Nowhere but Up (12 page)

Jeremy was silent, taking his boots off and going through the motions of getting ready for bed. My disappointment quickly escalated to suspicion when he didn’t respond to any of my questions. He was too quiet for his own good. I knew something was up and began to feel anxious.

I jumped to a conclusion. With sarcasm peppered with spite, I asked, “What? Did you cheat on me?”

Jeremy didn’t say a word. The quieter he was, the louder the truth. I took my accusations a step further.

“What? After all this time, you cheat on me? Are you kidding me?” I jumped out of bed, ready for a knock-down, drag-out fight.

I finally blurted out, “So go ahead, tell me. What was her name?” I shot off name after name of girls we knew. He growled “No” after each one. Except for one particular name.

I said the name again. No response. Jeremy’s silence said it all.

I was stunned. I knew for a fact he wasn’t even attracted to and certainly didn’t have feelings for this woman. “You cheated on me with
her
? You purposely sabotaged our family, your engagement with the mother of your child, with someone you don’t even like?”

My head pounded. I sat on the edge of the bed swimming in emotions—sadness, anger, confusion. I stormed my way into the living room, taking deep breaths to calm myself down. Jeremy followed, trying to pull me closer to him with each step. He was finally able to grab me into his arms, his face pressed against my flushed cheek, rocking back and forth while holding on to me for dear life. The reality of the mistake began to make its way into Jeremy’s heart. I tried to wiggle free as he poured out his apologies. Over and over the violins played while he told me how sorry he was and what a stupid thing he had done. “Please, please. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“I gotta go for a walk,” I said, finally breaking free from his strong grip.

I ran out of the apartment to get some air, ignoring Jeremy’s voice calling after me from the door. I don’t remember if I put on a jacket. My heart was racing as I jogged down the sidewalk of the apartment complex. I was fuming.
How could he do this?
I passed one block.
And now of all times?
I ran past a few more. The release of energy was helpful, but it didn’t push the elephant out of the room. What was I going to do? I needed to talk to someone, but who? I didn’t have many friends.

I found a pay phone by a convenience store and called our babysitter, a girl just a few years younger than me (who a week later would end up sleeping with Jeremy). I vented for a few minutes while she patiently listened and consoled me. After I hung up the phone, I knew I still wasn’t ready to go back home. There was one more person I had to call: the woman Jeremy had fooled around with that night.

The phone rang a few times before she picked up. I was calm. Cool. Collected. Ready to say . . . what? I hadn’t a clue.

“Hello?”

When I heard the “other woman’s” voice, the anger came rushing back. I verbally tore into her like a tornado ripping through a house made out of sticks. I called her every name in the book. “Do you feel good about yourself now?” I chided. “Do you feel like a winner? You destroyed every hope of happiness I had. You broke up a potential marriage. This wasn’t just a casual relationship; we were engaged to be married. So thank you. I hope that makes you feel like a real woman.”

She was quiet. I didn’t give her much of a chance to respond. I continued my attack for the next minute or so. Then somehow, in an instant, the conversation turned. I started to feel bad about how I was treating this woman and how abusive my behavior was.

I took a deep breath and quieted my temper. I paused for another moment. “You might not be sorry,” I began, calmer now. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m going to choose to forgive you. I don’t want to, but I know it’s the right thing to do.”

I hung up the phone following our exchange and walked some more. As the dazzling full moon lit my way, I thought about what I should do. Frankly, I didn’t know. A part of me still wasn’t ready to let go. Deep down in my heart, I wanted my relationship with Jeremy to work. I wanted to marry the father of my child. That was the way it was supposed to be, and that was what I wanted.

When I got back home, I told Jeremy we should take time apart to think. He didn’t have a place to go, so I let him stay in my apartment. I packed a few things the next morning, and Justin and I went to spend a few weeks with my mom.

