Red Light, Green Light

I remember playing games on the school field in middle school. “Red light! Green light!” All of us kids would be lined up on one end of the field, anxiously waiting for the green light, then dash across the field toward the “leader” in a desperate attempt to get to the other side before he called “red light!” When “green light” was shouted, I wouldn’t hesitate, I ran as fast as I could. I ran like my life depended on it to get to the other side. But I remember waiting, waiting on that red light. Waiting for the green light…so I could run!

***

It was early in the morning when John and I left for the peach festival that takes place in town every summer. I had broken my foot two weeks earlier by tripping down the stairs leading down from our backyard balcony. Although I wore a boot, my foot still ached and I still used crutches.

“Can’t you go any faster?” he complained. “I want to get there before the summer heat hits full-force. And Cynthia’s peaches go fast so we’ve got to get there early. Come on, move!” John barked orders to me without sympathy or patience. I had grown accustomed to his tone and stayed silent, like every other time.

The small streets of town were already teeming with families who had the same early-bird idea as John had; toting their children in red wagons with water bottles dripping sweat, stuffed in between their legs. We ventured through the crowd, found “Cynthia’s Succulent Peaches,” and then headed toward the car show at the bottom of a hill just beyond the small neighborhood houses. John loved the car shows, and I had grown to appreciate them.

We spent at least an hour admiring the old classic cars; admiring the sleek lines of the ’57 Chevrolet Bel Air; posing like Al Capone in front of a Cadillac from 1940, John using my crutches as his machine gun; poking our heads under car hoods and feeling the smooth hubcaps of custom muscle cars. I got caught trying to figure out the door handles of a restored ’77 Corvette. The owner yelled at me for getting my fingerprints on his vehicle and threatened to have me removed. John and I decided this was our cue that we had had enough of the cars for one day and headed back up the hill.

It was a laborious hike for me. The hill wasn’t too steep, but combined with my fatigue and the August sun baring down on us, the effort to propel myself forward on my crutches became arduous. I concentrated on the gravel beneath me and watched it pass with every step, letting John’s voice distract me from stopping. John went on and on with some story about the guys at work and how they would’ve loved this car or that. Suddenly, to my left, I saw two people walk into a small home.

“John, did you see them? Those people who just went into that house? Aren’t they the owners of that cute little restaurant we went to last month?”

John fell silent and stared at me. “I was telling a story, Diane. You interrupted me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that I couldn’t very well wait until after the fact, could I? I just wanted to tell you right away while we were next to the house. Sorry. Go on, you can finish your story now. I’m listening.”

He never finished the story. Instead, he just walked off with me trailing behind him, struggling to keep up on my crutches. I called out to him to slow down, that I really was interested in hearing the rest of what he had to say, that I really was sorry for interrupting him. It didn’t make a difference. When we finally arrived at our car, sweat was dripping down my face and had already left a wet stain on my t-shirt. We drove home in absolute silence…because I had interrupted him. Red light.

My marriage to John was my second one. My first husband had left me in an abyss of despair and hopelessness that I had never experienced before. My four children and I did our best, but in my unhealthy need for acceptance and love, I fell for the man who said all the right things. John had never been married or had children, but he swore my children would be enough. He showered them with attention and praise and entertained them with his quirky, childlike mannerisms and love of board games, so when the red flags appeared, I shooed them from my face like flies because I loved having someone to love.

But after the marriage, John’s treatment of me fluctuated somewhere between leaving candy on my pillow to retreating into his office after work and not coming up for air except to eat. My children were my responsibility unless he wanted to discipline them. John rarely greeted anyone when he came through the door, but walked through the living room with resentment plastered across his face. He was quick to criticize if something was amiss and pounced on any deviation from his personal set of rules, even if they weren’t established rules. And as time progressed, so did John’s utter disdain for my children.

“Whose crap is this on the kitchen counter?”

“It’s a book, hon, Jess left her book there while she was eating.” I picked up one of the many books Jess carried around with her. I was so grateful to have at least one child who loved reading as much as I did. And so it was with most of my children’s belongings: always in his way, causing disarray and clutter, stressing him out after work.

It got to a point where I couldn’t take the resentment anymore. I couldn’t take the way he talked (or didn’t talk) to my children and I, without humility and never apology. I tired of the criticism, fault-finding, and blame. We resented each other for unmet expectations, that, in all honesty, were probably unfair, but nonetheless, important to us. Our relationship hung stagnant, waiting but never improving. Red light.

