His First Wife (14 page)

It took me a minute to understand what she was saying. It sounded really positive at first. Her first? Like I was
the man
or something. But on the way back to my seat, I realized that this wasn't a friendly communication by any means. It was Kerry's mother in her real form. I decided I really hated that woman at that moment. I hated everything about her. And, Lord, I hated her for saying what she'd said. I wanted so much to forget it. But like she'd hoped, I never did.

 

I
always thought it sounded clichéd when I'd see a friend who'd just given birth and I'd ask how old the baby was and she'd give me a long, drawn-out answer like, “Two years, four months, two weeks, and a day!”

But my first two weeks with Tyrian were nothing short of cliché. He was the “apple of my eye,” “the beat of my heart,” and, clearly, “the most beautiful baby in the world.” So, whenever Jamison and I would run into folks at the doctor's office, and they'd ask how old he was, I'd count each second of his life and offer it up with pride. I'd explain that my beautiful baby boy was two weeks, one day, and eighteen hours old. I'd add that since he'd met the world, Tyrian had managed to figure out how to scream to indicate that he was very hungry (which was quite different than his “I'm awake, so I can eat now” hungry cry), blink his eyes without falling back to sleep, and keep his hand open. Then I'd pull out my digital camera to prove that he'd indeed achieved all of these things. The poor innocent bystander would then smile graciously, and inside I'd know that they thought I was crazy (like I once thought of the other mothers I knew), but I didn't care. I was in baby bliss land and no lack of outside participation could stop me.

Tyrian really was the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. Really. His color was the perfect mix of mine and Jamison's, a soft oatmeal with undertones of caramel and copper. When we first brought him home, he looked like a little scoop of toasted almond ice cream, but even in the cold winter months, he'd managed to find his rich color. His eyes, though, were a complete surprise to everyone. Jamison had been born with dark green eyes, the color of emeralds, so we expected Tyrian's to be the same, but instead his were an intense brown. So brown, in fact, that they looked black. Little marbles that pierced so deep, even in his two weeks of life when he could hardly focus long on one thing without falling asleep, people would comment about how serious and intense his eyes were. It was as if he could look into you, know that you were hiding something.

Now, my sweet boy, who wanted nothing of the world but to be fed and kissed on his hands (that calmed him), was on to something with these piercing eyes. We were hiding something, Jamison and I. We were hiding something from the world and even ourselves. In fact, we'd taken a few steps past hiding and were establishing permanent residence in the land of denial. That was because with all of the cute stuff we'd had to do with Tyrian, dedicating all of our positive energy to him from the moment he was born, we'd both nonverbally agreed to live separate emotional lives.

We'd smile at the baby, but never at each other. We'd talk to the baby, whoever was visiting the baby, even Isabella, but we never really spoke to one another. Yeah, we'd get through the day-to-day, negotiating compound and complex sentences within each other's presence, but these were all empty, demandless developments. Jamison would tell me that my cell phone was ringing in the den or ask me if I needed anything extra when he was going to the store, but other than that, the only smiles or laughter we shared was when our heads were pointed at the baby. If he'd seem to crack a smile or belch so hard his little body would shake, we'd laugh and look at the beautiful thing we'd made together with great pride and love. But that was it. The “talk” Jamison wanted to have never happened. When the baby came, it seemed impossible. It wasn't that I wanted to be the perfect family and pretend Coreen never existed. Instead, I was afraid of what I might do next.

The thought of the whole thing, of everything that was going on in my life outside of Tyrian made me feel like I was going to start screaming again and I did not know if I'd have the ability to stop. I was sure I'd lose control of myself again and the thought of that happening in front my child frightened me.

But that didn't stop me from feeling what I was feeling. When Jamison would walk into the house, my head would be full of questions. Not necessarily about whether he'd seen Coreen, but about how many times he'd walked into the house in the past after having been with her and wrapped his arms around me, and slept in my bed with her still on him. The thoughts stung me and, to be honest, I was simply afraid to really open that can of worms. So instead I'd roll my eyes when he walked into the room. Turn my back when he was getting ready for bed (he'd had sense enough to take up residence in one of the guest bedrooms). And mostly pretend he wasn't around.

