Childless
By: RDV
She looks at him and all she sees is a marriage in decline, perilously close to its demise. No, it isn’t even a marriage to begin with; it’s deception, right off the bat. Anyone can see it fully, all that’s missing is acceptance from both parties. Some days ago her housewife neighbor told her she’s sorry for her. She just kept mum, knowing that the circumstances are fucked up when someone who has been battered by her spouse many times feels sorry for her.
Now he’s leaving again, off to paradise unknown to her for good or for bad. And it means another span of long waiting in the dark with the lamplight flickering beside her and the door, far off, won’t be expecting return until morning. Yes, at dawn. The door has been too used being disturbed at such time it can just do so automatically as though it has a mind on its own.
Tonight is the last straw, as were the nights preceding this. She thinks about him and his nineteen-year-old paramour, because of whom her life has been aggravated at such degree, because of whom the relationship had been further jinxed. The other woman is young, the better half isn’t. The latter wonders why men can never keep up with old age, why they change lovers faster than a snake changes its skin. Even now there is no point to waiting as she knows his exculpating story even before the first syllable putters out of his lips. The variations of his story have become old and she’s heard all of them bad versions. They’re paltry and dramatic at the same time. Seeing that, both gave up the need to explain.
Oh damn. That’s all she can say right now, the solitude notwithstanding. After reaching a certain point, her anger just subsided to nothing.
He can’t even give her a child. When young she was like a first-time soldier, full of anticipation for a fruitful life. She was beautiful, which is why he took her in the first place. Now, forty-five, the traces of beauty have gradually abandoned their residence in her body. They took off, one by one, saying goodbye to her as she faced the mirror. The only difference between them and her husband is that, they were sorry to go.
She saw young women. She saw pretty young women whose lives weren’t nearly as broken as hers. Since then she’s been pushing a boulder uphill. The one thing that played on and on inside her was to retrieve youth so as to finagle her husband back to her. She thought that all he needed was that. She thought it was going to be easy through and through.
And in her vexation and rash impulse, plastic surgery was the key. Artificial beauty was fine. Undergoing it was painful but that was nothing compared to what it should result in. She almost went mad through the process. Anguish, anxiety and strange excitement, all mixed themselves inside as recipes for a cake of heartbreak. One big heartbreak yet again.
She was pretty again, but without conviction and well-nigh dead. She realized that the change was one of the things that caused regrets later. Her self-confidence struck all-time low even if her husband had become modest in her philandering. For a reason or another she lost grasp of the cause why she’d undergone face lift to start with. She no longer craved for his caresses. She no longer cared for what he might tell her every time he came in fresh from some hot sex with a much younger girl and his face a telltale sign of his erstwhile ecstasy. But she still waits for him, asks him where he’s been as he shuts the door gently behind him, pauses to catch his breath and announces his empty-handed return. He will answer "nowhere", as if it were that easy to comprehend, and she’ll be hoping that the word has a higher meaning or something. She will say "fine", the word causing her some doubt as she says it. He will shut up thereafter in her favor. And silence will take over.
Silence is worse than insolence.
But tonight he is late, by pure mistake or deliberation. She doesn’t know anymore.
As she lays she thinks of a child. She doesn't know how much time, years, had gone by since her last chance at motherhood disappeared. She has made a point of borrowing her nieces and nephews to spend some quality time with them. Their driver whose deaf-and-mute baby has lately been the object of her maternal fantasies. She doesn’t mind the lowered cost of living of being barren,but they can afford to adopt what with the small-unit family they’ve had since time immemorial. Like the slow unraveling of a tale, the child that should’ve come to her, young in her arms, fragile and beautiful. Her husband doesn’t seem of the same mind as her in this matter and his failure to understand quite simply abominates her. How come he never dreamed of being a dad? How come he’s never similarly affected by his sterility? How come there is always a separate fear between them? How does he suppose he'd pay that size of debt, being unable to beget a child? She can well see what he’s thinking. Always.
The hours drained off, unmarked in their transition. The room starts to lighten with the orange light of the morning. The phone rings. As she picks it up, her mind goes off somewhere again. The voice from the other end is asking if this is the home of Albert Barillio. Assessing the weight of the voice, she discovered that it has a serious ring to it. She mutters a low affirmative. Somehow, she just knew that something happened. The voice is apologizing to her now, it says it’s sorry but her husband got caught in an accident. Must be drunk-driving. She says "yes" again. Her tone is steady, tired and very much like falling asleep. She says she’ll be at the crash site soon. Soon.
She puts the phone down. As she goes to the sink to wash her face, she thinks of the foregone child. She opens the door to their bedroom, but not to procure the car key, but to sleep the morning away. Her dead husband is the one to wait for her from now on. She sleeps emboldened, no longer burdened. She sleeps like before and the emptiness that she so tried to get used to is her present and cushy companion now, and ever.
Instead of falling into chaos, things start falling into place, finally.
