I write what I write

CHPercolator scribbling - 13 january 2002

All I want

by Anita Dapperens

 

I sigh and look at Hugo, my head cocked to the side, hands on my hips. He doesn’t even notice I stopped listening. He just rambles on ... and on ... and on, about what a great deal this is, and how he is really going to make it this time.

Never mind his promise to try and keep this job for at least two months.

Never mind his promise to be home, to be there for me when the baby arrives.

Never mind that I spent most of my savings creating the nursery of my dreams.

No, never mind me.

 

Just listen to him rambling. It’s all him, him, him. Always him.

Like I’m not even there. Like I don’t have a place in his life.

He really can not see anything wrong with his behaviour, let alone realise the consequences.

 

Something in his eyes brings me out of my thoughts.

Oh, good. He finally seems to notice that I’m not listening. His mouth hasn’t caught on yet, but his frown tells me it will not be long now.

I would laugh if the situation wasn’t so serious. I can’t suppress the urge to count down though.
Five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...

“Is something wrong, honey?” Hugo asks, right on queue.

Wrong?

What could be wrong?

Is it wrong for him to quit his job, a week before Christmas?

Is it wrong for him to want to sell the flat three weeks before my due-date, so he can move to Australia to work on a sheep farm?

Of course not. Not if your name is Hugo.

 

But what about me?

And what about keeping a bloody promise for once!

Calm down, girl. Mind your blood pressure. Stress is not good for you.

Yeah, right!

Nevertheless I take a couple of deep breaths, and contemplate how to solve this situation.

When I realise Hugo is still waiting for an answer, I force myself to smile at him, still at a loss about what to say.

But what can I say, really?

He has done this kind of thing so many times. He changes jobs quicker than a lunar cycle and we have moved house ten times over the last four years. Up until now I have put up with it, but not anymore.

I have more important things to worry about now, no matter how much I love him. If he is able to push that aside just like that, then I am going to have to put my foot down for once and for all.

 

“All I want to know is, what’s in it for me?”

My question seems to puzzle him. It is probably the last thing on his mind.

“In it for you?”

“Yes, Hugo. You’ve been standing there telling me all about what you want, and what you are going to do. But what’s in it for me?”

He does not move, or speak, he just looks at me, lost for words apparently.

Now there is a first.

I wait, for what, I don’t know and, frankly, it doesn’t even matter anymore. I have already made my mind up.

Yet, I wait a little longer, still prepared to give him a chance. I will always be prepared to give him a chance, even though I know he won’t take it.

He never does. But old habits die hard.

 

Eventually the surprise of seeing him speechless wears off, and annoyance at his inability to think of anyone but him replaces it.

“Well, why don’t you go then?” I offer, wondering if he even hears the chill that creeps into my voice.

He does not. Of course not.

“Really? You think I should?”

I sigh again, almost feeling guilty seeing him smile, practically bouncing with his ever present, almost innocent, enthusiasm.

“It’ll be great. It may be some time before I can afford a proper house of course, but it’ll be great. Promise.”

Unable to hold the fake smile for much longer, I turn around and climb the stairs. His rambling is up to full speed again by the time I reach the baby’s room, even closing the door doesn’t completely shut it out.

 

Moving around the small but cosy room, I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

I am not going to try reasoning with him. Hugo may need a reality check, but I can not be his anchor anymore. I will be someone else’s anchor soon.

No, I will simply pack his stuff and put the suitcases out on the doorstep, and then I’ll call him a cab.

Sadness embraces me as I sink down into the old rocker I bought at a car-boot-sale, and when it dawns on me that I might not be able to keep the flat, I let my tears run freely.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, caressing my belly, “I know this isn’t the way we pictured it, but we’ll be okay ... we will all be okay ... somehow.”

 

Of course I will miss Hugo. How can I not when for over four years my world revolved around him. But I have to stand firm now, I can not let him do this again.

Oh, the crazy things you do for love.

All of a sudden I feel like I’m in a sappy movie and someone just asked me:

“But do you love him enough to let him go?”

 

Do I really have a choice?

 

The End

© 2002 Anita Dapperens - all rights reserved
published in Carillon Magazine issue 9 - March 2004