by Rochelle Hestnas

An Excerpt

She sat at her desk, contemplating the New York Times article she had just finished reading. Self-care, the author wrote, was selfless. The article asserted that self-care was wise and that we would be better equipped to attend to life’s demands if we were healthy. It questioned how much we could accomplish if we didn’t take care of ourselves and suggested that if we did, we would have more to give to work, relationships, home, and children. This was a direct challenge to how she lived her life. She would have said that caring for others, volunteering to run the library at her child’s school, working on a political campaign—these things were selfless. But self-care was indulgent and selfish. Wasn’t it? Leaning back, she glanced out the window toward the park. Rays of sun filtered through the vase on top of the piano, scattering a profusion of color across the unstained wood plank floors. Now, more than ever, she needed permission to take care of herself.
     The things life demanded reminded her of the bulky vest her neighbor wore as he huffed and puffed up and down their building’s stairwell while his trainer yelled commands and occasionally added weight to the Velcro pockets of the vest. She decided to experiment. She had always envied people who walked—not to get anywhere, not for exercise—just walked. She chose the park across the street, starting around the reservoir. The first time, once around. She felt the breeze on her face, the way it made her eyes feel dry. By the end of lap one, her weighted vest felt a little lighter. She imagined how the Velcro would sound as she opened the pockets and visualized flinging the weights over the metal fence between her and the water, then watching them sink. The dense shrubs that bordered the track when she first ran the reservoir years ago had been cleared and the trail for horseback riding was clearly visible. It felt open. On the next lap, she veered off to the bridle path because it seemed longer. Again, she was consumed by her thoughts; this time it felt like her brain might shatter. The reservoir became her own personal repository; she left bad feelings there and watched them float away. Until she returned home, where she would fill up with bad feelings again. And so she walked more, many times in a day, in any weather, even in the dark.

