The Sequined Apron

It was a Friday when he left. I had locked up my classroom door and took a prideful look at the nameplate saying “Ms. Polak”, plastered with stickers of apples and various glittered smiley faces. I drove home upbeat. Five days. Five days that I spent planning how to pass seven hours for twenty 2nd graders, washing boogers off my clothes, being called mom by numerous embarrassed kids, and being amazed that these snarky kids hadn't yet taken AP statistics. But I made it. Every single week, I get a sense of pride in myself for not drowning in the pool of eight year-old problems.

         It was one of the first warm days of the Spring, and so everything seemed so happy. Flowers were starting to bud, serving as the violet and sunny yellow prelude to the Spring. That weekend was going to be the engagement party. There was a cake ordered, it was going to have intricate iced sunflowers, and would be garnished with raspberry. It was booked at a vineyard in Napa, about an hour away, and it was going to be perfect. I spent the whole drive home to San Mateo daydreaming, not even hearing a word of any of the songs playing on the radio.

How long of a maternity leave could I be compensated for?

How does the ultrasound gel feel?

And does that give me the excuse to sit at home and eat chocolates until I gain fifty pounds?

Wait… are 2nd graders smart enough to make fat jokes?

If so, would I have to move down to pre-k?

         I pulled up my gravel driveway, and I admired the bed of daffodils that seemed to breath in the sun in the front yard of the house. I walked in the door, and giggled at myself, excited for the special Friday dinner that Tom always made. He had an apron that said “diva” in sequined letters, and he always surprised me at the end of the week with a new recipe. I was a glorified critic for new recipes for his Portuguese restaurant.

         But I walked in to see the kitchen dark. No flame of the gas burner. No windy sound of the stainless steel induction fan. No smell of roasting vegetables wafting through the room, begging to be smelled. As I walked over to the refrigerator to get myself a four o’clock glass of wine (it’s 5 o’clock central time), I noticed a not pinned to it with a magnet of my initials: MPB, for Monica Beth Polak. Slowly, I worked my way through it. It was short, no more than five sentences. And then I stood shocked for a minute, before bursting into tears as I realized that the note wasn’t reminding me that he’d be at work late, but a notice of his departure. He was leaving. he was gone. Tom was gone. I felt broken, like I had been ripped apart, dismembered, shattered. He had left, just like that, without warning, without reason.

         I stumbled over to a chair, holding the countertop for support as I fought the urge to completely black out. I sat down, and felt chills run through me, the kind of chills that you get accompanied by a fever, that doesn't go away. The kind of chilly that seems to go as deep as the bone. Why would he leave? Why would he leave the fairytale romance? The romance where the both of us went out of our way to make surprises. The relationship where we did everything together, plant our gardens, shop, plan premier parties, laugh at each other. We were that couple who everyone loved. The couple that everyone always rooted for because we weren't just a couple, we were a pair. We emphasized friendship just as much as romance. We were fun. We were perfect.

         My mind began to flood with these happy memories one after another, memories of the perfect relationship. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I cried silently, processing the whirlwind inside of my mind. But then I saw it. It seemed like the one little black, dead pixel in a computer screen. It was dark. It was a cloud on a sunny day. The dot seemed to get larger and larger, until it was the only memory playing in my mind.

         It showed rain streaming down the windows of the living room. The power was out and the room was lit only by two flashlights. I could hear yelling. Loud yelling. The kind of yelling that makes kids scared. He was mad that I had bought a wedding dress thousands of dollars more than we could afford. He screamed at me. I cried, I sobbed, trying to apologize for trying to create a fairytale, a dream, a dream wedding. And then there was a moment of stinging pain. I put my hand to my face, and it came away with blood on it. Tom got completely silent for a moment, and gave way to a barrage of apologies, over and over, desperate, not sorry for yelling, only sorry for the damage done. But I didn’t listen to him. I stormed upstairs and locked him out of the bedroom. I slept alone that night. The next week, I wore sunglasses to work, telling all the teachers that I had gotten Lasik, and all the students that they made my eyes more powerful so I could tell if they were cheating.

         But then more and more memories started to cloud my mind. Bruise after bruise. Scream after scream. Fist after fist. There seemed to be thousands of these, coming one after another, nonstop, no longer giving way to the bright and sunny memories. I started wondering how many eye surgeries the teachers had probably thought I had gotten in the past year and a half, probably a lot.

         And then the revelation came. It hit me hard, like nothing ever had before. The relationship wasn't a fairytale. It was a horror movie. It was a fight scene that you look away from. It was nothing good. I had blocked it out to avoid facing the reality. Wanting to love Tom, I had blocked out his major flaws, and I had focused on the highlights. But it was almost like the punches thrown had ceased to exist.

         And so I realized that maybe I had too much love. A relationship can’t survive without it, but maybe it was bad to have too much. It clouded my vision, like a drug. The times when he was a perfect man remained in the front of my mind, while the bad ones lingered unnoticed in the back, not wanting to be seen and revisited. Was it possible that too much love had kept me from recognizing a bad relationship, a bad situation when I had seen it?

         I picked myself up, quivering a bit, and I grinned, ear to ear, lifting my soul. No longer did there seem to be tethers, I suddenly felt free. Like I could do whatever I wanted. Like I could be myself, and not have to sleep with one eye open. I hadn't even noticed it, but I had been tied to the ground. So, I spread my wings, and what did I do? I flew. I flew high.