A Borrowed Life

by Kerry Anne King

  Chapter Four

  April 4, 2019

  Dear Inner Liz,

  Monday was April Fools’ Day.

  Remember how it was when you were a child? The kids at school all playing jokes. The time Mom said, “Guess what? Your dad quit drinking and went to rehab,” and then when you believed her said, “April fools! He’s in jail again,” with that ugly, sickening laugh.

  That’s what my whole life feels like. When Thomas died, I thought maybe I could resurrect my old self, which now seems as likely as Dad ever quitting the booze before it killed him. I’m bored. So terribly, horribly, sickeningly bored. Whatever I thought grief would be, it isn’t this. I don’t even know what I want to do, except that it isn’t to keep going on in this dreary, dull way.

  Thomas and I had a business arrangement more than a marriage—we were in the church business. And now I’m still in the church business as the sole remaining partner. I want out. Only, where would I go? What would I do? Today is Thursday. Thursday will be knitting circle day until hell freezes over, but I’m sick to death of these women and their same old gossip, and I just want to climb into bed and stay there . . .

  Outside, at least, it is spring, even if my interior life is caught in an endless winter.

  In the front yard, my maple tree is covered with tiny red flowers. Daffodils and tulips are blooming. The first exploratory bees are out, ambassadors for the hive. The lawn is already green and growing, in need of the lawn mower I’ve never used and don’t know how to operate. Thomas was big on the division of labor between what is a man’s work and the place of a woman. Yard work was his. Mine was the house.

  He also managed the finances and vehicle maintenance and a thousand other things I’ve had to figure out on the fly. Over the last three months, I’ve dealt with life insurance, Social Security, and bank accounts. Nearly escaped having the power shut off because I never thought to pay the electric bill. At least that learning curve gave my brain something to do. Abigail came home every weekend, and the two of us maintained a sort of truce as we worked things out together.

  But now that I’m set with a monthly budget and there’s some distance between us and the initial grief, Abigail has been coming home less and less. Why should she? We have little to say to each other. All we seem to have in common is Thomas, who somehow is still managing to run my life for me from beyond the grave.

  I slam the chair I’m carrying onto the floor with unnecessary force, taking pleasure in the clatter and crash. My soul rises up in rebellion at the idea of working on a blanket that looks exactly like the last blanket, and the one before that. I’ve come to believe that the road to hell is paved with boring baby blankets, all worked in stocking stitch either in baby blue or pink, never both. Maybe I’ll be a total rebel and insist on knitting in variegated yarn.

  A tap at the door, and Val breezes in, carrying an essence of a wider world with her.

  Val is the one thing in my world that has changed. She drops by for coffee. She drags me out for lunch dates, even whisked me off to a movie one night. Now she skids to a halt, taking in the circle of chairs. “Oh dear Lord. Again? Which thing this time?”

  “Knitting circle.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It’s Thursday, Val.”

  “And?”

  “Thursday is knitting circle. Every Thursday, since Eve ate the apple. Maybe before that.”

  “Not tonight.” Val clasps her hands and assumes a pleading expression. “I need you. Tell them you had to cancel on account of a soul in peril.”

  I adjust the chair to be more in line with the others. Earlene likes to come over early and fine-tune my chair arrangement. If she does that today, given the level of pressure built up inside of me, I might snap and wrap my knitting around her throat.

  An idea for an irreverent screenplay pops into my head.

  Strangled by a Baby Blanket, a one-woman play in a single act, written and performed by Elizabeth Lightsey.

  These bits of ideas have been dropping by with increasing frequency lately. I’ve thought about writing them down but never do. It all seems so pointless. Writing was something the younger me, Liz, aspired to do. It’s too late now. I opted for Thomas.

  “What’s up?” I ask, trying to shake off my mood. “You don’t look in peril.” She looks like she’s dressed for a date. Her hair is curled, her makeup piled on even thicker than usual, which is saying something. She’s wearing a low-cut blouse that reveals plenty of cleavage and jeans that leave not a single curve of her butt or hips to the imagination.

  “Oh, but I am. I’m going to audition for a play. I’m frightened half to death, and I need a wingwoman. You. I need you.”