But little, helpless babies who can do nothing when they are first born grow every day, and with each day, Tyrian seemed to want and demand more from us. He needed us on the spot, together. Or he'd cry and cry. Isabella couldn't calm him, Aunt Luchie couldn't calm him, and he hated my mother; but whenever Jamison and I would sit together and play kissing games with his hands, our son with the piercing eyes would sit quietly and soon drift off to sleep. It seemed Tyrian had another plan for his parents, and while we were trying hard to live with each other by living apart, Tyrian wasn't having it. “He's been here before,” Aunt Luchie said once as Jamison and I were forced to sit on the couch in Tyrian's view. “He's got an old soul. You can see it in those brown eyes.”

Tyrian just laid back in his carrier, his eyes half-focused on the two of us and if one even seemed to shift to move, he'd break out into his little pleading cry—even if he was asleep.

Our son was making our six-bedroom house quite small, and avoiding one another was becoming difficult.

 

 

When Jamison came in from a meeting he'd had with a new landscaper, I was sitting on the couch in the den, watching Tyrian nurse as I enjoyed doing seemingly every minute of my life. While my mother was strongly against breast-feeding, claiming it was completely crass to do in public, everyone at the hospital kept saying it was “best for the baby,” so I decided to give it a shot, for the first month or so anyway. Plus, one of the nurses let me in on a little secret, that the baby weight went faster when you breast-fed. This news came just as I was on the fence about the whole thing. But while I couldn't decide, I was desperate to lose weight, so breast-feeding it was. This was no easy task, especially at four in the morning when both Tyrian and I wanted to sleep, but Aunt Luchie, who'd been staying with us to help out, insisted that I feed him on the clock, sleep or not.

“You two okay?” Jamison asked, poking his head into the den to ask his usual stupid question for the day. It was amazing how nearly everything that came out of his mouth sounded asinine to me now. Of course we were okay. We were sitting in the den, quietly. What did he think was going on?

“We're fine,” I responded flatly and smiled at Tyrian, who stopped sucking when he heard his father's voice. “Your mother called about an hour ago. Right after you left.” Isabella told me that the witch had called. I wasn't answering the house phone.

“I know; she called my cell phone. I went over there to see her.”

I just shook my head. This was extra information I hadn't wanted nor asked for. He knew we weren't communicating like that. I didn't care about his comings and goings. He didn't seem to want to tell me where he was going when he was on his way to see Coreen, so why should I care now?

“She wanted to talk about Thanksgiving, next week,” Jamison added, introducing a conversation without my participation. In fact, he walked past me and sat on the other side of the couch.

“Okay,” I said, moving Tyrian from my breast and to my shoulder to pat his back.

“She thinks we should have it here . . . the dinner.”

This simple announcement would've been accepted in any other household, but at this time and in this place it sounded like the announcement of an execution, a machine gun firing into a crowd. Tyrian punctuated his father's words with a resounding belch. I felt his little body shake on my chest, and while I wanted to strike out at Jamison, I knew I couldn't. I simply closed my eyes and prayed for patience. Jamison knew damn well that I hated having Thanksgiving with his mother. Those kinds of relationships just weren't suited for holidays. Jamison and I had spent six of the first ten years of our marriage at my uncle's house in Augusta with my mother and the other four times we were apart, as he'd gone to be with his family. This was also how we did Christmas, Easter, and any other holiday when black people felt a need to gather around the table. I couldn't stand his mother and I wasn't about to start pretending now. Not in my own house. I married the man, not the mother, and I was in no mood to put on a show. Not even with my son in the room.

“Here?” I said finally, my eyes still closed, my mind still in prayer. “We've never had any holidays here.”

“Why not? We have the space. A formal and informal living room, two dens, a media room, kitchen, six bedrooms, it's the perfect place to have a big family Thanksgiving like I used to have when I was young,” he said. “We can invite people from both sides of the family. So everyone can come see Tyrian. A lot of people haven't seen him yet.”

