Round 2 Winner: You Try to Fix the Sink
You wait until your husband's snores are loud and consistent before you slip out of bed. Your nightgown feels too light for the task at hand, but you don't want to risk going through your closet for something sturdier. You move as quietly as you can and close the bedroom door behind you.
There is a bookshelf in the living room, you hope to find something on plumbing but the shelf is sparse. There are a few best sellers, a handful of romance novels and a mystery book. They are all yours, read until the spines had broken and the pages peeled away from the glue.
Your husband has never been much of a reader... you had been. But he doesn't like spending money on books and your mother's warnings always sound between your ears whenever you want to get a new one: men don't like clever girls. Sometimes you won out, you could convince the version of her in your head that it was a romance the neighbors were reading, it was a popular book marked down. Wasn't it frugal? Don't girls read about love?
But a book on plumbing is beyond you.
You walk to the closet where your husband keeps his repair kits... kit. A red metal box so heavy you have to use both hands to pry it from the shelf. You shuffle to the kitchen, panting, and set it down by the sink. You remember your father had once tried to teach you how to repair things around the house. Your mother had been showing your sister how to sew a zipper to a skirt and your father had secreted you away. You'd giggled as you lay by his side inside the cabinetry the flashlight bobbing in your hands.
His voice had rumbled through the wood as he explained what he was doing and why.
Then your mother had shrilled asking him what he thought he was doing. You hadn't answered and your father had smiled sheepishly saying he wanted you to know how to fix things. Then came the old argument:
Why would she need to know that? She'll have a man to take care of it.
It ended the way it always did. You used to wish your father would fight for you, but he'd nod his head and say I guess I'll leave the rearing to the womenfolk. And your mom would nod as if that was how things were supposed to be.
Your mother had never seemed to understand that your life would be different than hers. You think she imagined you and your sister living like perfect copies of her with perfect copies of your father and all he could do.
Your husband can't do repairs but he can afford repairmen. The problem is that he's flighty, his head's always in the clouds, seeing some bigger picture he never manages to explain in a way that makes sense. But you understand that it is grand and filled with clever children and vacations to far away places.
So you sort through the box trying to remember what your father had told you, looking for the tools he'd kept by his side... you'd need a bucket too... a flashlight... Your heart starts to thrum at the idea of fixing something yourself when the light turns on.
Your husband stands in the doorway watching you squint up at him from an unlady like crouch. You stand abruptly. Brush at your nightgown.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asks. You feel the words echo through time.
You pause, staring at the tools and you aren't sure there's a lie that will get you out of this. "I... I thought about fixing it myself. The sink," you flinch at how childlike you sound. You almost look back and imagine your father's apologetic smile. It would bring everything full circle.
Your husband pinches the skin above his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Didn't I tell you I'd call Pete?"
"...y-you've been saying that for weeks," you whisper.
"Because Pete's a busy guy," he shouts and you flinch.
You wring your hands together. Your husband has never hit you. He's a good man, but sometimes you worry you'll push too far and end up like your sister.
Her husband had called her "headstrong".
You blink away tears. "I just need the sink."
"God, do you think I can call him right now? In the middle of the night?" he gestures at the dark windows. "He's probably sleeping because his wife isn't stupid enough to make a racket in the middle of the night. Don't you care that I have work tomorrow?"
You swallow. Your eyes pin to the floor. "I'm sorry."
Your husband grabs the toolkit in one hand and your wrist in the other. You're dragged from the kitchen.
________________________________________________________________
You're doing the dishes. This time you are clever enough to keep the sharp things in a bowl beside the sink. The water still backs up, murky and white. It's not that bad, you tell yourself. You're coming up with a system to keep yourself safe.
You ignore the bruising around your wrist. You wore long sleeves today but your husband had still stared at the skin before he'd left. He'd even kissed it and apologized for his short temper. He hadn't meant to hurt you. He never has before. He's just so much stronger than you.
It can't be helped.
You plunge your hand beneath the water's surface and grasp around. Your fingers close on a dish. You pull it from the depths and frown. This... isn't yours... it matches none of the china. You spin it, your eyes tracing the blue line that circles the plate's perimeter. Someone had scrawled a date on the back, if you didn't know better you'd think it was your sister's handwriting. She'd always liked blue.
You wash it and set it aside.
You can't help but flinch when your husband comes through the front door. He announces "I'm home."
You can't see him but you imagine him putting his hat on the rack. You force a smile. "How was work?"
Nonsense then silence.
Today the number of footsteps is divisible by three so you ask. "How's Ernie?" You can't bring yourself to turn around and look at him. Your eyes sting.
Your husband wraps his arms around your waist from behind, you try not to freeze. You force yourself to relax against him, heart hammering.
"Dinner smells great," he mumbles into your hair.
You smell something sweet and notice the flowers in his hand.
It almost reminds you of how your mother and father had been. Your father had never grabbed your mother like that. Your mother would have kissed your father on the cheek... so you do the same.
"Thank you," you say.
You
Ask to visit your sister
Ask to visit your father
Ask if he called the repairman
Ask about the plate
Beginning
Last
Next
