Untitled thus far

              It wasn't the divorce that surprised me.  It was the idea that we were ever married.  My sister used to ask, "When did things stop working?"  I told her they never started.
         I blame my ex-husband.  I know most women do, but for different reasons.  I maintain that he knew I was quirky from the beginning, and he shouldn't have expected things to be any different after the exchanging of vows.  It is completely his fault that he would come home from work every day looking for a steak-and-potato dinner, when what he really got was Hamburger Helper, probably minus the hamburger. 
         That did actually happen once.  When he asked what had happened to the hamburger and I told him, he wouldn't listen.  "No, seriously," he insisted.  "What happened?"  I was serious.  Before I could cook it we got into a fight, and I lost.  It's as simple as that.
         He never really understood me at all.
         Like the refrigerator.  I know it's a refrigerator.  It's just a big box that keeps stuff cold, provided you pay the electric bill.  I don't look at it and see a demon, or a ghost, or anything other than a refrigerator- one that just so happens to have an attitude.  I don't appreciate being snickered at when the knife I'm using to cut watermelon decides to bite me, and that's exactly what I said to the fridge, and it grumbled something and spit ice at me, so I kicked it.  I didn't kick it hard; I just wanted it to stop.  Of course, my six year old happened to come in the kitchen at the wrong time. I don't know of any six year old on the planet that can keep a secret, even when you make them swear.  So she told her father, and I got a lecture on responsible behavior.
         "She sees you acting like this, for Christ's sake!  Your daughter is here with you every day.  Do you think she's not picking up on any of it?  What happens when she goes to school one day and pulls some shit like that and gets in trouble?  What are you going to tell her?"
         "She knows we don't allow violence unless it's self-defense," I told him.  "The fridge had it coming."
         And you know the bastard left me?
         At least I got the house.  Emma used to just come on weekends, but I have her full time now.  For awhile, I was lucky to see her at all.  My ex put on this big show in court,  making me look so ridiculous.  He told everyone about when I first moved in with him and I let all the pieces of furniture decide where they wanted to be in each room.  (Of course he didn't tell them how unhappy the couch was along that one wall, no.)  I never even had a chance to explain my side of the fireplace story.  But anyway, after that the judge said I had to 'undergo counseling' for six months before he would consider partial custody.  If I didn't love my daughter I would have said forget it.  But I do, so I made the appointment.  Two years later, my therapist finally gave me the clear and testified in court that I was perfectly sane; I just have an overactive imagination.  I could have told him that.
         My ex was seeing someone for awhile.  She was a waitress at some bar, and apparently had no imagination at all whatsoever.  Emma told me all she did was drink and talk on the phone.  "Does she play with you?"  I asked, a little nervously.
         "Not at home.  Only if her and Daddy take me somewhere."  Emma didn't look up from her construction paper.
         "She and Daddy.  What do you guys play?"
         Emma shrugged.  "We go skating."
         "I see,"  I said.  "Skating's fun.  You're a very good skater."
         "Melissa isn't," Emma said confidentially.  "She falls a lot."
         "I bet that hurts,"  I said, wincing.
         "No.  She just laughs."
         Everything's hysterical to an alcoholic, I thought.  "Well, it's good she doesn't get hurt."
         Now, I might talk to inanimate objects, and dance around when there's no music, and start the out-loud part of conversations in the middle, but I'm not crazy.  At first, I didn't think anything when Emma came to stay one weekend with a bruise on her elbow.  I mean, kids are kids.  But it kept happening, bruises in different places, and it just didn't seem right.  When I asked her about it, she just said, "I'm a kid, Mom."
         I didn't want to overreact, but I love my daughter, no matter how unlike me she is.  So I said, "Emma, I need you to remember how you got these bruises."  And she started to cry so hard I was afraid she wouldn't be able to breathe, and she certainly couldn't talk, and I knew.  "Come on, baby.  We're going to Daddy's house."  I grabbed our coats from the closet, which apparently knew something serious was happening because that was the first time the hangers didn't attack me.  I got Emma to put her coat on and made her get in the car and I drove to my ex's house so fast I'm surprised I didn't get pulled over.  "Stay in the car," I told her as I opened the door.  "Don't move, promise me."  Before she could answer, I was already halfway to the front door.
         When I went inside she was on the couch, just sitting there, not doing anything.  I noticed the bottle of rum next to her on the table.  She didn't even have the decency to use a glass.
         "What the hell-?"  She gave me a puzzled look, like she couldn't possibly understand what I would be doing there.  For a second, I didn't know either.  Then it hit me and I really did go crazy.  Thinking about it now, I do remember screaming at her but I couldn't tell you what I said.  I know at some point I was hitting her and she never once hit me back.  The cops told me afterward that a neighbor had called to report a domestic dispute.  It wasn't until one of the officers was 'escorting' me out that I realized Emma's father had been in the room the entire time.  "Why didn't you do anything?" I asked him as the officer was pushing me out the door.  He just stared at me blankly, like he didn't even know who I was.  His eyes were kind of glazed and there was something wrong with the way he was standing.  It was really weird.
         My escort, with an acumen I didn't recognize at first, let go of me and turned to my ex.  (I wouldn't have been able to do much in handcuffs anyway; I'm no martial artist.)  "Sir?  Sir, is everything okay?"  But my ex didn't answer.  He didn't even look at any of us.  Then all of a sudden, he just went insane.  Bouncing off the walls- rather comical in theory- is not enjoyable to witness, especially when said bouncer is the father of your child and the one responsible for her welfare.  Whatever he was yelling, it was in a language I'd never learned (and I speak Broken Ovenese).  It took all four of the cops to get him on the floor and keep him there until the ambulance arrived.  I just stared at Melissa.
         "I didn't know if I was supposed to tell you," she said.
         "So he's..." I wanted to gesture, but the handcuffs were cramping my style.  "How long?"
         "I don't know.  I couldn't tell when I met him."
         And that was how I met Les.  He's a corrections officer in the jail they took me to. (A lunatic ex-husband has an episode and I still get arrested, but I won't even go there.)  We exchanged numbers while Melissa was bailing me out.  He's a nice guy.  I mean, he kind of talks to himself sometimes, and he has an unnatural resentment toward my refrigerator, but he's good to me.  And Emma really seems to like him...