*

She woke Alex gently, letting a touch of light sneak through the wooden blinds and snuggling next to him in bed while he stretched against her. She whispered to him to come for breakfast when the yummy smell of toast made its way to his room and softly left his bed. She used to think picky eaters were mythical, convenient excuses for parents to complain about while stocking their freezers with hot dogs and chicken fingers. But then she had one. Alex spent the first year of his life at the zeroth percentile of height and weight. How was that even a thing? With the help of a dedicated pediatrician, he overcame it. Vegetables and protein were added! Fiftieth percentile was achieved! She was adamant about wholesome food and it gratified her to provide healthy meals for her family. Now, as conflict increased at home, Alex had regressed and he was more controlling than ever with his food. She understood this to be a response to his lack of control everywhere else. Alex lazily made his way from bed to kitchen counter as she busied herself making the only breakfast he would eat: toast, butter, fruit. They both jumped at the sound of the master bedroom door smashing the wall behind it as her husband forcefully opened it.
     “What kind of mother do you have who only makes you toast with butter?” he said.
     “Dad, it’s my favorite breakfast!” Alex replied.
     “Your mother is being lazy—she doesn’t want to take care of you anymore. What kind of mother doesn’t make pancakes and eggs in the morning? What would you really like to eat, Alex? Would you like jelly on your toast?”
     Alex looked at her.
     She attempted a small smile to mask the pain she felt inside.
     “Sure, Dad, I like jelly.”
     Removing a jar from the refrigerator, he grabbed a knife and spread a layer of jelly so thick, Alex could barely eat it. Deep purple blackberry jelly was everywhere: face, plate, counter, pajamas. “Now you have a breakfast you really want, right, Alex? Because Daddy loves you, unlike your mother,” he said.
     From the moment she told her husband that she wanted a divorce, every day brought a greater number of these disturbing interactions. She remained silent, having learned the hard way that any words out of her mouth, even to gently tell Alex that Daddy didn’t mean those things, only served to escalate his behavior. He disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, into the recesses of their bedroom. She whispered into Alex’s ear that everything would be okay, that of course what Daddy said wasn’t true and that she loved him more than he could know, staying close to his body until she could feel his relief. She cleaned him and got him ready for preschool, moving quietly, almost tiptoeing, as though the floor were covered in eggshells.
     She shut the apartment door behind them, unaware that she was holding her breath until she finally exhaled and pushed Alex’s carriage out the front door of their building. They turned off Central Park West, anticipating the familiar flowers that bordered the building next to theirs. Purple, blue, and white blossoms forced themselves through a neat black fence meant to corral them. They stopped, identifying the colors, and agreed that a certain dark blue flower had appeared overnight. As usual, the doorman of that building greeted them with a bold, genuine smile and not a hint of self-consciousness even though his grin revealed a large gap between his top front teeth. She smiled back in what she hoped was the same way. She counted on this daily exchange and tucked it away as a tiny reminder of humanity.
     “If all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops,” she sang to Alex, as if visions of rain turning to candy could replace the pain and the fear and the confusion that were swiftly overtaking his childhood.
     Later that night, she had dinner ready when her husband walked in. She survived the agony of the first moment when the door opened, felt the prickling on her neck as she became alert to his mood. Should she say hello first? If she did, he would scream that she was too loud or too quiet, or scream to be left alone. If she said nothing, he would bellow that she didn’t say hello. She kissed Alex, who was already seated at their gleaming, black, kitchen counter and left for her evening walk. She hesitated the first time she did this, not certain that Alex would be safe. But she knew what Alex heard and saw when she was there, and it couldn’t possibly be worse when she was gone.
     When she returned from the park, they had finished dinner. She found garbage on the floor, food spilled and smeared on the counters. He taunted her with these gestures, begging for a reaction. She knew better. She cleaned the kitchen as if it were a crime scene, tending to every detail until there was no trace left. She misjudged the quiet in the apartment as he and Alex played. Within minutes, she heard his heavy footsteps as he passed by the kitchen, flinging a dish from the counter at her body as she stood by the sink. She sensed the plate coming and leaned out of the way as it crashed to pieces. He came closer to her, swung a cabinet door open within an inch of her eye and then slammed it shut. She jerked her head back and jumped away. She panicked the first time this happened, but her body adjusted to protect her from the weight of fear. Now, inside, she was numb.
     He knew how much she loved bedtime moments with Alex, but he insisted on putting Alex to bed that night. She let him, feeling thankful for the few minutes of reprieve. When he came out of Alex’s room, darkness set in. He followed her, eventually cornering her in the pantry. He used his strength to stop her from moving and put his mouth next to her ear to scream: “You are destroying this family and I am going to hurt you. I will hurt you. I will leave you with nothing, less than nothing. I will see to it that you live on food stamps.” She felt the heat of his breath, his spit, heard the roar of his voice until he became hoarse. The pain in her ear was so great, she snuck two fingers in between her ear and his mouth. He let up, only to resume following her from room to room. He shoved her into the washing machine as she loaded laundry and when she used the bathroom, he pressed his body, like a lock, against the door so she couldn’t get out, until finally, she climbed into bed, turning out the light. Hours passed before he charged into their bedroom, slammed doors, turned on the lights and music and shouted again, forcing her to stay awake.
     “Sleep deprivation is harassment,” her attorney said, months later, “and it violates the order of protection. Call the police and he’ll be arrested.”

*

One night, she made her way to the east side of the reservoir. She looked up. The sun was coming down around the buildings on Central Park West, dramatically altering their color, as if cans of paint had been poured over them, orange and pink and purple and red pigments dripping down their facades, beautiful enough to pull her from her thoughts. Her vest was full of weight again—one by one she heaved the weights into the water. She let the lightness wash over her before she acknowledged the impermanence of the view and the soothing feelings that accompanied it. Their glorious apartment, on that incredible street, was part of a life that she was dismantling. When she said goodbye to the marriage, she understood how complete that loss would be. Every time she rounded the reservoir, she looked west, counting down the times until that view no longer belonged to her.

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