Rent
I made the choice so he wouldn't carry the blame.
The phone rang.
“It's your choice, Breanna.”
It was a set-up—it had all been a set-up—and he would be the hero in this story to those he told.
The date was January 31, 2016, my 24th birthday.
That bungalow on Heron Road housed his parents, and since my parents were excommunicated from us, we spent many hours here. They were the grandparents my children knew in their early years.
The whole family surrounded me as I sat on the beige couch that perched itself on the edge of the wide east-facing window, the one his mother used to spy on the neighbours with.
“Happy Birthday, Babe!” - he exclaimed as he handed me a card.
I love receiving cards over gifts. As a writer, when my partner takes the time to handwrite me a card, I giggle and kick my feet as though I am 14, and the boy I like just winked at me from across the cafeteria. I light up like a Christmas Tree.
He was that fourteen-year-old boy who winked at me, not from the cafeteria, the cult sanctuary and the fellowship hall. After standing in worship of ‘Sky Daddy,’ he would turn around, find me in the crowd and wink. It became routine. I knew his seat; it was in the Middle section on the right, the second row from the front, and the end chair. Post cult service, the young boys who were not yet 16 stood in the deep left corner, huddled in a circle. As a doomsday girlie does, when every wink could be the last, I would walk up the fellowship hall's stairs to the middle landing, look over to the corner and wait for him to look up; when he did, he winked, and my heart tripped. He had three button-down dress shirts he rotated in wear that kept me in a chokehold: white, black and light blue. On those days, the winks had an extra je ne sais quoi. I was going to marry that winky boy, mine from the tender age of eight, my childhood sweetheart.
Eighteen and courting, he was my Romeo. My bedroom dresser bubbled with ripped pieces of paper that came with poems he had written just for me. I was his life support, off of the high his poetry gave. My ‘good girl’ innocence he used as the shade for his demons.
With “I do,” the poetry faded.
In marriage, his demons emerged into the sunlight.
Celebrating his wife was not of importance to him. Year after year, I diverted my sadness by burying myself in the darkness of creating excuses for his absence of love.
“ It’s ok, we don’t have the money to celebrate this year.”
“When he can, he will.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“My family is all I need.”
“I know he loves me.”
Just as a blanket provides comfort in the cold, the excuses I wrote were my blanket from his careless doings.
Twenty-four, it would be excuse-free.
The scene, a wintry wonderland, was perfect; I opened the birthday card.
Two airplane tickets to New York City for April fall into my lap.
Disbelief and fear camouflaged as screams of:
“Oh my goodness!”
“Are you serious?”
“Is this real?”
“You’re joking.”
“I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! WE ARE GOING TO NEW YORK!!”
“You’re going to New York, and we are going to keep the kids for you,” his mom and sister-in-law chimed in.
It was a mystery to purchase and surprise me with the tickets; it was a contrasting phenomenon to everything. He also booked the childcare.
BEST. BIRTHDAY. EVER.
Or so it was… in theory.
New York became my entire personality. It was all I could eat, sleep and breathe: New York, my Jesus. I begged Christ not to come for us for the following three months. He could come the day I returned from vacation. It wasn’t too much to ask of the almighty, right??
I shopped for a few new pieces to take to NYC over the months that preceded April. We would soak in a Broadway show, Times Square and eat our weight in NYC-style pizza and hotdogs. This would be the first couple's trip since the honeymoon and the birth of three babies. A whirlwind weekend of falling closer together is what a doctor would have ordered.
However, NYC tore us further apart without ever stepping foot.
A week before our travel date, I pulled out our suitcase from down in the duplex basement, up two stairwells and threw it passionately onto our queen-sized bed. My excitement was palpable! We had not yet flown together on an airplane.
I become a kid in a candy store when I hear the ‘click click click’ the wheels of luggage make on the tile of the airport floors and to be with my husband, going to the city of my dreams, I was going to rupture from merriment.
With piles of outfits laid out on the bed, the phone rang,
“Hi, Babe!” - I shouted.
“Hi,” he replied in a whisper.
“I’m packing for New York. What would you like me to pack for you?” - I asked.
Silence.
“Babe?”
“Babe, you there?”
“Did you hang up on me?” - I questioned.
That’s all it took; I knew it was over before it began.
He spoke firmly.
“We are not going.”
“What do you mean we are not going?” - I retorted
“Either we go or pay the rent this month; your choice, Breanna.” - he said audaciously.
This was not my choice. He manipulated me to lay the blame on me if I chose NYC and we couldn’t make rent on the 1st of May.
After a phone call brawl, I ended it with,
“Fine, we won’t go!” as I threw my phone onto the carpet.
The tears flowed steadily, taking my voice.
I pushed the suitcase and piled outfits off the bed onto the floor. I can’t tell you how long they stayed put. I held vast disdain.
To this day, I have not forgiven him, and when people give me a gift, I (silently) question their motives. I am working on it in therapy.
In the entirety of our relationship, we did not occupy airplane seats.
He is not the hero of this story, which made me choose to stay. It was his responsibility to ensure we would go. After all, it was a birthday gift.
Oh, to be celebrated.
Happy Birthday, Bre.
What a bastard he was so fucked up