Knitted Hearts by Amber Kelly

Foster

I’m riding on a high when I wake up on Sunday morning. That is, until I get up to shower and start my day to find there is no hot water.

I stomp down the stairs to flip the coffeepot on, and for some reason, it doesn’t comply. I check the water and make sure it’s plugged in as I press the switch again, but still, nothing.

Great.

I mentally add go to town and purchase new coffeemaker to my to-do list.

I grab a glass from the cabinet, turn on the faucet, and settle for water instead. As I down the clear, cool liquid, I notice that the microwave isn’t lit up.

What the fuck is going on?

I walk over to the light switch on the wall beside the front door and flick it up.

Nothing.

Shit.

I pick up the phone that sits on the end table beside the couch, and the line is dead. So, I go upstairs to retrieve my mobile that is charging by my bed, and it has a ten percent battery. I quickly look up the city’s utility helpline number and call.

After fighting with the stupid recordings, I am finally connected to a person who informs me that my wife called yesterday and had all the utilities at my current address cut off.

I explain that she and I are separated and that she doesn’t live here, nor does she have the authority to have any of the utilities at this location terminated.

The operator apologizes profusely and says that she’ll have someone out to restore my services as soon as possible, but it will most likely be late evening before they can make it out.

I hang up and try to call Wendy, but it only rings once before the screen goes black, and the phone shuts down.

Fuck.

I hurl it across the room, and it crashes into the closet door and falls to the carpet.

I instantly regret the outburst as I walk over and pick it up. The screen has a crack right down the center.

I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, and then I get dressed, sans shower, and head out the door.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the driveway of my former home and park beside Wendy’s VW.

I walk up to the porch and knock on the door.

Nothing.

I can see through the front windows that the television is on.

I knock again, harder this time.

“I know you’re home, Wendy. Open the damn door,” I yell.

It swings open a few minutes later. On bare feet, she stalks out onto the porch in her robe, and she looks from left to right.

“What do you want, Foster? You’re going to wake up the neighborhood,” she whisper-shouts.

I hope I do. I hope every single one of her friends hears what a piece of work she really is.

“I woke up to all my utilities shut off. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Should I?” she asks, feigning innocence.

“That’s strange because I contacted the city, and apparently, my wife called and had them disconnected on my behalf. What the fuck, Wendy?”

She folds her arms over her chest, and a wicked grin appears on her lips. “Sounds horrible.”

“Why do you do shit to make me miserable? Why can’t we just be amicable?” I ask.

“You should have thought about being amicable before you had your name taken off our checking account and stopped the automatic deposits,” she hisses.

Since my discharge from the service, I receive a modest VA disability compensation from the Army due to the shrapnel scraps still lodged in my leg. That money is automatically deposited into my account on the third of every month.

“I gave you the house, which I still pay the mortgage on, and we don’t live together anymore. I have to pay for my own shit now. What don’t you understand about that?” I ask.

“So do I. Do you think a job slinging drinks at the bar every other night or washing hair at Janelle’s salon pays enough to keep up with everything around here? News flash: it doesn’t. Especially when I had a twelve-hundred-dollar garage bill dropped in my lap yesterday,” she snaps.

“Then, get a better job. I’ll keep paying the mortgage until the divorce is final, and then I’ll sign the house over to you, free and clear. You can sell it or whatever, but that’s it. Then, I’m done. You’re going to have to learn how to stand on your own two feet,” I tell her.

“Yeah, well, thank you, but that’s not enough. What am I supposed to do, Foster? Starve?” she asks.

“Stop being dramatic. You’re not going to starve. Your car is paid for, and you’re still on my insurance till the end of the year. All you have to cover are utilities and food.”

She huffs. “Sure, bread and water—that’s all a girl needs, right?”

“How long are you going to punish me for not being who you wanted me to be?” I ask.

“Until I feel like you’ve paid for tricking me. I wasted the best years of my life on this marriage, and this is where I end up? Starting over now was not a part of the plan, Foster.”

I sigh.

“What do you want from me? Huh? You want me to move back in—again—just for one of us to leave in six months? We aren’t in love anymore. I don’t know if we ever were. Aren’t you as done with this as I am?” I ask.

“Yes,” she admits.

“Look, starting over wasn’t part of my plan either. But this is where we are. We can either make it hard on each other or we can get along. The choice is yours,” I insist.

Tears start streaming down her face. I haven’t got a clue if they are sad or angry tears. She can do both.

She swipes at her eyes and looks down at the steps. Embarrassed.

Sad tears.

“Give me the bill from Jackie’s,” I say.

She looks up at me. “What?”

“I’ll take care of that for you, but it’s the last time I’m doing it. You’ve got to start taking care of yourself,” I tell her.

“I’m trying,” she insists. “It’s like I’m constantly fighting some demons.”

“You’re not fighting demons. You’re fighting accountability,” I tell her. “And stop being so fucking spiteful,” I add.

She looks away. “Fine. I’m sorry.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love a cup of coffee while you find that paperwork,” I say as I walk past her and into the house.

“You know where it is,” she calls after me.