When Jeremy and I separated, we were deep into the planning stages for the wedding. The invitations were sent out. We had the flowers. I had bought my dress. We already had the money from our buck and doe (or stag and doe) party, a Canadian wedding tradition for an engaged couple. Invited guests purchase tickets to attend the nuptial fundraiser and enjoy a couple hours of drinking, eating, and playing games.

Even with all signs pointing toward the obvious end of the relationship, I wondered if there was any way Jeremy and I could salvage the wedding. I know. I was nuts. And blind. There’s no other way around it; I was desperate. It’s what kept me oblivious to the signs that screamed, “Run,” “Leave,” “Chalk up your losses and call it a day.”

Almost a week later, while at my mom’s house, I got a call a little after midnight. I knew it couldn’t be good. No one called the house past ten o’clock.

“Hi,” said the voice on the other end of the telephone. I recognized it immediately. Even from that sole syllable, I knew Jeremy had been drinking and his alter ego Jack had taken over.

“Hey,” I said, still groggy from sleep.

Jeremy’s speech sounded a bit slurred. “I just wanted you to know who I’m sleeping with in your bed.” Pause. “Here she is.”

A woman got on the phone sounding puzzled. I could tell she didn’t know what Jeremy was up to. I recognized her voice too. It was a girl who’d been one of my best friends growing up.

I saw red. Rage ripped its way to the surface. I felt so betrayed. My heart was on its knees, begging me to do something, to end the insanity once and for all. I had tried to be the bigger, more mature person and had uprooted my life to let Jeremy stay in my apartment after he had just been unfaithful. And he had the audacity to cheat on me again, this time in my own home. In my very bed.

I dropped the phone to the ground, the echo of the dial tone bouncing off the walls. The anger finally shoved me into motion.
Go. Go. Go now!
I ran into my mom’s bedroom. “Mom, I gotta go. Please, you gotta take me!”

She panicked, not knowing what was going on, and practically fell out of bed. Stumbling over her own feet while pulling on a pair of sweats, she stuttered, “What? Where? What’s happening?”

I let it all out, telling her what had just happened. She didn’t hesitate for a second. She pulled herself together and drove me to my apartment. I hopped out of the car before she even came to a complete stop. I booked it down the hallway, my legs spinning like an old-school cartoon character, and threw the apartment door wide open. This was
my
home.
Mine.

The first thing I saw was Jeremy, two other guys, and my former best friend on the couch. Beer bottles were strewn all over the living room. They had been partying. I tried to stay calm. I swear I did. I tried to take a deep breath, but the anger had taken its toll.

“Get out of my house!” I yelled so loud the windows could have very well shattered. “All of you, get out!”

By this time my mom had caught up and stood behind me, ready to defend me if the situation required it. I was grateful she was there, even though I was so highly charged in that moment that I didn’t realize she had come to protect me.

My former friend couldn’t even look at me. Her eyes were glued to her shoes in embarrassment. She stood up along with the two guys. Meanwhile, Jeremy stayed firmly planted on the couch, crossing his legs and spreading his arms across the sides. He was claiming his territory. “Everyone sit down. No one is going anywhere,” he barked.

The trio looked at each other and then switched glances from me to a smug-faced Jeremy. They slowly inched their way down to the couch, unsure of whether to stay put or get the heck out of my apartment.

“Get out,” I repeated, my voice firm and threatening. “This is my home. My name is on the lease. Get out!”

They got up again, slowly, looking to Jeremy for direction.

“Stay put,” he warned with a menacing look on his face.

I knew I couldn’t fight this battle on my own. I picked up the nearby telephone and called the police. I said, “I have people in my house who won’t leave. Can you please escort them out?” If I couldn’t drag these fools out of my apartment, surely the men in blue could. I hung up the phone and threw Jeremy a satisfied grin.
How do you like them apples?

