Wishing You’d Stayed
It takes a great deal of pushing and a lot of poking to make me angry, but Yasmine knew which buttons to push. The neighbors never heard us fight until that night in August.
“You always want to be together and I can’t be with you all the time. I’ve work and sometimes I need alone time, and occasionally guy time,” I yell.
Yasmine flicks back her long brown hair and laughs at my rage.
“Look who’s upset,” she says softly. “It took me a long time to make you this angry, Logan. I thought you would never notice me. You’re always leaving me alone.”
“Yasmine, I’m extremely angry at you, scared for your mental well being, and scared for our relationship. But you think my words are a joke.?”
She laughs and slides her arm around my shoulders. I shrug her off. Yasmine huffs and crosses her arms.“Calm down Logan. Stop being such an ass. You’re married now, you don’t get space anymore.”
“Being married doesn’t mean no space.You never used to be this way Yasmine.You did stuff with your friends and visited relatives. You also worked as a successful interior designer.”
“Now, you stay home all day and you lay in bed. I’m trying to be a good husband and I know you’re not well, but one of us has to work and support us financially.You need to find ways to occupy your time. Read, write, watch TV, walk, or pretend you’re designing a new interior space.”
Yasmine smiled thinly at my suggestions. “I suppose you want me to keep visiting the psychiatrist, the doctor who says I’m suffering from depression because I lost our baby?” Tears leaked out of her deep brown eyes. I wiped them away.
“I think it’s best for you Yasmine. The psychiatrist makes a lot of sense. You’re sad, tearful, and you can barely make it out of bed. You’re also anxious and have terrible self-esteem right now. When I tell you you’re wonderful, talented, and beautiful, you don’t believe me. Yesterday, you said you believed you were nothing but a baby killer,” I said.
Yasmine smirks,”Before the baby died I believed your compliments. Now I don’t believe you’re telling me the truth. I look hideous and I’m in awful shape; I think you’re placating me. I believe you’d rather by anywhere than with me, Logan.”
“Listen,” I beg Yasmine, “When I said I need space, all I meant was I need some time each week where I can tie up loose ends from work. I also need a night each week or two, for my own mental stability. I need a few hours where I can forget and not deal with our issues.”
“I talked to your friends Becca and Lynn,” I tell her.. “They said they’d love to take turns hanging out with you one night a week if you’re okay with that? You guys could go see a movie, or go shopping, do something along those lines?”
Yasmine buries herself beneath the comforter on the couch.”I don’t want to see my friends, look at me? And I need you here Logan, I was thinking we could have another baby?”
“It’s not that I don’t want another baby with you sweet heart, ” I say carefully. “I keep telling you, it’s not your fault Jacob died. It happens to many woman with their first pregnancy. Right now, you’re still recovering from losing Jacob,” I say.
Yasmine covers her ears,”I don’t want to hear it Logan. Stop talking about Jacob. It’s my fault he died; I didn’t take care of myself. Now I’m sick and I feel I can’t do anything. Everything makes me tired and I’m so mad at myself.”
I sit down beside her and rub her back, “Relax, we have time. Work on feeling better. Try to take a short walk, even around the block. Be in the sun on the patio to get more vitamin D and sleep whenever you need; however, you have to promise me you’ll take your pill.”
“I don’t want to! I hate my medication, Logan. It makes me feel foggy,” Yasmine complains.
“The doctor says in a month or so, when you’re used to the medication, the fogginess will go away. But you have to let your body get used to the anti-depressant. I notice when you take it, you’re much happier. You get out of bed and you make conversation. You sketch out designs for rooms,” I tell her.
“But Logan . . .”
“Please, for two-weeks, try taking your pill. If you don’t, the Doctor says you’ll have to go back into the hospital, Yasmine.”
Suddenly, she flys into a rage. Yasmine pushes me away and screams, grabbing her car keys before I can catch her. She hurries into the elevator and the doors close before I can reach her. When I make it to her parking space, it’s empty. I never saw Yasmine again.
Yasmine’s my wife and it hurts me to know she could be anywhere and I can’t help her. I don’t know if she’s well or still suffering from depression. No one’s been able to find her, not even a private detective.
I grieved for Yasmine. It took me two-years before I started writing my stories down in journals. I thought, when Yasmine came back, she could read about what happened in my life after she left. I tried to make my journal entertaining for her to read.
Then they found her body. Parts of me which I never knew existed ached, when I learned Yasmine was dead. I’m not sure how they can find out her cause of death. But I’ve convinced myself I influenced her to commit suicide.
I tore the pages out of my journals; I had had them bound and printed into volumes for Yasmine to read. Now I know she will never be able to read what I wrote.
Broken and grieving, I destroy my journal volumes. All the typed pages scatter across the floor in our home office. Broken journals, like my heart.
How does one heal after hurting so long? After believing their other half couldn’t be dead? Reality is painful and final.
Amanda Eifert is a writer, blogger, and student from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She enjoys yoga, walking, drawing, the Edmonton sports scene, and spending time with her friends and family. Her blog is www.mandibelle16.wordpress.com and includes fiction, poetry, and nonfiction writing. She has her BA in English Literature from Concordia University of Edmonton.