“This isn’t my fault, Tim.” My hands tighten on the steering wheel, taking the worst of my aggression out on the leather. I stow the rest of the heat simmering beneath the surface. I don’t have many options left, and none of my standard problem-solving techniques have stopped my husband from being a jerk these past two weeks.
Why give up your lost cause now? A sarcastic voice asks.
The light on the side of the road flips to red, and I press the brake. Tim makes a noise of displeasure, and I’m unsure if it’s because of my driving or the conversation. A mechanical arm drops across the road, keeping us out of the railroad crossing while the flashing yellow lights warn a train is approaching. The first car hasn’t passed yet, but I can tell from the sound that it’s one of the long freight trains overflowing with construction materials and tanks of liquid rather than a passenger train. We’re going to sit here for a while.
My gaze slides to Tim, and my heart clenches a little. It’s like yearning, and I hate feeling it for my husband. His blonde hair drapes around his sky-blue eyes, and I have a knee-jerk reaction to tell him to cut it.
I know that judgmental voice is not my own, and like I often do, I push my father’s opinion out of my head.
My father is a hateful person, and so is Tim’s. On days like this, which is every day, I genuinely despise the man for the hatred he tried to sow in me, all in the name of his God. Most of the time, I’m not sure I believe in God at all, certainly not my father’s definition, and other days I believe as fervently as he does. And that is when I hate God even more than my father or myself.
Tim’s weathered band t-shirt clings to his abs, making him look forbidden and alluring, as does the general distaste for me radiating off him. I crave his approval so badly I could scream. I would crawl on my knees and beg for it if that wouldn’t turn him off more. He’s my husband, and we’re young. This is the part of our marriage where things should be easy—they are anything but.
My gaze drifts over the brick buildings surrounding us. This area used to be the state capital, but that was a few hundred years ago. Now, it’s run down, mildly impoverished, and crumbling away in places. The discolored red of the buildings sits in stark contrast with the blue sky, and I wish I could tell Tim how beautiful I find the world. But, unfortunately, I can’t because he hates it when I do.
Tim’s eyes prowl over the sidewalk. Despite knowing why he’s so hyper-vigilant, I can’t help the stabbing in my heart every time he monitors our surroundings. Rationally, he knows we’re far from home, but somewhere inside, he always thinks anyone could be watching the pastor’s daughter and the town drunk’s son.
Violent alcoholism did not preclude Timothy Baker senior from attending church or hinder his relationship with my father, the Pastor. In fact, the mean bastards are the best of friends, joined by their self-righteous indignation. Though they can’t find us here, I shiver at the thought of that possibility.
Tim and I married at twenty-two, fresh out of our local state college, though we had tried to do it at eighteen. The day after high-school graduation, we intended to elope, but his father got it into his head that Tim wanted to marry me because I was pregnant. His father beat him so severely that we needed to hold off, wait for him to heal, and attend the local college. I stayed by his side through all that.
Marriage was the only way for Tim and me to get free without our fathers trying to stop us after the first terrifying debacle. Once it was proven that I wasn’t pregnant, his father started to back our relationship. I believe as an admission of guilt over what he’d done to Tim. But whatever the case, they would have never let us leave the state alone, and our marriage was necessary. Regardless of the rather bumpy start, I thought we married for love. I believed we wanted to enjoy our freedom together.
I still do, but I’m not so sure Tim ever did.
The last eighteen months together haven’t gone as I hoped. Our persistent unhappiness was the last thing I expected when we moved east. The house we bought was supposed to be our dream home, a much-needed fresh start and the beginning of something good. Those expectations have gone so well that I’m headed to marriage counseling with a man who hates me and sees his father in every older dark-haired man we pass.
The metallic shaking of the tracks and the screaming whistle make conversation impossible, so I inspect the deep lines around Tim’s eyes and jaw as I wait. The ever-present flush in his cheeks softens me, de-escalating my anger. I’ve always wanted to make his life easier, not more complicated. He deserves peace, and what we currently have is so far from it.