He jumped off the couch and in one swift move got in my face and started mocking me. “Get out of my house. Get out of my house,” he imitated with spite. We were nose to nose, so close—making it easy for one of us to do something really stupid. I decided I wasn’t going to let him be the last man standing. As he continued to make fun of my threats, I smashed the beer bottle he was holding straight into his teeth.

My mom gasped. We were all shocked, Jeremy most of all. As he put his hand to his mouth, drops of blood fell and mingled with the beer on the floor.

Jeremy seethed. He started yelling and tossing vile obscenities at me. “You bleeping bleep bleep bleep!” Then he gathered a few things, summoned the three puppets with him, and walked out of the apartment.

I was so angry. A lot of my emotions were still built up from the last battle Jeremy and I had fought. Even though it was over, a part of me didn’t want to give up the fight. I lunged forward and screamed out to Jeremy, “You—” My mother stepped in front of me, stopping me dead in my tracks. The door slammed and they were gone, leaving me to clean up the mess.

It was over. It was finally over. After four years of madness and heartbreak and confusion and stupidity and uncertainty, Jeremy and I called it quits for good. There would be no more apologies. No more running back into each other’s arms. No more trying to make it work. No more vain attempts to piece together the brokenness. We were done.

I came back to my apartment the next day. It was practically empty. Jeremy had taken all the furniture out of the house, leaving Justin and me with just a television.

A few weeks passed before Jeremy and I spoke again. I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he wanted to spend some time with Justin. As angry as I still was, I didn’t want to keep our son from his father.

When Jeremy came over for that visit, I noticed he hopped on my phone right before I walked out the door. As I said goodbye, he was distracted by the phone conversation and nodded absentmindedly in my direction. “See you, Pattie,” he said and went right back to chatting with whomever he was talking to.

I returned two hours later. Jeremy was still on the phone. “Who are you talking to?” I asked, annoyed, wondering if he had been on the phone the entire time.

“My mom,” he whispered without even looking up.

I couldn’t believe it. His mom lived in British Columbia. It was a two-hour-plus long-distance phone call that I’d have to pay for.

I was furious. “Have you been talking to her this whole time?”

Jeremy stood up just as he hung up the phone. He cocked his hip to one side and spread his legs like a cowboy. His face was plastered with an all-too-familiar arrogance as he haughtily challenged my question. “Um, yeah, so what’s it to you?”

I wanted to wipe the smugness right off his face. I couldn’t stand his audacious attitude. I had no time for it anymore. I had depleted my reserve of patience, and in yet another display of immature anger, I lost my composure. With all my might, I swung back my right leg and kicked him where the sun don’t shine.

Jeremy dropped to the floor, writhing in pain. He rolled around, moaning and trying to catch his breath. I’ll be honest: it was pretty satisfying seeing him in a moment of weakness. It felt good to be in control for once. But I knew deep down that it wasn’t the right thing to do. I also knew I could very well have just instigated a fight that had the potential to end badly, even in violence.

As my ex continued to groan muffled insults, fear gripped me. I started shaking. Though Jeremy had never been physically violent with me, I knew how strong he was and the temper he had. I knelt on the floor beside him and started apologizing. “I’m so sorry, Jay. I’m so sorry.” He continued to roll around the floor in agony from my strategically placed kick. “Please don’t hurt me,” I begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”

I was petrified at that point. It was anyone’s guess what would happen next.

Jeremy got up from the floor and in one move shoved me into the wall. I opened my eyes just as the spit from his mouth landed in my hair. Even though I hadn’t moved, I was out of breath, panting for air that wasn’t circulating fast enough.

My friend Missy, who had come back with me and had been in the other room, had run toward us. She bent down to pick up Justin as he crawled around the floor but froze when Jeremy yelled, “Don’t you touch him!”

As I leaned against the wall, sobbing, Jeremy picked up Justin and started dressing him in his snowsuit. We begged him not to take the baby. We cried and pleaded, but he was determined. Missy and I knew neither one of us was a match for Jeremy.

