3 Fighting Urges.
Arnold was not mad anymore when he got home that night. In fact, since I agreed to do his little dinner idea he's been very forgiving about my latest episode, and I am not sure how good that is.
The whole week has been like any other. Every morning Arnold goes off to shrink the minds of the Hillwood youth while I, still on maturity leave from my paper column, tend to the Phils of the house. Big Phil hardly ever needs me since he has Gertia and has healed well from his operation, but I find it nice to check up on him anyway.
However, Little Phil always needs me: feeding, changing and the millions of other things that make up my motherhood. I do my best. And yet, there are those moments when I beg to be alone. When I beg to be outside in the cold with nothing but my jacket and back of smokes. When I beg for a chance to feel completely numb, just so I don't have to think. Sadly I never get those moments. The closest thing I do get is my son and I napping side by side. Which, to be honest, is not all that bad.
"Have you thought about the menu?" Arnold asked the night before the dinner.
"I don't know. Maybe pasta."
"Should I pick up anything on the way home from work? I could get some Italian sausage from Mr. Greene."
"Whatever," I said dryly as I finished putting a fresh diaper on Phil. He smiled at me, his gums showing some as I carried him to his crib. "This is your idea anyway. I'll make whatever you want me to make." Arnold comes to his son's side and helps tuck him in, smiling as he does.
"Look, I know this dinner is not what you had in mind but would it kill you to at least put some effort into it? This is your family, and it should matter." I groaned again, hating his words. They sounded just like Olga. I finished tucking in my side of our son and swiftly turned away from my husband. I was not about to get preached at again. Not now.
"I'll do this however you want Arnoldo, but I won't be happy about it. I'm sorry you feel the need to patch us all up like some whole-ridden cloth for the homeless. But this is who we are. So you better fucking get used do it." Arnold came to my side and took my shoulders, messaging them a little. He then moved his hands around my body, hugging me.
"I just want them to be apart of our sons life. That's all." I push away his hands as I broke away from the embrace. He had no idea what he was asking. Have my son to get to know those lowlifes I call mom and dad? Is he crazy? I shuddered at the thought of tomorrow; really wishing I had something to take edge off. I could almost feel the hot cancer stick between my fingers, burning away at my drags. I could almost see the flame of the lighter in my hand, dancing around the face of the cigarette. I could almost taste the sweet warm tar as it bellowed down my throat. It took all my control not to rush down the stairs and have one with a bottle of rum. But I know Arnold would hate it. So I stood there, praying for the urge to pass.
"Helga, are you ok?" Arnold asked. I didn't look at him. And I didn't want to, afraid that my eyes would give away what I was thinking. My voice might have already said too much. So I gathered the last bit of control I had and whispered,
"I'm tired. I need to get to bed." I undressed fast and dove under. Arnold soon followed.
"It's going to be fine," he said softy when he snuggled close. I wanted to believe that, oh how I wanted to really think it would be. But somehow, I knew nothing would go as Arnold planned.
I could feel the depression of the impending night weigh on me like metal when I thought about it. The indifference I was bound to get from my parents mounding up on top of me. The whole weight of their past rejections balled together into one heap, spreading its heaviness around my already weak body. The sadness seeped into my skin, tainting my tired muscles. As I closed my eyes, I wondered if I had the strength not to drink.