The Walker of the Other Road
by Bill Hughes
"The Walker of the Other Road" originally appeared on the Dred website back in the fall of 2007.
"The Walker of the Other Road" originally appeared on the Dred website back in the fall of 2007.
That night when Barry went to work, and I had the house to myself, I thought I had it all sorted out. I put everything back in the closet and slid the empty suitcase under the bed. I couldn't go. My hand found the smarting welt under my eye, and I thought of Susie, who wouldn't understand. But Susie had never met mom--never met her because mom was dead, chewed up and spat out by the world by the time she was forty-five, a single parent who never found time to take care of herself. I wasn't about to do that to myself or my baby.
I walked down the hall, rubbed my belly, and felt that little kick inside. I was telling myself Susie doesn't understand because she's never really been in love when I walked in the nursery.
My throat felt like someone had slipped a balloon into it and blown it up. A woman sat in the rocking chair by the window with her back to me. Every time she rocked forward into the streetlight, I saw the gray streaks in her shoulder-length black hair. At first I thought it was mom. But then I willed myself forward and saw the profile and I knew better. It was me.
Me. Older, thinner, harder around the eyes and favoring mom mightily, but still me. She didn't seem to know I was there. I stepped closer. A child lay in her arms, wrapped tightly in a blue blanket.
I couldn't breathe. My hand stretched out and clutched the top of the chair and then suddenly I was there, rocking and clinging to that blue bundle. My shoulders ached and my feet, too. Ghosts of memories not yet lived crowded on the edge of my mind. Childbirth and diapers, summers at a cottage in the hills, fights and sex and life with Barry. A lot of bitter mingled with the sweet. The boy in my arms--a toddler, not an infant--felt like a block of wood. He didn't move, and deep down I knew why.
And so I sat and wondered which was the rock and which the hard place. Somewhere in the back of my mind Susie asked what more I needed to know. But it's not the knowing, it's the choosing that's hard. What I learned in that chair was that there's always a choice, no matter how ugly. So I rocked and thought about how maybe it was enough. I clung tight to that boy, like if my arms wore themselves out on him my mind wouldn't have to. It didn't dare look at him, couldn't look into the horror of that tiny face. I was alive. I was whole. I had a roof over my head.
Lord forgive me, I thought about that life with Barry for a long, long time. I tried it all on in earnest to see how it fit. I had to feel sure. The phone rang, but I didn't answer. The rhythm of the chair shuffled me here then there then back. It was a close place.
I stood when the first pink glow painted the eastern rim of the horizon. The phantom memories dropped from me as I rose. My cramped arms were suddenly empty.
Barry would be home soon. I pulled the suitcase from under the bed and started to pack.
Copyright © 2007 by Bill Hughes
I walked down the hall, rubbed my belly, and felt that little kick inside. I was telling myself Susie doesn't understand because she's never really been in love when I walked in the nursery.
My throat felt like someone had slipped a balloon into it and blown it up. A woman sat in the rocking chair by the window with her back to me. Every time she rocked forward into the streetlight, I saw the gray streaks in her shoulder-length black hair. At first I thought it was mom. But then I willed myself forward and saw the profile and I knew better. It was me.
Me. Older, thinner, harder around the eyes and favoring mom mightily, but still me. She didn't seem to know I was there. I stepped closer. A child lay in her arms, wrapped tightly in a blue blanket.
I couldn't breathe. My hand stretched out and clutched the top of the chair and then suddenly I was there, rocking and clinging to that blue bundle. My shoulders ached and my feet, too. Ghosts of memories not yet lived crowded on the edge of my mind. Childbirth and diapers, summers at a cottage in the hills, fights and sex and life with Barry. A lot of bitter mingled with the sweet. The boy in my arms--a toddler, not an infant--felt like a block of wood. He didn't move, and deep down I knew why.
And so I sat and wondered which was the rock and which the hard place. Somewhere in the back of my mind Susie asked what more I needed to know. But it's not the knowing, it's the choosing that's hard. What I learned in that chair was that there's always a choice, no matter how ugly. So I rocked and thought about how maybe it was enough. I clung tight to that boy, like if my arms wore themselves out on him my mind wouldn't have to. It didn't dare look at him, couldn't look into the horror of that tiny face. I was alive. I was whole. I had a roof over my head.
Lord forgive me, I thought about that life with Barry for a long, long time. I tried it all on in earnest to see how it fit. I had to feel sure. The phone rang, but I didn't answer. The rhythm of the chair shuffled me here then there then back. It was a close place.
I stood when the first pink glow painted the eastern rim of the horizon. The phantom memories dropped from me as I rose. My cramped arms were suddenly empty.
Barry would be home soon. I pulled the suitcase from under the bed and started to pack.
Copyright © 2007 by Bill Hughes
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