My father “whooped” me or beat my bare butt with his belt when I did something wrong, but Tim’s father is a worse monster than mine. Memories of Tim broken and bleeding fill my mind, and I blink hard to clear the gathering tears. What are a few white lines scarring my backside compared to broken bones, tee—
“I know you think it’s my fault.” I strain to hear Tim’s words over the noise.
Mercifully, he’s oblivious to the direction of my thoughts. I’m grateful he’s not thinking about why we left home or what his father did to him. My heart aches for Tim and has done so ever since we were kids, but his anger is wearing me thin. His words have sharp edges, and even the mild ones sting. It’s been two weeks since I walked into the bathroom and found him doing the thing I’m too embarrassed to say.
I’m not even sure why he’s so angry. Before I even made this appointment, he was furious that I opened an unlocked door. But no matter how much I want to lose my mind, I am a peacekeeper at heart.
I wait for the caboose to pass before I answer, “I don’t think it’s necessarily your fault, but I am not the one being mean. You are.” I sniff back a tear as I turn onto the highway that leads to the fancy new medical complex on the outskirts of town.
“I’m being mean because you’re making us do all this. Why can’t you get over it?!” I’m not surprised he can’t say what it is. I don’t think I can either.
“Do not yell at me. We have been married for eighteen months, and—” The tears on my lashes cloud my vision making it hard to drive. “You know exactly why I can’t let it go, but please, let’s just talk about this when we get there. It’s not safe to get emotional behind the wheel.”
I grind my teeth, realizing my father’s words slipped out.
“Fine,” he agrees, hearing what I did.
I pull up outside of the all-glass building. More and more of these super medical complexes have been going up lately. This space used to be a strip mall. When we first moved here, I cried in the dressing room of the discount clothing store because I felt like such a worthless whore wearing one of the outfits I loved and longed for. I still bought it, even though I’ve never worked up the nerve to wear the ensemble. My chest twinges uncomfortably, bringing me back to the present, and I refocus on the tower now standing in its place.
I pull the car into a spot and turn the engine off. Tim won’t look at me as I face him. “Is this how it’s going to be now? I thought you loved me.” The words are sad, manipulative even, and I know it. Still, his rejection stings as much as his betrayal because, despite our situation, I have always loved Tim.
“I do love you. I’m just…” He drops his handsome face into his hands and hisses in aggravation. “Let’s see if this guy can help, okay?”
“Yeah.” A brief flare of satisfaction sparks in my chest at him yielding to me, but it dies just as quickly.
We walk inside at a respectable distance. It’s an old habit to “leave space for the lord” between us. Since we left home, we have worked hard to dispel old hang-ups, but this isn’t about those so much as our current issues; the discontent in our marriage runs deep. I reach for his hand, and I don’t let the hurt show when he pretends not to notice. Tim already thinks I’m pathetic.
The spacious lobby sits almost empty. The glass ceiling matches the building exterior, arching dramatically into the sky and letting the soft spring sun pour in. The desire to sit in a comfortable chair and stare at the sky floods me, but the only seats available are a pair of austere benches beneath the giant directory mounted to the gray wall. Under the heading Sunrise Mental Health Services is the name Shane Nelson MD. We find the elevator and hit the button for the third floor.
A pop song with a sexy beat plays softly in the background, and my skin prickles. The fear that I’ll get caught listening and get in trouble is still deeply ingrained in me. In addition, I’m shivering from the early spring air and the draft in the lobby, and the combination has my teeth rattling. Part of me hopes that Tim will wrap an arm around me and offer me some comfort or warmth, but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t. Affection has never come easily to us.
The elevator opens to another empty room. It makes sense that there isn’t a secretary everywhere we turn, but it feels ominous to be so alone. This building is so massive I doubt doctors occupy even half the offices, and with the population of this city, they probably never will, but I am surprised we haven’t seen anyone.