Justin wailed from the chaos of the blowout while Jeremy struggled to zip up Justin’s jacket. He suddenly stopped and put down the baby. He knew there was no reason to take Justin. Where would he go? What was he going to do with a baby? He didn’t even have any diapers for him.

The reality of the situation finally exasperated Jeremy, and he left.

A few days later, after the adrenaline finally subsided, we were able to be civil enough to talk about Justin and make arrangements for Jeremy to see him again. Outside of discussing our son, though, there was nothing left to say. We barely spoke much after that.

I’ve often wondered why I stayed so long. Why was I so desperate for Jeremy and me to work out? I think it’s simple—I was convinced there was a fairy tale that was reserved for me. A storybook ending that included a lifetime of love and happiness, an endless chorus of affirming words whispered in my ear by an adoring husband, and, of course, the standard-issue white picket fence.

I was always waiting for the moment when I would be loved and accepted beyond anything words or feelings could describe. And I thought Jeremy just might be the ticket to that fantasy. In a way, I was always optimistic—though you could argue naïve—that things would change. That he would see the light and love me the way I yearned to be loved. It was unfair of me to put so much expectation on Jeremy to meet all my unmet needs and fix all my brokenness. How could he? He was just as wounded as I was. And like me, he had no grid or reference for what a loving, nurturing relationship looked like.

It would take a long time, but eventually Jeremy and I got to the point where we maintained a healthy relationship. Though we’ve had our share of hurtful moments and on-and-off drama throughout the years, we’ve tried our best to keep our differences at bay. Today, I would even consider Jeremy a friend.

I once heard someone say, “It’s not hard to be a single mom, but it is hard to be a good one.” Single moms have to carry a heavy weight. It’s lonely. Tiring. Nothing prepares you for being a mom, even if you have support. You can read (like I did)
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
fifty times cover to cover. You can take a hundred parenting classes. You can listen to your mom, your friends, your neighbors, or the lady who does your hair talk until your ears fall off about their experiences. And you still won’t be ready.

When you’re on your own playing the roles of both parents and you walk out of the hospital carrying this wrinkly bundle of joy, you’re even less prepared. And when you’re not even out of your teen years, you just got thrown into a whole different game. It’s tough trying to swing the bat with that curve ball thrown at you. The pressure can at times feel overwhelming.

I felt like I had to do it all. I had to provide for Justin’s physical, emotional, financial, and developmental needs. I didn’t have a husband I could hand him off to if I needed an hour break. I had to suck it up and figure it out on my own. And as small as it may seem, not having a partner was also hard for me because I had to lug everything around myself. Do you know how strategic (and strong) you have to be to carry a baby, a diaper bag, and a bag of groceries while manipulating a stroller?

Then there’s discipline. I was in charge of setting limits, enforcing rules, and providing correction when necessary. It’s hard enough to mesh different parenting styles when you’re in a committed relationship; imagine how much harder it is to do when you’re apart. At times my efforts to discipline Justin were thwarted because of how Jeremy handled him when he spent time with him. It wasn’t always the case, but Jeremy admitted to me that he didn’t want to spend the little time he had with Justin disciplining him and playing the “bad guy.” I’m sure many parents feel the same way.

Unfortunately, it made my job a whole lot harder. I found myself having to be the bad guy while Jeremy was the fun parent or even the hero. The thing is, I’ve learned that children don’t just
need
discipline and boundaries, they actually
want
those things. Even though kids may resist or challenge discipline, it creates in them a sense of love and security. And that’s what I wanted for my son.

I survived single motherhood by sheer willpower and a ton of prayer. You do whatever you have to do. There really isn’t much time for complaints or wallowing in self-pity when you’re trying to change diapers, feed your baby, play detective to figure out why he’s crying, find ways to come up with money for baby stuff on top of rent and utilities, and get educated to create a better future for you and your little one.

