Every Tuesday morning he sits down
in the second and final chair in the room and asks my husband what he’d like to
talk about today. He always opens the door 30 seconds before 11 o’clock and
then smiles when he sees my husband sitting there, as if he’s forgotten there’s
no choice for either of them in the matter. He shuts the door quietly, without
the general clack and bang of metal and wood attempting to fuse together in a
way that should have never been made possible, and I find myself standing on
the other side of the door in contemplation about the situation, just like
every other Tuesday morning.
The
dusty, gray blinds smoothed up against the window that make no noise as they
swing back and forth, the sterilized silver of the door handle covered in the
gentle grip of fingerprints and the little metal plaque below the window with
the letters ‘Dr. Allaway, Psychiatrist’ engraved upon it.
I
enter the room at 20 after and as usual, only the doctor notices, his eyes
flickering to me before going back to the papers on his lap. He’s finally lost
that scared, nervous look of uncertainty he thought he’d been hiding every time
he laid eyes on me. My husband’s eyes remain fixed to whatever spot on the
floor he’s focusing on, attempting to remain within the silence.
I probably should be calling him my ex-husband though, yet I can’t manage to
staple the words down onto my tongue and force them to stay. It’s strange how
we find it fit to label those moments that once consumed our lives, it’s almost
like I’m admitting a mistake. And yet here we all are, the man I decided to
marry one day, seven years ago, the doctor in the opposite chair and me, a
shadow against the wall.
And
then the conversation starts, or rather, it attempts to. Perhaps this will be
the day there is crying, the big, gushing tears that roll down my ex-husbands
cheeks, filling his lips with a saltiness that drowns out his apologetic pleas,
that he didn’t mean to do it.
Or
the rage that has nowhere to be directed. The chairs are bolted to the floor
and there is nothing else within the confines of the room. No little paintings
of general scenery, puppies and children running through a sunny field. No
shelving units, no tables or throw rugs. Even the blinds are behind a second sheet
of glass.
But
someway or another, the confession will break, my ex-husband on the floor or
huddled in his chair, the doctor thanking him for his time and the guards’ soft
knock at the door. They’ll carry him out; whispering soft reassurances, promises
of applesauce for desert, medication, a rest and finally the door snicks shut
once more, leaving the two of us alone.
He’s
still sitting down, the papers abandoned on the floor beneath his chair, his
hair going slightly gray at the roots in a way that’s starting to bother him, a
few days growth outlining his face and the same tired resolution in his eyes as
he finally looks up and meets mine.
I smile. He smiles, though not a strongly as I do. Tracing his face, I let my
fingers walk under his chin and brush my lips against his, hoping this time
he’ll be able to feel my skin against his.
Nothing.
He
kisses me back, his hands tracing where my face would be if I were physical.
“I’ll see you next week,” he whispers.