“He's only two weeks old.”

“He'll be three weeks then, past the time when the doctor said we can start letting people come over.”

“Tyrian, where are you?” I heard Aunt Luchie calling from the kitchen. She'd taken to calling his name throughout the house whenever she was on her way to him. “Don't hide from your Aunt Luchie.”

Jamison and I sat frozen, our eyes averted as if we didn't want anyone to know we'd been speaking.

Aunt Luchie appeared in the living room, fully dressed in an overcoat.

“There you are,” she said to Tyrian's back. “Hiding in here with Mommy and Daddy.”

She came over to me and gently took him from my arms.

“Off for our first official walk,” she said, obviously trying her best to ignore the tension in the air.

“Oh, no, he's not ready yet. He could catch a cold,” I said, getting up from the couch.

“Child, sit down,” Aunt Luchie said so forcefully I had to sit down. “It's a beautiful day outside and this child has four snowsuits. He's no more likely to catch a cold than any of us if I wrap him up right. Plus, it's time he got some real air. And that you two had some quiet time.”

“But I was just about to—”

“To do what?” she cut me off. I dared not say anything. Aunt Luchie was usually smiles and hugs, but when she put her foot down, that was it. I was angry, but not crazy. The last thing I wanted in my house was an angry old black woman. Her eyes went from me to Jamison, just begging us to say something.

“It's settled then,” she said. “We'll be back in fifteen minutes or so. After that, I'm sure he'll be exhausted; I'll take him right upstairs for a nap.”

When she left the room, I got up and went into the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich.

Pulling the ingredients from the refrigerator, I saw that Jamison had moved himself from the den to the kitchen too. He was sitting at the kitchen table looking just as stupid as he had in the den.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Talk?” There was a mix of sarcasm and comedy in my voice. I didn't know why though. It just was. I didn't want to talk to Jamison, but really inside I did. I hated him, but I still loved him. I wanted him to stop talking to me, but really I missed talking to him. I missed him. How could I feel all those things at once? But that didn't stop me from having an attitude. I was still mad, and wanting to talk or not, the attitude was staying.

“We can't go on like this, not speaking,” he said. “It's driving me crazy.”

“Look, I don't want to have Thanksgivings here. And that's it.” I spread the mayonnaise on the bread in quick jerking strokes, nearly slicing it in two.

“Not that, about everything. We never spoke about it. About what happened.”

“Hum,” I said, putting two extra slices of cheese on the bread.

“Look, just come over here and sit down,” he raised his voice. “I need to get this out.”

“Oh, now you want me to sit down so you can get stuff out?” I slammed the sandwich down on the counter. “Okay then, if that's what this is about. You want me to sit and listen?” I walked over to the table and sat next to him. “What do you have to say?”

“Kerry, come on, can't we just be adults about this?”

“Adults? I'm sorry, I'm just remembering the other time I was supposed to meet you at this table to talk and you weren't even here,” I said. “Do you remember that?” I paused. “No, don't answer, maybe you can recall all the other times I tried to sit down to talk to you about what was going on and all you could say was that it was nothing and that I should stop being paranoid. Do you remember that?” I paused again. “No—don't answer that either. Because maybe you can recall when I asked you to talk to me right in front of that bitch's house and you couldn't . . .” My voice cracked and just like that I was crying. “No, you wouldn't talk to me then. Do you remember that?”

“Stop it,” Jamison said, reaching over to grab my hand. “Just stop.” We sat in silence as I cried and tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

“I didn't mean for none of this shit to happen,” he continued. “It just did.”

“How, Jamison? How could something like that
just
happen?”

“I don't know.”

“We were married. And happy. I mean, what would make you do that?”

Jamison looked away.

“We were happy, right?” I said.

“I wasn't unhappy,” he said. “But I wasn't happy. I'm not going to say that's what it was, because I'm a man and if I wasn't happy with you, I know how to open my mouth and say it.”