I sit in the dim light of my apartment and watch my two children sleep, thinking about the decision I'm going to soon have to make, and every time I do my stomach clenches up. Am I a wimp or the most forgiving son of a bitch on this planet?
How many times can a person be forgiven? Two, three, more, before the words 'I'm sorry' just don't cut it anymore? In the last four and a half days I have flip flopped so many times I feel like a fish out of water gasping for breath. Like the fish my time is also running out, tomorrow is decision day.
I too should be sleeping, but tomorrow arrives in less than six hours, and even though I think I know what I want, I'm not sure it's possible. Any decision I make is going to affect my kids, our estranged marriage, and what's left of my family. I just wish God, in his infinite wisdom, would give me a glimpse into the future so I don't screw this up again. Oh well, no matter what I decide I know it won't give me the fairytale life I once thought I had, but at least it will give me some closure, one way or another.
So, I give each a kiss on the top of their head, sit in the big overstuffed chair by the window, and look out at the lights below, hoping once more for a little divine guidance that I know won't come. I'm on my own on this one and can only hope I get it right this time.
'**************************
As soon as he walked through the front door I knew why he was there. Jeans, tee shirt, and sandals, I thought he'd at least be wearing a suit. Looking down the main aisle he spotted me and walked towards me like any normal customer would.
"Are you Stephen Moore?"
"Maybe," I replied. Not to be deterred he looked at the picture attached to what he was carrying, then back at me.
"Mr. Moore, you are served." He handed me the brown manila envelope I saw him walk in with.
I didn't open it. I just tossed it on the counter by the cash register. I wasn't surprised, though I hadn't expected it just yet. Hell, we weren't arguing anymore, but I guess not talking was about the same thing. I pushed my wheelchair towards the front door.
I screamed at the server who was just walking out the door. "Tell her this changes nothing." He didn't give a shit; he had done what he came to do and left. I was nothing to him.
"What did he want?" my sister, Sue, asked, walking up behind me.
"He just wanted to tell me I no longer have a marriage."
She looked at the paperwork and shook her head. "Both of you are such idiots, neither one of you deserves those two wonderful children of yours." This wasn't the first or last time my sister would go off on me.
"Just get the papers to Gary and tell him I want full custody, and to make sure she gets nothing." It had been a long, stressful six months. All I wanted was to go home and sleep until I woke up, or not, because at this point I no longer cared.
Was I angry? I was way over that, but self-pity came to mind. We'd both played stupid ass games with one another, though looking at where I currently was at, I think she got the better of the deal.
'***************************
I was only fourteen when my father, sister, and I buried my mother. She had just turned forty and thought she had her best years ahead of her, but it wasn't to be.
You see, my mom was overweight, and not just a little. Standing all of five foot four, she tipped the scales at almost three hundred pounds. She was the best cook in the world and loved to eat. Hell, she lived to eat. How my sister and I remained thin all those years growing up is still a mystery. I guess being hyper kids and always being active had a lot to do with it.
Everyone, especially Dad, was always on Mom about her weight. She would lose a few pounds on this diet or that one. A month later those pounds were back on and most of the time they'd brought along a couple of their friends.
"You worry too much," she would often tell us. "My mother was a big woman and so was my grandmother. They both lived until their middle nineties, so don't worry." But we did.
When Mom's doctor put her on a strict diet she switched doctors. When she started having a hard time moving around, and her ankles looked like two balloons, we begged her to lose weight. She just became more sedentary, though she still managed to cook even more.
It was a Thursday night, we were all sitting in the living room watching the stand up comedians on the Comedy Central channel on television. They were so funny I thought I was going to pee in my pants I was laughing so hard. Then it happened. Mom stopped laughing, her eyes got big with panic, and her mouth opened—nothing came out. Her flailing hands and arms tried to tell us what was wrong. We got the message too late. She fell forward onto the floor remaining lucid for a moment or two longer before finally closing her eyes. My sister had already called 911.
My dad and I rolled her over onto her back. I never knew my dad knew CPR, but he did. He did his best, we all did, but it made no difference. My mom still died that night.
The doctors told my dad, and he told us, Mom had had a massive heart attack along with a stroke, and even if she had lived, she probably would have been paralyzed on the right side of her body.
"Mr. Moore, your wife's heart just couldn't take the stress of carrying around that much extra weight."
The surprise came when her autopsy showed this wasn't the first heart attack she had experienced. There were signs of previous damage, showing she'd had three minor ones prior to the massive one that killed her.
I heard the phrase, 'if only' too many times over the next week before we laid Mom to rest. We were all devastated. After a while I thought life would go on normally for us again, it didn't.
My parents owned a small hardware store with my Uncle Roy. Previously my dad had spent about fifty hours a week there, but after Mom died, he never seemed to come home anymore, and even when he did, he wasn't really there.
His usual routine now was to get up at about six o'clock in the morning, go to Denny's for breakfast, spend ten to twelve hours at the store, and then two more hours at a local tavern before coming home. He repeated this six days a week. When he got busted for a D.U.I. he took a cab to and from our house, but his routine never changed.
"Dad, you're burning the candle at both ends, you can't keep this up," Sue would plead with him, it did no good. His life now revolved around work, food, and booze. My sister became the mother, I the father, and Dad? Well, he became the walking corpse of the family.
