Paper Bags: A Novel by Trish McDonald

Author:Trish McDonald [McDonald, Trish]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781949116755
Google: Yiw8zgEACAAJ
Publisher: Woodhall Press
Published: 2021-10-05T23:20:40.563953+00:00

Chapter 14

Curiosity

Journal Entry: October 10

As the vines grew over my heart and threatened to choke me, they grabbed for my throat. I could see it was the only way to save my life. You can’t love if you can’t breathe so I did the only thing I could—I cut the vine and let my heart be free.

I tell my husband I want to separate and go to the Keys by myself—live by myself—just me and Q. My husband and I are going to a therapist, so he’s not surprised but he is very hurt and confused. He keeps asking what went wrong. I keep playing my Patsy Cline songs, the ones where she’s walking and looking for love, and Roy Orbison, “In Dreams.” They all have a certain melancholy.

v

The essence of a writer is a curious mind. When my daughter’s therapist says, “I need to see your mother,” I’m desperate to find all the curiosity I can muster, and I mumble to myself, “Great, just great, it’s always the mother.”

I make an appointment and the therapist tells me, “You did not take care of your problems with your husband—you let your daughter become your protector. Now your daughter comes to see me because she’s angry and she wants to figure out why. Do you understand your part in her anger?”

I’m devastated. All the while I think I’m keeping peace in the house, but I’m really avoiding conflict with my husband. Reluctant to confront my own situation, I arm my daughter with guns and ammunition for war with her father. What should have been my fight becomes hers. This revelation destroys me. When I try to recall my complicity, a family scene comes to mind.

We are at the kitchen table having dinner, talking about current events, probably politics, when I disagree with my husband. Our family dinners are monologues since neither one of the kids say much; they just want to eat and head out the door and play with their friends. I rarely talk; I pride myself on being a good listener. Suddenly my husband turns on me after I’ve voiced my own opinion, saying, “When you make what I make, you can vote.”

This denigration stops a fork in mid-air. I glare at my husband, but I don’t say a word. I only pause briefly, don’t even stop eating. If I had been more confident, I might have been able to ask one of the curious questions such as, “Do you want to have a relationship with me? If you do, this is not how you show it.” As it was, I was cowed, unsure, and penitent.

Our children are sitting at the table. My son is not paying attention to the conversation and is probably thinking about baseball, so it goes right over his head. Our daughter’s knife hits the table with a thud.

She turns to her father and says, “If you want to show us love and have us love you, this is not how it works.

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