I couldn’t take the yelling about piddly matters such as accidently eating his leftovers for lunch or using his toothpaste. I was stuck, unmoving, not progressing, without a finish line in sight. Dear God, the thought of staying with the man until the “finish line” filled me with dread.

“Get a job and get out,” my therapist advised again after another session of detailing his behavior. The poor woman had been with me since my ex-husband left me and now she had to hold my hand through the dysfunction of another failed marriage. “Get a job so you’re no longer dependent on him. Do this first before you ask him for a divorce in case he doesn’t take it well.”

“Kristi, I had my lawyer draw up the divorce papers last year! They’re in a folder in my email.”

“Get a job, then get out.” Kristi was right. I could never do anything as long as he controlled every cent I spent. Each month he would deposit money into an account for me to use for household expenses. And although he was never over-bearing with the allotment, I still depended on him for everything, and that made me feel helpless, stuck.

Finding a job with no real experience under my belt proved harder than I anticipated. I had worked on my Master’s Degree and teaching license as a single mother and re-married one semester from graduating. By the time I got that degree, I was so exhausted I decided to wait out the remainder of the school year and apply for teaching positions in the Spring. Instead, I got pregnant with Mason, and although he was the light of my life, he certainly tangled up my plan. It took months to re-certify and more time to find the perfect job.

Maneuvering my way around John’s interrogations every time I suggested going back to work was always a chore. I used excuses that weren’t entirely untrue; I really did want to actually use my degree that I’d worked so hard for, we really could use a little extra spending money, I really did believe that both Mason and I could benefit from getting out of the house more, but the truth would’ve been so much easier. I need a job so I can divorce you!

“I interviewed for the teaching job at the Jr. High. It’s in the bag.”

“Diane, you said you’d work at the High School so they’d put Mason in the child development daycare class.”

“I know, and I’d prefer that, but they never called for an interview, and I had applied to this second position on a whim just in case.”

“So, what now? What will you do with Mason? I was alright with the High School because at least then you’d be close and able to check in on him through the day. But now what?” John got more and more agitated as the conversation thickened. John walked closer to me, eagerly waiting for an acceptable answer.

“John, it’s okay. I can find a really good day care nearby. Or even, perhaps, a pre-school that provides extra hours. Mason would love that! He’s bored at home, and frankly, I just can’t keep up with a 3-year-old anymore. He needs more than I can give. I can’t keep sitting him in front of his iPad when I need a break. Don’t you see how great it would be for him to be surrounded by children his own age? I can’t do this anymore, John.”

“This wasn’t what you said you wanted. You told me you wanted to stay home with the kids. You told me you never wanted to put your children in daycare. This isn’t what I expected!”

You told me my kids were enough for you and that you wanted a better home than you grew up in, but I guess neither of us got what we expected, I thought before answering. “Yes, I did mean that when I said it, but can’t I change my mind? Things change, John. I got a Master’s Degree; I can use it!” By this time, I was almost pleading with him to see my way, to understand.

“No one is putting my son in daycare. I’m not letting strangers raise my son! Anything you need, I can give you. Money isn’t an issue. I’ll give you more every month.” He walked away, finished with his ruling.

I didn’t dare bring up the subject with John again after that. I couldn’t. What would I have said that would change his mind? Nothing. But I waited. I waited through another week of him complaining about Jess not finding a job yet. I waited through another week of him rolling his eyes at Mark who needed a ride to go mountain biking. I waited another week while he complained about Kim and Shea playing on their phones all day. I waited and eagerly answered every time my phone rang.

“Hello, I’m calling from the Davis School District, trying to reach Diane,” a voice politely spoke on the other end, waking me up at 8:30 on another morning I didn’t want to “do it all” again.

“Yes, this is Diane.”

“Diane, we’ve reviewed your application and all agree that your interview was great. We’d like to offer you the teaching position, if you’re still interested. Can you come in and meet with us; we’ll go over the paperwork and finalize everything this afternoon. We can show you your room and give you your schedule then as well.” The voice was like one from a dream, and it took me a moment to register what I’d just heard.

“Uh…yes. Yes, of course! Yes, I can meet this afternoon. I’ll be there!”

GREEN LIGHT!