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power to hold us beneath the current above. It will steady us, and secure us. But this love is the most difficult to abandon. Because the real strength is not the flood, nor the rapids, but the deep, quiet waters that lie beneath.
     

     
     
    Chapter Nine
    I peek into the refrigerator and frown. I skimped on groceries this week and am out of meat. It's going to have to be pasta dinner. Because Gregory works evenings, any late night meal requires reheating, which is why I do most meals in the crock pot. I have perfected a beef stew, a spicy chili, a melt-in-your-mouth pulled pork, and I am committed to repeating pot roast and corned beef until I get it just right. I do reserve one night for seafood, which the kids love, and he despises, and one night for homemade pizza or stuffed bread.

After nine years of eating reheated pasta, he came home one night in an uproar, refusing to eat "leftover" pasta. I had assumed his mood was the result of a very bad day at work, so I went ahead the following week and made a pasta dish, as I had once a week for years. He went into a tirade. I never listen to him. I don't care about what he needs. I don't have a job, the least I can do is cook him dinner. Why does he have to tell me over and over that he won't eat leftover pasta? These questions and accusations do not require answers or defense, for if I attempt to speak, he becomes more irate, screaming over me. "Did I tell you?! Did I? Yes! Yes, I told you. Do you have a problem understanding? I wouldn't have to yell at you if you would listen in the first place. I yell so you will hear me." If I try to walk away, he yells, "Get back here. I'm not done with you yet."

I do have a job but because it is not full-time, he refuses to acknowledge it, and there is no point bringing this up. It was 11:30 p.m. and he was yanking open kitchen cabinets, slamming the refrigerator, and yelling. Reduced to tears, I offered to make him anything he wanted, apologizing profusely. I want to tell him that he has eaten leftover pasta for years and that this is an absurd and random personality change. But, somehow, I know this is deeper. It's not the leftover pasta he does not want. It's the leftover me. What is left of me at the end of a harrowing day with three children, balancing a part-time job, alone every night to juggle baths, homework, story-time, maybe a game of checkers? What is left is a pair of worn-out flannel pajama pants and a stained t-shirt, wet hair from a late-night shower pulled back into bun, a tired and drained expression, legs that haven't been shaved for a week, and absolutely no desire to wait up for him to return from work in whatever mood he may be in.

A small knot forms in my stomach as I peer into an almost empty refrigerator only halfway through the week. It is snowing energetically outside and I won't be able to get to the store today. A few years ago, I attempted a homemade macaroni and cheese, and apparently it was not very good, so he claimed he did not care for macaroni and cheese, which I knew was not entirely true because he had eaten it many times at church picnics. I never made it again. Knowing that Gregory's memory is extremely limited, especially when it comes to outbursts, I brave the unthinkable; macaroni and cheese, a pasta dish which will need to be reheated.

If I am clever I can disguise it into a new dish. I use a ziti noodle instead of a macaroni noodle, and I line the casserole dish with onions. I use condensed milk and toss in shredded cheddar, sprinkle salt and pepper, Italian bread crumbs, and bake it for thirty minutes. The result is an absolutely delicious dish. The cheese is golden brown, the sauce thick and creamy and the scent of onion wafts through the kitchen. I taste it, and I know it is worthy. Something out of almost nothing. This is a skill I have honed over the years. And it has served me well. If I have some courage, some kind of job, some hope, some faith, no matter how close to nothing it