She looks at him and all she sees is a marriage in decline, perilously close to its demise. No, it isn’t even a marriage to begin with; it’s deception, right off the bat. Anyone can see it fully, all that’s missing is acceptance from both parties. Some days ago her housewife neighbor told her she’s sorry for her. She just kept mum, knowing that the circumstances are fucked up when someone who has been battered by her spouse many times feels sorry for her.
Now he’s leaving again, off to paradise unknown to her for good or for bad. And it means another span of long waiting in the dark with the lamplight flickering beside her and the door, far off, won’t be expecting return until morning. Yes, at dawn. The door has been too used being disturbed at such time it can just do so automatically as though it has a mind on its own.
Tonight is the last straw, as were the nights preceding this. She thinks about him and his nineteen-year-old paramour, because of whom her life has been aggravated at such degree, because of whom the relationship had been further jinxed. The other woman is young, the better half isn’t. The latter wonders why men can never keep up with old age, why they change lovers faster than a snake changes its skin. Even now there is no point to waiting as she knows his exculpating story even before the first syllable putters out of his lips. The variations of his story have become old and she’s heard all of them bad versions. They’re paltry and dramatic at the same time. Seeing that, both gave up the need to explain.
Oh damn. That’s all she can say right now, the solitude notwithstanding. After reaching a certain point, her anger just subsided to nothing.
He can’t even give her a child. When young she was like a first-time soldier, full of anticipation for a fruitful life. She was beautiful, which is why he took her in the first place. Now, forty-five, the traces of beauty have gradually abandoned their residence in her body. They took off, one by one, saying goodbye to her as she faced the mirror. The only difference between them and her husband is that, they were sorry to go.
She saw young women. She saw pretty young women whose lives weren’t nearly as broken as hers. Since then she’s been pushing a boulder uphill. The one thing that played on and on inside her was to retrieve youth so as to finagle her husband back to her. She thought that all he needed was that. She thought it was going to be easy through and through.
And in her vexation and rash impulse, plastic surgery was the key. Artificial beauty was fine. Undergoing it was painful but that was nothing compared to what it should result in. She almost went mad through the process. Anguish, anxiety and strange excitement, all mixed themselves inside as recipes for a cake of heartbreak. One big heartbreak yet again.
She was pretty again, but without conviction and well-nigh dead. She realized that the change was one of the things that caused regrets later. Her self-confidence struck all-time low even if her husband had become modest in her philandering. For a reason or another she lost grasp of the cause why she’d undergone face lift to start with. She no longer craved for his caresses. She no longer cared for what he might tell her every time he came in fresh from some hot sex with a much younger girl and his face a telltale sign of his erstwhile ecstasy. But she still waits for him, asks him where he’s been as he shuts the door gently behind him, pauses to catch his breath and announces his empty-handed return. He will answer "nowhere", as if it were that easy to comprehend, and she’ll be hoping that the word has a higher meaning or something. She will say "fine", the word causing her some doubt as she says it. He will shut up thereafter in her favor. And silence will take over.
Silence is worse than insolence.
But tonight he is late, by pure mistake or deliberation. She doesn’t know anymore.
As she lays she thinks of a child. She doesn't know how much time, years, had gone by since her last chance at motherhood disappeared. She has made a point of borrowing her nieces and nephews to spend some quality time with them. Their driver whose deaf-and-mute baby has lately been the object of her maternal fantasies. She doesn’t mind the lowered cost of living of being barren,but they can afford to adopt what with the small-unit family they’ve had since time immemorial. Like the slow unraveling of a tale, the child that should’ve come to her, young in her arms, fragile and beautiful. Her husband doesn’t seem of the same mind as her in this matter and his failure to understand quite simply abominates her. How come he never dreamed of being a dad? How come he’s never similarly affected by his sterility? How come there is always a separate fear between them? How does he suppose he'd pay that size of debt, being unable to beget a child? She can well see what he’s thinking. Always.
The hours drained off, unmarked in their transition. The room starts to lighten with the orange light of the morning. The phone rings. As she picks it up, her mind goes off somewhere again. The voice from the other end is asking if this is the home of Albert Barillio. Assessing the weight of the voice, she discovered that it has a serious ring to it. She mutters a low affirmative. Somehow, she just knew that something happened. The voice is apologizing to her now, it says it’s sorry but her husband got caught in an accident. Must be drunk-driving. She says "yes" again. Her tone is steady, tired and very much like falling asleep. She says she’ll be at the crash site soon. Soon.
She puts the phone down. As she goes to the sink to wash her face, she thinks of the foregone child. She opens the door to their bedroom, but not to procure the car key, but to sleep the morning away. Her dead husband is the one to wait for her from now on. She sleeps emboldened, no longer burdened. She sleeps like before and the emptiness that she so tried to get used to is her present and cushy companion now, and ever.
Instead of falling into chaos, things start falling into place, finally.
posted by Ria D. at
8:45 PM
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