Chapter 4 - Sixteen Red Circles
That evening, back in our quiet kitchen in La Crosse, I stood before our wall calendar with a red grease pencil I had accidentally brought home from the fab lab in my pocket.
Kyle popped the cap off a domestic beer, leaning against the counter. He watched me with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety. “What are you doing?”
“Counting,” I said flatly.
“Counting what?”
“Sixteen Sundays.” I pressed the tip of the red pencil down, drawing a sharp, vicious circle around the upcoming date in July. Then another. And another, marching forward through the summer months.
Kyle set his beer bottle down with a sharp thud. “Jocelyn, what is this?”
“For the next sixteen Sundays, I am still going to your parents’ house,” I said, capping the pencil and turning to face him. “I’ll eat the food. I’ll talk to Heidi. I’ll hold the baby.”
“Okay… and?”
“And if your mother makes another derogatory comment about my body, my face, or my work, I am not responding.”
Kyle gave a short, hysterical bark of laughter. “What does that even mean? You’re just going to sit there like a statue?”
“It means I won’t laugh. I won't rescue her. I won't soften the blow.”
“That’s it?” He rubbed his temples, his face flushing red. “That’s going to create an unbearable atmosphere! Everyone’s going to feel it!”
“It is unbearable, Kyle,” I shot back, stepping into his personal space. “You just couldn't hear it because I was doing the emotional heavy lifting for your mother for years.”
He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing as his brain searched for an excuse, found none, and retreated behind anger. “What are you asking me to do, then? Nothing?”
“No,” I said softly, laying the red pencil down on the laminate counter. “I’m asking you to finally listen to what it sounds like when I stop helping her destroy me.”
The first Sunday of July arrived hot and humid. I wore a simple blue cotton sleeveless summer dress—functional, clean, and entirely devoid of the frilly camouflage Marley usually sneered at.
When Marley opened her front door, she took me in from head to toe with a blistering squint. “Well, look who’s wearing a dress. Did you lose a bet, Kyle?”
Normally, I would have offered a self-deprecating smile about dressing up for once. Instead, I stepped right past her, catching Kyle’s eye in the hallway. “Hi, Stan,” I called out cheerfully toward the living room.
Marley blinked, momentarily thrown off stride.
Dinner proceeded under a strange, suffocating pressure. Halfway through the meal, Marley lobbed her first mortar. “Jocelyn, those potatoes aren’t going to weld themselves to your plate.”
Silence.
I turned my head toward Heidi instead. “How is little Leo sleeping these days?”
Heidi looked startled, dropping her gaze for a split second before answering. “Four hours straight now.”
“That’s progress,” I smiled genuinely. “So much better.”
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Across the table, Marley sat with the heavy silver serving spoon suspended awkwardly in mid-air. Nobody laughed. The brass ceiling fan overhead clicked with metronomic monotony—click, click, click. Stan took a slow, deliberate drink of water. Kyle stared intensely at his pork chop as if it held the secrets of the universe.
For the first time in my marriage, the room didn't absorb Marley’s venom. It bounced off the walls, heavy and sour, landing squarely in her lap.