Like most single mothers, I quickly discovered the art of survival mode. It’s not that I became numb in the process; it’s just that sometimes switching on autopilot is the only way to persevere. It’s what I needed to do to get through Justin’s early years. If I was tired from being up all night and had to work all day, I’d drink an extra cup of coffee. If I came home from work after a stressful day and realized rent was due in a few days, I’d figure out a way to find the money. If I felt lonely when I saw couples together with their child at the park, at the movies, or at the mall, I’d pull myself together and try not to let that heartbreak rub off on my baby. I came to accept that life isn’t always fair. That good things don’t always happen to good people. And that no one is immune to tough times.

Jeremy and I had our rough patches in the beginning of our son’s life. There were times he would make plans to see two-year-old Justin and not show up. My heart would break as I watched Justin sit on the front steps for hours, waiting for his daddy. I had to fight back the tears when I’d hear Justin ask with such longing, “Is he coming now, Mommy?” and then again an hour later, “Is Daddy coming soon, Mommy?” I’d always make excuses and pretend something had come up, reassuring Justin over and over that Daddy still loved him. “He’ll see you next time,” I’d promise.

I finally told Jeremy he had to stop disappointing his son this way. “If you don’t show up one more time without at least calling to cancel, I can’t allow you to see Justin anymore. It’s your choice. You can break his heart this way once but not over and over again.” I warned Jeremy not to call my bluff because I would keep good on my promise. Sadly, he did. A few days later, Jeremy was scheduled for a visit. Once again, he didn’t show, nor did he call. I put an end to his visits.

Frankly, I questioned my choice. I knew what it was like to grow up without a dad. Though I was sure it was the right thing to do, the only way I knew how to stop the cycle of crushing disappointment, it still broke my heart not to allow Jeremy to see his son. That’s why when he showed up two years later at church on Father’s Day and asked for another chance, I was hopeful. I so desperately wanted Justin to have a healthy dad around. I wanted my son to have what I didn’t have. Jeremy made a promise that he would never again break plans to see Justin without calling. To this day, he has kept his word. He has always shown up when promised.

(Although it took a long time for Jeremy to be present in Justin’s life on a consistent basis, Jeremy didn’t just show up when Justin became famous, contrary to what some media outlets have portrayed.)

While Jeremy was working on becoming a better father, we still had our share of drama. Whatever differences we had, however, we were intentional about not putting our son in the middle of our issues. We had both seen family members and friends use their children as pawns to hurt each other. We never wanted that to be the case in our relationship. So we always did our best not to bad-mouth each other in front of Justin, and we never withheld Justin from one another just because we were angry. We made sure Justin knew that both of us loved and cared for him, even though we weren’t together.

Today, Jeremy is a totally different person than he was when Justin was a baby. He has changed in many ways for the better. Being a father is his first priority. It’s evident in the way he is a full-time parent to his two younger children (from another relationship) and to Justin. I’m proud of what a great dad he has become.

When Justin was born, I hadn’t finished high school. I knew I had to eventually go back and get my diploma. I wanted to; I just didn’t have the money to pay someone to watch Justin while I was in school. Government assistance would pay for child care if I had a job, but they wouldn’t cover it while I was getting an education. Their guidelines didn’t make any sense. It was as if the government was trying to keep people from bettering themselves to ultimately get off the system.

My neighbor Mike would always remind me of the importance of education and encourage me to go back to school. He was a computer whiz. Mike came over one day to say hello. We chitchatted for a few minutes while one-year-old Justin crawled around on the floor, babbling away and playing with Mike’s shoelaces.

“So, Pattie . . .”

I knew what was coming.

“You gotta go back to school,” he sweetly reminded me as he always did. “You need your diploma.”

We had a long discussion that afternoon about my dilemma and the ridiculousness of the system. While I complained, Mike listened and tried to be helpful. I didn’t see him for a few weeks after we spoke.