Am I so naive that I still want to believe in promises made and kept? Promises where you cross your heart and hope to... die?
He nearly did die.
For Jimmy, surviving the shooting but being left blind; was almost worse than dying. On the day that he regained consciousness, he turned towards me and asked me why it was so dark. I was so surprised that I even glanced up at the lights to be sure that they were on. His eyes--those brilliant blue eyes that had laughed and teased and flirted with me but which had been so cold and indifferent--were soft and unfocused. He needed me, probably for the first time in his life. Did all my resentment and anger towards him suddenly disappear? Hardly, I didn't forget or forgive what he had done but I had to set those feelings aside. I'm not saying that those emotions didn't surface from time to time. I'm no saint. On the bad days, it was too easy to remember and I would feel the resentment and the frustration simmering. And lately these feelings are becoming harder to control and sometimes they just boil over.
Hank isn't my dog. He isn't even our dog; He is strictly Jimmy's dog. I was prepared to be supportive. I was even prepared to be ignored. While I was concerned about Hank, I was more worried about what Jim would do if worse came to worse. I was hardly prepared for him to suggest that we see a therapist. If I had brought it up, I know he would have felt cornered. There would have been excuses and forgotten appointments and that damnable stone wall. Once he had finished rehab and had gotten Hank, Jimmy's sole focus was on getting reinstated to the force. I had hoped that once he was back at work and felt more comfortable with his condition; that we could try to get back to some sort of a normal life. See some friends; maybe go out on occasion, nothing major. I thought accepting Clay's invitation was a good opportunity--a few friends, a casual dinner. It was a fiasco. I was embarrassed and angry but it was Jimmy who lashed out once we were home, accusing me of thinking of having an affair with Clay. Now, I can see that it was his insecurity and his own guilt that made him say it but when he threw it in my face, I was shocked and hurt--shocked that he would even think such a thing and hurt that he didn't trust me. That time I did pack a bag. I could not, I would not, go through that again--the animosity, the accusations, the silences, the distance. But I came back. Why? Pity? Some sense of obligation? Love?
A few weeks later, Jimmy asked me for a mulligan--a 'do-over'--of the last year. It was the evening that he brought me the lovely flowers that I accused him of re gifting. Have I become so suspicious of his motives that I automatically assume the worse? Why couldn't I have just been thrilled that he actually thought of doing something just for me? He tells me that he's changed, that he's not the same man he was before the shooting. Is he? That
Jimmy Dunbar would never have suggested a therapist. He promised me that he will never hurt me again. I knew he was referring to the Anne Donnelly affair, to that HER. That is one issue we have managed to sidestep. I know and he knows that I know. The fact of the affair isn't nearly as important to me as the WHY of the affair. Am I the same person I was a year ago? I'm still carrying around that emotional baggage, so yes, I am. Can we salvage our marriage, more than salvage it, but rebuild it?
XXXXXXX
A sharp clap of thunder rattled the windows; dropping her pen Christie was jerked back to the present. The rain was coming down in solid sheets of water. She set the mug and journal on the coffee table, folded the pashmina and lay it on the back of the couch. Propping her feet on the coffee table, Christie lifted her hair in both hands and leaned back, letting it fan out over the back of the sofa. Turning her head Christie saw the scuff marks on the wall where Jimmy practiced what he calls his "ear-hand coordination" with the ball. Once she would have obsessed that the paint was chipping and flaking but now Christie choose to see that wall as a small triumph. Lightning flashed and she closed her eyes, took in a deep breath and counted...
An ear-shattering crash seemed to explode right over her head. Christie jerked bolt upright, wincing at a blinding flash of lightning. Another crash, as loud as the first, followed immediately. Hearing a muffled cry from the bedroom, she jumped off the couch and stumbled against the end table and then rushed through the doorway to find Jimmy fighting with the covers. It hadn't been storming when he went to bed and his fevered mind had hidden where he was. He had woken up confused and disoriented by the shot gun like crashing thunder and pounding rain. Hank was by the bed, pushing at Jim with his nose, but this was one of the things her husband needed her for.
"Jimmy, Jimmy—it's alright! I'm here, I'm here!" Christie said as she pulled at the bulky comforter, throwing it aside.
Jim stopped thrashing and lay back, covering his face with both hands. Christie perched on the side of the bed, rubbed gentle circles on his chest, feeling his heart race. Glancing at Hank as the dog whined beside the bed, she quickly patted him on his head to reassure him that Jimmy was really okay. After taking a few deep breaths, Jim pushed himself into a sitting position and then reached out cautiously and took Christie in his arms, burying his face in her neck. He was no longer feverish, but still disoriented. Another sharp clap of thunder made Jim flinch and she tightened her arms around him, kissing his shoulder. He inhaled deeply, his nose pressing against her neck. It tickled but Christie didn't move. Tonight she savoured the closeness. He slowly begins to relax. Several minutes passed in silence and Christie began to think that he was embarrassed by his show of weakness. She tried to let go to get up but his arms tightened so she eased back.
"Thank you" he whispered.
"For what?"
"For being here, I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. I'm sorry--for everything. I promise to try and be better..."
"Shhhh," Christie melted into Jim's embrace. 'Promises. Promises to keep? Promises kept? That's for tomorrow.' She thought as she relished the feel of being in his arms. 'I have to let tomorrow take care of itself.' She ran her finger along his whisker covered jaw. A most opportune flash of lightning gave her a brief glimpse of his hooded eyes, his spikey, sleep-rumpled hair. Jim slowly leaned forward, coming closer until his nose touched her cheek. His nose slowly traced its curve as his fingers threaded their way into Christie hair.
"You're worth it," she whispered.
XXXXXXX
I had told him that once that he was worthy of my love. I meant it then and I mean it now. I can't help wondering if he ever felt he was worthy of someone's undivided love. All those psych classes said that his infidelities were probably an attempt at finding the love he lacked in childhood. I never lacked for love and I guess that is why I miss it so much now.
XXXXXXX
Together the Dunbars slid back into bed. Jim kissed her eye lids and let his sensitive fingers explore Christie's face and neck. Down, down slid his hands until Jim found the hem of Christie's tee shirt and with one swift sure movement dragged it up and off her body. Christie joined in, licking and nibbling Jim's ears and neck in equal response to his growing passion. Raising her arms high Christie gave Jim unhindered access to her breasts. Jim raised them to his mouth and kissed each nipple before slipping it into his mouth to suckle and tongue. Christie arched her back and rose up to allow Jim in between her legs. Grabbing her swiftly he held her poised over him , teasing her before he plunged deep inside her. The rain and thunder outside played rhythmic counterpoint to their ever increasing movement and Jim and Christie Dunbar rose and fell in unison to the beatings of their hearts.
Then he came; his shuddering cry was "Christie, oh god Christie."
She felt each powerful surge inside her as Jim came again and again. She cried with him as she lost herself in her own powerful orgasm. And when it was done, Christie Dunbar knew, even if for just this time, she was the centre of Jim's universe and there was no other place she wanted to be.
XXXXXXX
What is that old chestnut that Esther said when she got us to start journaling? Yesterday is history and tomorrow is mystery so live in the here and now. Well, little leather journal, maybe if we both remember that Jimmy and I can make it work.
Fin