The Fog Is Like a Cage Without a Key (Part II)
June 9, 2009Jenny stares through the darkness at the ceiling. She isn't looking at me, I can tell, even though my head is on her chest, because she hasn't really been able to look at me now for a few days. "I feel like I've already lost you, you just haven't left yet," she says in a flattened tone that scares me. I don't really understand what she means, but I know enough to know that she believes it.
"You're going to get better," I tell her for the eleventh time today, and the fortieth time this week. But I'm certain this time she heard me. This time it'll make a difference. This time everything will be fixed and healed. This time we can get back to normal.
"Maybe I will," she replies. "I just don't see how we come out of this in a relationship. And right now, all I see is tunnel. I don't see any light, I can only see tunnel."
I lift my head toward hers, and she still doesn't look at me. "Listen to me," I say, "I'm here, aren't I?" Please let this talk-down be the last. Please, Lord, let it work this time.
And then she starts crying again, a wracking, sobbing cry that absolutely breaks my heart, the more so because I'm still convinced it's my fault. She turns away from me and curls into a fetal position, and all I can do is put a hand on her arm, stroke it gently, take a deep breath, forget my own pain, forget the questions of why, what I did this time, what I can do to stop this, what I can do to stop it from happening again, why all this has happened, why I said the things I did a few weeks ago, why, how, what... shove all that down, and wait.