Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [103]
I had gone numb to my core. I couldn’t feel, couldn’t talk, couldn’t hurt, couldn’t love. Maybe this is what death is, I thought. No, not just death. This was hell: I was gone but my power of observation remained, and I wanted to shut it off but I couldn’t. Somewhere in my soul, a light had gone out.
I turned and went back into the nursery.
Late that night, alone in the kitchen, I wrote:
Do you know what I mean when you swallow a scream
And pretend it’s not there yet it’s filling the air
All around me I see the pain I can’t feel
All around me I feel the pain I can’t see
How it hurts to be me
How it hurts to be me
The next day, I drove Dad to the airport. The showdown between Cary and him had ended in the only way possible: Cary was the sheriff in the town where I now lived, and Dad had to go back to his own territory. For practical purposes, I was inanimate as a sack of flour. In the car, Dad didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say. So we didn’t say much of anything until we got to the airport and I pulled up to Dad’s terminal. We sat in the car for a moment, both of us looking straight ahead. Then Dad put his hand over mine and, still looking through the windshield, said, “Dyan, why don’t you get on the plane and come home with me?”
I rested my head on the steering wheel.
“I can’t, Daddy.”
“I guess I knew that.” He sighed.
After Dad got home that night, Mom called. “Take Jennifer, get on a plane, and come home,” she told me. “You need a time-out and you need rest.”
“I can’t run away now, Mom. I have to face this and fix it.”
“You can’t fix it if you’re feeling broken. Dyan. Please.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
For two days, Cary and I didn’t say a word to each other. I kept my attention centered on Jennifer, holding her close, trying to shield her from the hostility that swirled around the house like dust devils. Through her, I could still feel the pulse of life beyond our tormented household, though that pulse was weak. Cary would take her and play with her when he got home while I retreated to the bedroom and lay on the bed, limp as a rag. A voice inside kept telling me, You can’t do this anymore. It was answered by another voice that said, But you have to. You have to go on. Not just for yourself, but for your daughter. I cried a lot, and in fact, just about anything could trigger my tears. A song, a television commercial, a squirrel outside the window. I spent a lot of the day softly weeping.
On the third day, Cary broke the silence. When he came home, I was in the bathtub. Crying again. I was drained. I looked up to see him standing in the doorway.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Because I’m sad.”
“It seems like you’re crying a lot lately.”
“I’ve been sad a lot lately.”
He was quiet. Very quiet. Then he looked at me with undisguised irritation. “I asked you a question,” he said. “I want to know what you’re crying about.”
I buried my face in my hands.
“Dyan, talk to me!”
The words took on a life of their own, rushing out of my mouth before I could edit them:
“Cary, don’t you have everything you want? I know I’m not the perfect wife, but I’ll try harder. I’m still Dyan, Cary. I’m not your mother, who disappeared on you. I’m not your father, who lied to you. I’m Dyan. And I love you and we have a wonderful child together and you finally have the family you’ve always wanted. Why are you throwing us away?”
It was as if he hadn’t heard a word. As if he couldn’t or wouldn’t allow himself to hear it. I looked up at him. His face was as wooden as a totem mask.
“What happened to the laughter?” I asked softly. “We were always laughing together. What happened?”
“That was a different time,” he said grimly.
“You want to know what