motivations: respect me

Might be a little too emo for some of y'all. But don't worry, things can only go up from now on.

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Respect Me

“Don’t give me that face when I’m talking to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Harry.” She threw the dishrag onto the kitchen counter. “It’s that stoic face you give me, as if the words I’m saying to you aren’t even reaching the tips of your ears.”
“I can hear you just fine. Stop shouting.”
“You can hear me, but are you listening? Do you ever listen to anyone else but yourself?”
“I’m a psychology professor, Annette.”
“Not a therapist.”
“So, what? Are you trying to say that I’m unqualified to listen to you?”
“If you had been listening, then you would know that that is exactly what I’ve been saying all along!”
He sighed heavily, set down his wine glass, and got off the stool. “Annette, this is so juvenile. I’m sorry that you feel the need to be adamant about projecting your frustrations on me about your infertility, okay?”
“Are you saying that this is all my fault?”
“Well technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. What else do you want me to say?”
“Do you even understand how much this is hurting us, hurting me right now?”
“Annette, we can hardly take care of ourselves right now. We can’t even manage this” he motioned to the space between them “right now. How can you expect to raise a child?”
She stared at him with a fierce gaze. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry for being the stupid one in this situation. It doesn’t matter that I’m 32 years old right now and I don’t have anyone to call my own, that I’m this immature woman in my mother’s eyes because I’ve never raised a child before, that my husband doesn’t care enough to li-”
He slammed his fist down on the kitchen island. “Can you stop already? It’s not weird to not have children in this day and age, okay? Maybe we’re just not ready for it.”
“Not ready for it?” Her voice was becoming progressively shakier. “Harry, you’re going to be 35 soon. If we wait until you’re ready, you’ll be a grandfather’s age by the time our child goes to college.”
“Then maybe we’re not fit to have a child at all.”
“You don’t want to consider adoption at all? I’m begging you to just listen and consider it. I’ll give you as much time as you need to think about it.”
“We’re not fit to have our own child, let alone someone else’s child.”
“How can you say that?”
“Just drop it, Annette. I’m done.” He left the kitchen.

He tried to ignore the wails that he heard downstairs. Though they pierced through his heart, the fear that rested there was greater than his mangled sympathy for his wife.
He just wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of becoming a father. And somehow, by a miracle (in his eyes), she wasn’t able to bear children anyway, which made the decision to not have posterity much easier. Was he being selfish? Sure, but it ran in the family.

It scared him daily to know that he was becoming more like the man that he had resolved so firmly not to be when he was younger. And as he felt Annette slip into bed next to him, carefully wrapping her arms around his waist with a defeated air, he felt his self-loathing more deeply and couldn’t help but let bitter tears form at the corner of his eyes.

He had visited his father the other day. He was old and dying, having lived a long life of drinking, sleeping with women who weren’t his wives, and bad-mouthing everyone “below” him just because he was an accomplished surgeon at a big name hospital.
“You’re here again,” he had said, not looking away from the window.
“I don’t know why I am,” Harry admitted.
“Then go home to your lovely wife.”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
“Like I’m ready to die and move on.”
“How have the treatments been?”
“Sub-par. Don’t know what these young doctors these days are thinking.”
“Are they doing something wrong? Do you want me to let them know?”
His father laughed coarsely, which turned into a short coughing fit. “Do you think that I would sit here and let them keep doing something wrong? What do you take 50 years of experience for?”
“I wasn’t saying that you wouldn’t, just maybe that you might have –”
“Been rude about it? I know you think that your dad is a dirty scoundrel, but I’m clear about medical procedures, all right? They’re just like you – not an ounce of respect.”
He stood there silently.
“Not going to argue with me this time, are you? Well, that makes my life a little easier. Should have done that while you were growing up, maybe I’d have less white hairs on this head.”
“Sure.”
“You know, I always liked your brother better. It’s too bad he’s not around anymore. But at least I’ll have company when I die.”
He couldn’t stand to be there anymore, so he glanced at his watch, saying, “I have to run now. But let me know if you need anything.”
“Peace and quiet would be just fine, thanks.”
“Bye, Dad. I’ll be back next week.”
“Don’t bother.”

His father had always told him that he should have become a “real” doctor, instead of a Ph.D. His younger brother Peter, who was killed in a freak motor accident a few years ago, had gone to medical school and become a respected surgeon just like their father, earning more of his respect than Harry ever did. Their youngest one, Natalie, had distanced herself from their family long ago and only occasionally called Harry and their mother to say how she was doing.

When Harry was seven years old, his father left his family to pursue a woman 22 years his minor – which was technically not unusual, as he was married to a woman 15 years his minor. He didn’t realize that the nice lady that he had met at the restaurant while eating dinner with his father would be the one that would spiral his family into hell for the next seven years. With two young children and a baby on the way, his mother couldn’t handle the stress at first and didn’t come out of her room for two weeks. Their grandmother briefly moved in with them to help carry the burden, but Harry had to suddenly grow up quickly in order to soothe his family’s pain.

One Tuesday after school, he found his father sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his ruined mother sat next to him clasping his other hand, looking like she was holding back tears.
“How’s it going, champ?” He patted the seat next to him.
A raging wrath flowed through him like no other in that moment. He tore apart his mother’s hand from his father’s, knocking out the glass that was in the other hand. Shards of glass sprinkled the tiles. The next moment would define his life forever.
His father stood up and hit him in the head with a brutal, unforgiving force. His mother screamed, but was too frozen in her spot to do anything.
“I come back after seven years and this is the best you can do? Obviously your mother did not teach you anything about respecting your elders.”
“What’s there to respect, Dad?” He spat out the word. His father dealt him another blow, to which his mother gave another muffled scream. Peter and Natalie ran into the kitchen and begged his father to stop, crying, “Daddy, Daddy, stop, you’re hurting him!”
He peeled himself off the ground, his hands bleeding from the glass that had pricked his palms, and stared his father squarely in the face.
“I hate you.” He slowly formed fists with his hands. “You’re exactly the kind of man I hope I never become.” He then ran upstairs to his room and locked the door, rocking back and forth under his covers until nighttime, when his mother softly knocked, asking to come in and see his hands.

He had kept to his word and went in the complete opposite direction of his father. Even though he applied to medical school and got in, he declined the offer to turn to professorship. He dated one woman faithfully his whole life and eventually got married to her. He stayed away from most alcoholic drinks, except the occasional glass of wine with dinner. He was loving to his mother and remembered her birthday and Christmas presents every year.

And yet, every time he would find himself lashing out at Annette, saying things that he knew would scar her and put her in a state of submission, he saw glimpses of his father in him and he would want to shed his skin and run away from it all. She didn’t deserve to be with someone as broken and afraid as him, and no child deserved to be tied to him either. He didn’t deserve that child’s love. And he simply did not want to bear the responsibility of messing up the child, either.

He commanded respect from his students, from his peers, even subconsciously from Annette sometimes, but in the best, non-condescending way possible. He wanted to feel like he had worth as a human being, but looking at his darkness, he realized that he was still nothing.

He turned around to face his wife, who was now in a deep sleep. He brushed away the hair from her face and lightly kissed her forehead. She stirred slightly and snuggled herself closer to him. He felt sorrowful love well up inside him and before he could hold her more tightly, she spoke.

“Forgive him.”

© 2009. Sarah R.