What could I say to that? What words could I use to fight against something I’d been terrified would happen? I’d been so conscious of what I was doing every second I was at Peg’s. I’d cleaned and helped with the laundry and made dinner as often as I could, because I’d felt like an ingrate for not paying my share of the expenses. From the very beginning, I’d felt like a charity case, but I’d let them talk me into staying there because I’d had no other options and they’d assured me that they didn’t think of me that way.
My eyes filled with tears as I began to gather the few pieces of laundry off the floor, in some sort of small attempt to make amends.
I just had to do more, I thought, my movements jerky. I just had to help out more, and then when I started my job the next week, I could help with the bills, too. I didn’t want to be a burden. Did Peg feel that way, too? Oh, God. I was so fucking embarrassed. It was humiliating.
I glommed onto his words about my lack of contribution, completely disregarding the rest of our conversation. That was my fear—that I was taking advantage of someone that was spectacularly good to me, and eventually, they’d realize that I wasn’t worth the time or energy.
I didn’t even realize that he’d manipulated me in order to turn the conversation in a different direction. I don’t think he’d anticipated my reaction though, because soon he was talking to me, trying to get my attention, but I couldn’t hear him over the words in my own head.
I stuffed the dirty laundry into the hamper near our bedroom door as I strode out into the kitchen and began to clean up the plates and silverware on the table. I could get that cleaned up before Peg came out of her room, then she wouldn’t have to do it. I turned on the sink and began to fill it with water for washing, and opened up the small fridge to see what Peg had planned for dinner. Some sort of casserole sat along the bottom shelf, and I felt a pang of anxiety that it was already prepared, but pushed through it. I could put it in the oven for her. That would help.
As I stuffed the dirty dishes into the sink and began to wash them, I heard Patrick come into the room behind me and I stiffened. I didn’t want to talk to him. I was embarrassed and angry and ashamed that he thought I was taking advantage of them. I just wanted to be alone, so I could finish those dishes and then maybe dust the front room. Peg had a ton of little figurines and things that she rarely had time to dust—I could do that.
“Amy,” he called quietly, and I remembered a different time that he’d come to me while my hands were in the kitchen sink.
“I need to finish these dishes,” I answered. “Peg’s already made a casserole, so I’ll just put that in for dinner. No use wasting money.”
“It’s not a waste of money to take me wife out for dinner.”
I laughed nervously. “Peg already went to the trouble. Plus, I have some things I need to do around here tonight.”
“Yer almost done wit’ dose dishes. Come on, put on a pretty dress and I’ll take ye out.”
His hand came out to squeeze my shoulder, and I pulled away roughly, my hands never pausing on the dishes. “I have other things to do, Patrick.”
“More important den spendin’ time wit’ de husband ye haven’t seen in a mont’?” he asked incredulously.
I wanted to go with him. I wanted that so badly. But his words had pushed some sort of trigger, and the thought of taking a night for fun made me feel crazy with anxiety. I needed to clean the house. I needed to contribute, to be better.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“No, get dressed. We’re goin’ now.”
“Tomorrow, Patrick.”
“Now, Amy.”
I shook my head, refusing to argue with him anymore, and then suddenly I was pulled away from the sink and flipped over his shoulder. He carried me into the bedroom while I pinched at his back, too conscious of Peg and Robbie in the next room to yell at him like I wanted to.
“I told you I don’t want to go to dinner!” I said after he’d put me down in our room and closed the door behind him. “I told you I have things to do!”
“Dey can’t wait until tomorrow?” he asked calmly, watching me closely.
“As you so eloquently put it, I’m not contributing. I’m dead weight, right? So, no, I don’t want to go out to dinner and waste more money.”
“Dat wasn’t what I meant!”
“It’s what you said.”
“Mot’er of God! Yer de t’ickest woman I’ve ever met!”
“Then go back to your other life if I’m so stupid!”
My words fell like an anvil between us and the room went silent. We were staring at each other, and I was wondering how the hell everything had gone so lopsided when Patrick’s hand began to clench at his side. Over and over again, it clenched and relaxed as I watched.
“You’re clenching your fist,” I said quietly.
“I’m not goin’ to hit ye.” He sounded disgusted at the thought.
“No, I know that.” I shook my head. “You do it when you’re upset.”
His hand instantly went limp at his side.
“Yer not dead weight.” My head was nodding before he’d finished his sentence and he became frustrated at the placating movement. “No! I didn’t mean it dat way… but, fuck Amy!”
He moved to the bed and fell heavily onto it, sitting with his elbows on his knees. He looked so exhausted that way, so weary. I wanted to hold him, but I wasn’t sure that he’d even let me, so instead I sat down next to him, and the few inches between us felt like a mile.