A Dinner Party

A Dinner Party
by Andrea Sharpless


Pouring more coffee into her cup while exhaling smoke, Ronda says, "Why bother going on about that husband of yours? We have yet to meet him." Its true. My husband works sixty hours a week, sleeps ten hours a day and is only awake in the wee hours of the morning playing video games while I sleep.

Bert, holding Ronda's hand on top of the table says, "You love him, he's such a nice guy, spends so much time with the kids, but you never take any pictures of him or he takes them and isn't in them. He never makes it to lunch with us because you can't bare waking him up. Do we embarrass you or something? Are we friends he wouldn't like?"

"It's nothing like that. We just keep different schedules and prioritize out time together as family time with the kids."

"I'm starting to think you're making this guy up."

Ronda's raised eyebrows seem to be amongst a growing number in my life. I would never have guessed you were married resonate over and over again from everyone I meet. My children even act like daddy is at work permanently. When he's asleep while they are home and I tell them so they laugh and say, "Silly mommy, he's still at work." Always at work.

At night when he comes home and I'm asleep and he accidentally wakes me, we catch up sometimes, but it feels like a dream. How are you, how are the kids, how's work, etc? Same old questions, only slightly varying answers. I want more to this relationship than that. I'm going to take a nap in the afternoon so I can be up when he comes home.

"I'll take a picture of him tonight when he comes home from work with me in it so it doesn't look like I photo shopped it."

Ronda laughs, "Sure, I'll believe it when I see it."

Bert, loving to see Ronda amused says, "Why don't we invite him to prove his existence? I still have his email address..."

"He never answers email," I quickly interrupt, "When its important, he asks me to do it for him."

"You answer his email?" Bert replies with a Cheshire cat grin.

"Someone has to. He's always been terrible at that kind of thing. Communication is not his strong suit, when it’s recreational."

I realize this sounds like another rationalization, as they look even more amused. This is ridiculous, childish even. This could be a running joke for the rest of the year and I don't want that, so I put my foot down,

"Fine. I'll make arrangements to have you over for dinner when he's off. He loves to cook. I'll let you know the date for the little party. I have to get back to work now. See you tomorrow."

It was a bit abrupt, but back to work I went.

At home that evening I took a nap as I had planned and did some laundry while I waited for my husband to home. The warm clothes left me too cozy and when I rested my head on the dryer door, I must have fallen asleep.

Ernie woke me up when he got home, "Why aren't you in bed? That's going to leave a mark that's hard to explain without sounding stupid."

Groggily, I yawned and following him back to the bedroom replied, "I was waiting for you to tell you that we're having people over for dinner to prove you exist."

"Should we have Christ over next week?" he giggled.

My words were slurred, "I know its silly, but none of my friends from work have met you and most of their spouses come to lunch at least occasionally with us." The clock was flashing and said two PM. The alarm on my cell phone would be right at least.

"Most of your friends' spouses are housewives. You look like you're going to fall over. Get in bed," he requested. Then he actually considered dinner guests and cringed, “I’m working nights for the next three weeks. They're welcome to wait to be graced by my amazing presence."

Half asleep that seemed good enough. Lunch the next day at work simply fueled the previous fire. Three weeks sounds a lot like never for a dinner invitation to a close friend you see every day, either that or a big occasion. They chose to see it as a big occasion and began planning. What to wear? Do you want us to bring wine or dessert? White or red? Flowers? What kind?

They planned practically everything for me. As I started buying everything for the coming occasion, my children became curious. I explained that my friends from work had been waiting to meet their father for some time, and that he had agreed to dinner with them and even volunteered to help cook. Sadness showed through their tight smiles. He rarely had time for us and I hadn't thought the children would be interested in joining us, but they looked so disappointed when I mentioned company that I decided to invite them to stay up late for the party. This brought my daughter to tears.

"Would you prefer dinner alone with your father?" I asked in utter confusion.

She simply walked away shaking her head.

I asked my son what I had done to upset her so badly and he simply shook his head and replied, "She's sensitive about all kinds of things now," while putting on headphones.

That night I woke to my husband noisily dropping change all over the floor as he undressed. I mentioned the strange behavior of the children and how I hadn't wanted to ask them more about it for fear of upsetting them more. He began to cry as I asked him to talk to them about it.

"Why is everyone crying today?" I moaned.

"We're all waiting for you to adjust, but it just isn't happening. Every few months you slip back again to the beginning; back to denial," he wept.

It was odd to see Ernie cry. Death was the only thing that ever brought out any sadness in him. Now he was crying about my denial. Denial of what? I'd had plenty of problems in the past with depression, but they were all crying like I was delusional. None of it made any sense. I felt like something was missing since I started working again, but I thought I just missed being home when the kids arrived back from school.

Desperate to comfort Ernie I said, "Hey, why the tear?" with a big hug. "Who died?” meaning it quite rhetorically, looking to put perspective on the obvious stress I was putting on everyone.

"I did," Ernie replied. "Two years ago in a car wreck on my way home from work. You were catatonic for weeks afterward. Wouldn't eat or talk or anything. I couldn't leave you like that. The kids need you. So here I am. When you came to and never mentioned me except in passing in the past tense, we thought you'd recovered. When you got a job we thought you'd recovered again, but every time you turn around and act like I'm here. Like I'm real. I'm not really here. I'm just a sad ghost, I guess, wishing you'd let go and be a grieving widow, at last. I thought this dinner would force you to admit it to yourself, but here we are, the night before, and you're making the kids cry telling them I'm cooking a late dinner for friends who want to meet me. Please, at least for their sake tell people I'm dead. I won't leave you. I'll be here every night to be the same husband I always was. Just tell everyone I'm gone so they can stop having to smile and nod when you mention talking to me. Please."

Shock shot through me. Familiar shock. For the first time I didn't push it away. "If you'll stay with me..."

"I will," he assured me.

"Then you're dead. My husband died two years ago in a car accident," I practiced saying allowed.

He nodded approval.

Harder for me to get out was, "You're father is dead. He won't be coming to dinner."