Martin Ryce is an angry, angry man.
He graduated from college at the age of twenty two and two months later met the woman that he would make his wife a mere thirteen months afterward. He experienced a moderate amount of success in his career endeavors, was even nominated for (but did not win) the top 30 businessmen under 30 in his home town, Ashford, Connecticut, population 4,098. A year after he was married his wife, Kelly, gave birth to two girls and from that moment Martin knew that every decision he made would be for the good of those beautiful baby girls.
Martins’ job kept him away from home far more than he liked, but he did his best to convince himself that it was necessary in order to provide his family with a comfortable life.
He missed the morning that Kyra, his eldest daughter (by two minutes) spoke her first words. He missed the night months later, right before bed that his baby girl, Amy stood up and took her first steps. He missed his daughters’ first day of pre-school, senior pre-school, and kindergarden. He was away in Denver when Kyra brought home her first A. It was held to the fridge with a big, blue butterfly magnet when he got home three days later. He snuck into her room and kissed her lightly on the forehead, told her he was proud of her and apologized, for what seemed like the millionth time, for missing her achievement.
The days and weeks and months that he was away strained his marriage greatly. He doesn’t know how it got to be this bad. Things weren’t always like this.
Martin wanders the empty house, deep in reminiscent thought.
He sees her wedding ring sitting on the side of the sink in her bathroom. He fingers the ring, studying it closely. He remembers buying it. He was twenty-three and the purchase cleared out his savings, which wasn’t much at the time, but she had loved it. She slid it onto her finger the moment he presented it to her, and it hadn’t been removed since. That is, until today.
They used to be so in love.
He still remembers the way Kelly felt on their wedding night. They had been the only people they knew who waited until marriage to be together.
He remembers the way she held his hand as they got off the plane on their honeymoon in Cuba. She had really wanted to go to Hawaii but Varadero was all they could afford.
He recalls the way she watched him holding baby Kyra the night his girls were born. He was rigid and nervous: at twenty-four years of age he was barely old enough to be married let alone starting a family.
He remembers when the travelling first began, how it felt like an adventure, how his girls (Kelly included) were ecstatic when he returned. He cannot remember a time in the first year that he was too tired or jet-lagged to turn away from his sexy, willing wife under the sheets.
He remembers their long, late night conversations.
He remembers their kisses and hugs, the feel of her fingers linked with his.
They were so in love.
He remembers it all.
What he can’t remember is when it all began to go downhill. Somewhere in between all of the business trips and dinner meetings his wife began to forget who he was: as a husband, father and friend. Martin forgot that he should have cared more. That night when Martin climbed into bed next to his wife, she did not stir. The next morning she did not kiss him on the cheek at the breakfast table like she had since the day they first sat down at that table the morning after they moved into their first house (whenever he was home of course).
She stopped communicating. Martin, assuming that she just needed some time played along. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. In a period of four months, Martin and Kelly spoke only when it concerned the girls (“Kyra needs a bath before bed,” “Don’t forget to take Amy to her doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon,” “The girls need to be picked up from your mothers’ before seven.”)
Martin felt her slipping away.
On the eve of their nineteenth week of silence Kelly, having just returned from a night out with her sister, walks past Martin on her way through the kitchen where he was seated, hammering away at his laptop keys. He smells it. It is undeniable. Cologne.
Martin, unable to cope, unable to confront his wife, shifts his focus. He is home from work by six p.m. His beautiful daughters, now in the third grade, demand more attention than ever. He is always there. When Kyra needs help with her math, he is there with jellybeans to help her count; Amy is having trouble writing her story about the family, he is there to spout ideas. When their stomachs grumble he cuts up carrots into extra tiny strips and dips them into cucumber dressing just the way his girls like it.
Sometimes Kelly reads them a bedtime story sometimes Martin. Lately, they want daddy, with his silly voices and sound effects. As his girls climb onto his lap in the oversized living room chair, Martin smirks at his wife standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest and begins reading. “There was a mother who had a new baby. She picked it up and rocked it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…”
**
It’s the eighth work day in a row that Martin is home in time for dinner. He walks into the house, no one is home. He looks for a note – there is nothing, a message on the answering machine –there is nothing. He calls his parents, her parents, but no one knows where they are. He calls her cell phone as a last resort but it goes straight to voicemail.
Martin feels her slipping away.
Martin pours himself a drink, sits down heavily on the couch, links his hands together and presses them to his forehead. He waits. He thinks: he knows her, despite everything he knows her. He thinks: there is nothing to worry about. But he does. He drinks and worries and thinks.
They come skipping through the door an hour later, pink streaks in Amy’s hair, purple in Kyra’s, a lone blue strand cascading down Kelly’s long blonde hair.
“Girls go to your rooms please,” he says.
“Mommy will be right up to read to you,” Kelly adds, smiling as they dash up the stairs.
They stand in silence – Martin is choosing his words carefully, Kelly is waiting. He is breathing heavily, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Where why how? His head is all clouded – he opens his mouth, closes it, licks his lips lets his tongue linger there, forms his words “Kelly – "
“Mommy!” the girls yell from upstairs. Kelly turns without looking and walks away. Martin brings the glass to his lips – the liquid tears at his throat like razor blades.
Martin Ryce is an angry, angry man.
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