This passage is from the beginning of A Christmas Carol. The reason I chose it is because of the last statement Dickens makes: "nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate." Dickens was always highly conscious of his reading audience. He knew what they liked and wanted. He never wrote a memoir/autobiography. The closest he came was David Copperfield.
Therefore, Dickens never struggled the way I'm struggling with my memoir. I'm not sure anything wonderful is going to come of my story. However, a Lenten vow is a Lenten vow. I promised the next installment of Project Memoir this morning, so here it comes.
Let Saint Marty repeat: he's not sure anything wonderful can come of the story he's about to relate.
Confessions of Saint Marty
Chapter One
January 21: Saint Agnes
I'd had a recurring dream in the years since Beth was diagnosed bipolar. In the dream, she was in a dark room, without windows or doors. The darkness was so complete, I couldn't tell where floor met wall, wall met ceiling. In this black space, Beth called for me, reached out. Her fingers kept closing on emptiness. Her voice kept saying my name, an echo that never faded: "Martin...Martin...Martin..."
The night Beth moved out of our house, I had that dream, woke up with her in my ears, on my body like a cold sweat. I reached over to her side of the bed. When I couldn't find her, I panicked, not sure if I was awake or asleep. I was trapped in that black dream room, my wife just out of reach. I couldn't help her. For a week straight, I had the dream every night, waking up clammy and alone. At the end of that week, I started sleeping with my daughter, holding her tiny body close to mine. Somehow, Celeste's proximity kept the nightmare at bay. Maybe it was the warmth of her skin, the smell of Johnson's baby soap in her hair. Whatever the reason, the dream visited me less often. When Celeste stayed at my parents' house or had a sleepover with friends, I still slept in her bed. It was safer. I was safer.
The dream stopped coming to me a few months after Beth moved back home. In those first nights, I woke, breathless and lost. I'd reach out, touch Beth's shoulder or arm or face, find the reassurance of her body, the moon glow of her skin in the darkness. The dream receded, drifting back into the circles of the night.
A week into the new year, Beth and I went out to breakfast. I was still on vacation from my job, and I'd been avoiding going to the grocery store. We were out of eggs and Rice Krispies. The milk was one day shy of going sour.
As I pulled our Sable into the driveway after breakfast, Beth said, "I have something to tell you."
I looked over at her. She had a pained expression, one I'd seen quite a few times before. The ham and cheese omelet I'd had for breakfast contracted to a fist in my stomach. The night she told me she was leaving, she started the announcement with those same six words. I turned off the car.
Beth had recently cut her dark hair short and dyed it blond. She had it pulled behind her ear on one side and let it curl down the length of her face on the other. Her brown eyes reminded me of our cocker spaniel's eyes when we caught him on the couch or nosing through the garbage. A mixture of defiance and fear.
I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. "Go on," I said. I closed my eyes, waited in the darkness of my head for her to continue. Even though the vents of the car were blasting heat, I was shaking.
"I, um," she said. She didn't continue.
I opened my eyes and looked over at her.
She was staring at her hands, clenched in her lap. She took a deep breath, exhaled and spoke at the same time. "I propositioned two guys at work last night."
To be continued...
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