Page 77

CHAPTER 77

CONSISTENTLY INCONSISTENT

MARGAUX

I t’s late January, and I finally catch Covid for the first time.

I’ve managed to dodge it for years, thanks to a combination of germophobia, obsessive hand-sanitizing, and the luxury of remote work during the height of the pandemic. Even when my ex brought Covid home after a business trip, I made him isolate in the bedroom, delivering meals to the door like room service, and somehow escaped infection.

This time, though, I wasn’t so lucky.

Sure, I could have caught it at the grocery store, but Occam’s razor leads me to the more obvious culprit—Timmy.

His visits to the beachside tents—where he shares drinks, joints, and cigarettes with the local misfits and addicts—are a glaring vector of exposure. The thought of what he might be putting his mouth on over there makes my stomach churn.

“I’ve avoided Covid for three years,” I snap, furious. “And because you’re irresponsible, I finally get it?”

His deflection is immediate. “You probably got it at the grocery store. I didn’t give it to you.”

I’m outraged by his blasé response. “Timmy, you’re literally putting your mouth on things that have been passed around by god knows who. And then you come home, breathe on me, kiss me…”

But he won’t take responsibility.

“God, you’re so fucking dumb,” he says, rolling his eyes like I’ve just suggested the earth is flat. “It’s not my fault. It’s obviously from the grocery store.”

I’ve become so accustomed to his insults that they barely register anymore. I don’t even flinch at ‘dumb’ or the way his tone drips with contempt. It’s become background noise, like the hum of a refrigerator—steady and unrelenting.

But sometimes, his attitude still gets to me. And when it does, I lash out in ways that make me ashamed of myself.

And then I feel complicit.

As if I’m just as much to blame as him.

By now, Timmy is still navigating the emotional fallout of Darren’s death. The memorial is approaching, and I can sense his agitation growing.

To distract him—and to encourage him to contribute financially—I buy him a refurbished laptop that will run his graphic design software more efficiently.

“I really need it for my art,” he’d pleaded, his eyes wide with sincerity. “I’ll sell tons of hats and T-shirts, and I’ll give you all the money I make.”

To be fair, he has been giving me what little he earns from his part-time job, so, at first, I believe he means well. But, within days, and despite a lot of talk about graphic design ideas, it becomes clear that the laptop is more symbolic than practical. He rarely opens it, and—when I ask about his progress—there’s always an excuse.

“I’m not feeling well,” he says one day. “I can’t focus when my stomach hurts this bad.”

Another day, it’s a nightmare that derails him.

Or vague chest pains.

Or a headache.

The list goes on.

Before Timmy, I’d never met a grown adult who puts their life on hold so frequently due to a ‘tummy ache’ or a ‘nightmare’.

He’d probably call out if he stubbed his toe.

I try to motivate him. “You can’t call out of work for a nightmare, Timmy. And if you’re your own boss, you should be harder on yourself than any corporate boss would ever be. You owe it to yourself to make your dream come true—but instead, you go to sleep late, then sleep in late, and complain about these problems. If you’re really feeling that bad, maybe you should go to the doctor,” I suggest.

And so that becomes his next focus.

“There’s something wrong with my heart,” he says, grabbing at his chest. “I can tell.”

Cardiologist: “Your heart is fine, sir.”

“I need my skin checked,” he says, obsessively examining his freckles in the mirror. “I might have skin cancer.”

Dermatologist: “Your skin is fine, sir.”

“My feet need checking,” he says, rubbing at his toes. “Dad says your feet are the most important thing to take care of as you get older.”

Podiatrist: “Your feet are fine, sir. But let’s clean up those toenails.”

Each visit ends with a clean bill of health, and each time, Timmy breathes a sigh of relief—only to conjure a new ailment days later, and a new specialist he needs to see.

I try to help. “Maybe stop drinking so much—or at all?” I suggest, exasperated. “Drink water? Exercise? Eat healthy? Get up at a normal time? Work?”

I’m not trying to be flippant, but he takes it that way. “You’re such a fucking bitch,” he snaps.

“I’m trying to help you,” I counter, my tone measured. “I don’t always follow my own advice,” I explain. “But I do most of the time. That’s the key. You need consistency to see results. You have to show up for yourself.”

But Timmy’s only consistency is his inconsistency.

Despite his constant maladies and complaints, Timmy’s behavior stabilizes for a short while.

He signs the form to have the charges against me dropped, and my court-appointed lawyer successfully argues to have the state’s case dismissed, despite the state insisting it be continued even without Timmy as a witness. Luckily, my lawyer points out the absurdity of this, and the judge sides with him. A huge weight on my shoulders lifts.

Timmy attends therapy sessions for several consecutive weeks and comes home beaming, recounting his progress. “I told my therapist how much I love you,” he says one day, his voice full of conviction. “I want to be better—for us.”

He adjusts to his new medication, and while he’s still irritable at times, the sharp edges of his personality soften.

He cooks dinner without complaint.

He cleans without slamming cabinets.

He even seems to enjoy walking Sabre to the beach during the day on his little harness.

For a brief moment in time, we’re a semblance of the couple that it felt like we once were.

He’s still emotional about Darren, but his grief has mellowed. He continues working his part-time job, though his complaints about his boss, Robert, grow more frequent.

“Robert’s so picky,” he grumbles. “Just because he does things differently doesn’t mean it’s better.”

When Robert hires a new employee, a woman recently out of the military, Timmy takes issue with her too. “She’s so loud and annoying,” he says. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing, and I end up having to do all the actual work while she wastes time. But she has this giant ass that Robert just likes to look at all day.”

I just nod and encourage him to keep showing up for work. His contributions to our living expenses—while small—are meaningful.

We swim together.

We cook together.

We watch movies without arguing.

I allow myself to feel a rare sliver of hope.

Maybe this is the turning point.

Maybe things can be good again.

But deep down, I know the winds are bound to pick up again. And Darren’s upcoming memorial looms front and center in my mind.