I pray for this night to be over. I find myself striking deals with God -- “if You let him come home, I promise….” It is two in the morning, still steamy under a dark, matted sky. The last telephone call came six hours ago, an eternity in minutes. I take myself outside to prepare a silent vigil. The moisture hangs like a veil and beads of sweat prickle my upper lip. I wipe it off with my index finger. My heart is pounding a staccato beat, an insistent judge’s gavel. But the jury is still out. At this point I still know nothing of my husband’s cocaine use, hide beneath a cloak of ignorance. I picture him treading a tightrope of sanity, carefully picking his way across the cavern below. Funny, how I prefer insanity to the truth. My anxiety robs me of common sense.

I need to move so I commence to pace, back and forth, on the sidewalk in front of our apartment. I carefully avoid the cracks, a child’s game, one step inside this square, two inside the next. The pattern keeps my racing mind busy. I stop, abruptly, thinking I hear a car’s engine against the quiet night, a low purr, shift of gears, almost here and…no, it is not him. The small coupe heads in the opposite direction, ducking behind another apartment building like a dream. My stomach drops. The night presses in on me, mocking me. I look up at our windows, a dim light behind the shade, like tired eyes against a stucco face. They know my secret, my heartache. They have seen it before, this dance we engage in.

I go back inside. I have watched the silent telephone for hours but that does not dissuade me from taking up my station next to it once again. I dial the number of Coral Springs Medical Center, then hang up when I hear a voice on the other end. I have already called there. I can’t call again and maintain my dignity, though I often wonder if I have any dignity left. The silence of the night smothers the room but I can’t bring myself to pierce it with sound, as if it would be a betrayal of my penance. Instead I study the wall, the corners of the room, a thin, bright filament of cobweb floating in the air. My eyes are heavy.

I wake to the sound of the door opening, closing. He is standing there, disheveled, eerily unaware of me even in the lit room. He is barefoot, holding his shoes. His eyes are far away. He walks past me into the bedroom and closes the door. I want to lash out, to scream and pound on him, but I am drained. I close my eyes and drift back into an exhausted swamp of sleep, knowing I will not keep my promises to God after all.

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