Unlike the board downstairs, this sign holds more empty spaces than filled ones. Sunrise Mental Health and an osteologist top the otherwise empty list.
This place is creepy.
We head left. The hallway seems to lengthen and narrow in equal measure increasing my anxiety, like in one of those old cartoons I watched with the older kids behind my parents’ back in the church basement. Tim’s footsteps thump unnaturally loud. Is he trying to increase the tempo of my racing heart, or is he being petulant?
By the time Tim pulls the door back, I’m second-guessing every life choice that’s led to this moment. Should I have let what I saw go? Or endeavored to do the same thing myself? I try my hardest not to think of the one time I did and how improper it felt.
A pretty young woman sits behind a desk in the center of the simple office space, and while I’m relieved there’s someone besides Tim and me in this building, I’m embarrassed to meet her eyes with those thoughts so fresh in my mind. An intricate bun sits in a spiral on her head, brown curls hang artfully near her temples, and I resent my plainness by comparison.
The office is simply, if not sparsely, decorated. The cream walls soften the glaring fluorescents. Had they been white, the place would have looked like an asylum, and I kick myself for the thought. That’s a flattering way to think of my psychiatrist. The receptionist smiles at Tim a moment too long before greeting me.
“Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“Good morning,” Tim answers for the two of us out of habit. He doesn’t believe that he owns me or that being a man makes him superior, but that doesn’t change the fact that he often acts that way. Old habits are hard to break. “I’m Timothy Baker, and this is my wife Sera. We have an appointment with Doctor Nelson.”
“Of course.” Her brow raises in mild disbelief as she judges us as a pair and decides that I got lucky. Maybe I did since my husband is hot and a good provider. I imagine we could be great if it weren’t for that one thing. “The two of you need to fill out a little paperwork, and Shane will be with you shortly.”
My lips purse at her calling the doctor by his first name. Most doctors I’ve known insist on being addressed by their formal titles, and I can’t say I blame them. If I spent that long in school, I would want people to call me “doctor” too. Tim doesn’t touch me but guides me toward the chairs he likes with the force of his presence. I hate that I understand this subconscious communication and that he still uses it.
He hands me the paperwork, silently claiming he’s no good at it. I know that’s not true. He doesn’t want to, but I don’t complain and fill in the information in silence. Every bit of personal information he should know, I remember for him. My chest twinges as I write his birthday.
Tim turned twenty-four last month. That was an uncomfortable gathering. I don’t even think his friends knew he had a wife before then. I certainly didn’t know any of them. Being only three months behind him, we’ll be the same age again soon. I won’t have a slew of secret friends at my party because they don’t exist.
I’m finishing up as the girl behind the desk says, “He’s ready for you.”
I stand awkwardly, feeling out of place and insignificant, as I try again to take Tim’s hand, and he ignores it. This time, we both know that he saw. He waves for the secretary to lead the way, and we follow her. It’s hard to miss Tim watching the sway of her hips. Does he watch me like that? I wouldn’t know because he would be standing behind me, but somehow I doubt it.
She leads us down another long hall, and I swear it’s only so she can shake her ass for my husband. I gasp slightly, placing my hands over my parted lips. I’m not usually this type of person, and my jealousy surprises me.
Tim’s eyes censure me with his disapproval, and I can hear his unspoken demands, What is wrong with you? Shut up.
The look I give him conveys my apology, and I once again hate this unconscious dance we’re trapped in.
I turn back to the plain walls, trying to focus on anything else. The decor is bland, with a few more landscape portraits and nameplates on the various doors. There are more doctors in this practice than I realized, but it’s so quiet that I wonder where they all are. She knocks on one before opening it.
There’s a gust of cool air as we step inside like the air conditioner is set to high even though it’s not yet summer. The rich smell of books and leather wraps around me, calming my fried nerves. I don’t know who I expect behind that door, but it’s not the God I see.