  I catch a tantalizing whiff of freedom. In high school, I lived and breathed theater. Onstage, I could be somebody else, a girl with an interesting life. A girl who mattered. The other drama kids felt more like family than anybody waiting at home.

  But that’s all part of my pre-Thomas life. I sigh.

  “I can’t, Val. Not on such short notice.”

  “Of course you can. You can do whatever you want.”

  I snort at that. Right. That’s me. Free and easy and charting my own course. “Earlene will be here any minute. I can’t just leave.”

  “I beseech thee,” Val intones, dropping to her knees and clasping her hands in an exaggerated stage gesture.

  Earlene enters, right on cue, as if she’s been waiting in the wings for her line. As always, she is perfectly, but primly, put together. A neat blouse and skirt, modestly falling just below her knees. Black flats. No makeup or jewelry or anything about her that speaks of a concession to vanity. Except her hair. No woman who has been around as long as Earlene has hair that is perfectly raven black.

  “What are you two doing?”

  Val, still on her knees, collapses onto the floor in a fit of irrepressible laughter. The corners of my own lips twitch at Earlene’s scandalized expression.

  “One of those things,” I say, trying to find a safe place to look. Not at Val. Not at Earlene. “You would have had to be here.”

  “Good thing I came over when I did.” Her eyebrows, sparse and decidedly more gray than raven, draw together. “You’re a chair short. You’ve forgotten that Amy’s daughter is joining us.”

  Right. The new bride, about to be initiated into the joys of charitable needlework. I had forgotten, but the oversight is an opportunity I seize before the second thoughts have time to catch up with me.

  “Actually, it’s the perfect number of chairs.”

  “No,” Earlene corrects me patiently. “There are seven of us. You’ve only set up for six.”

  “I’m not going to be able to make it this evening.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Val gets to her feet and smooths her hair. “I’m afraid I’m dragging Liz off tonight on a mission of mercy that is much more pressing than the knitting. She said the circle couldn’t run without her, but I told her, ‘Liz, Earlene can totally manage without you for one evening. She’s so good at managing, and you’re needed elsewhere.’ So it’s all my fault, but you can manage, can’t you?”

  The play of emotions over the old woman’s face would make the perfect study for a portrait painter. Val’s shameless manipulation does the trick.

  “Well, of course, I can manage,” Earlene says. “But what in heaven’s name do you need Elizabeth for?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Val says. “It’s private.”

  I cringe a little. Earlene is likely imagining everything from a court date to an abortion. She has frequently admonished me to cut off all ties with Val, referencing her as “no better than she should be” on a good day and “that shameless hussy” when her gossiping tongue is at its sharpest.

  “Thank you, Earlene,” I say. “I’m so sorry for the short notice. But if anybody can manage, it’s you.”

  Val grabs my hand and tows me toward the door. I follow, giving Earlene breathless instructions while I put
on my shoes and coat. “There’s a vegetable tray in the fridge. The cheese is in there, too, already cut up. Crackers on the island. You know where to find the tea and sugar.”

  As soon as the front door closes behind us, Val bounces up and down like a child. “You did it! I’m so proud of you!” She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me like I’ve won a medal or done something heroic. She smells of perfume and smoke and hairspray, all melded together to make a Val fragrance of which I’m growing increasingly fond.

  “Come over to my house for a minute. Let’s fix you up.”

  “Wait. Val! I’m going to watch, I don’t . . .”

  She’s already crossed the yard and is holding the door for me. I glance over my shoulder and see Earlene peering out the living room window. I can either backtrack and endure a knitting circle made even more odious by her iron-fisted control, or seek refuge in the forbidden territory of Val’s house.

  I choose Val’s, feeling like a teenager sneaking out for a night of underage partying.

  Every house has a smell. Val smokes outside, so tobacco is only an undertone to coffee and fried food and a light lemon air freshener. There’s clutter everywhere. Books and mail on the kitchen counter. Magazines on the coffee table in the living room. Her shoes by the door are not lined up precisely. It smells and feels like the home I never had, and I always feel more relaxed over here.

  But not tonight.

  “What did you make me do?” I demand, only half joking.

  “I am rescuing you. Sit down. Here.” She drags a kitchen chair away from the table, and I drop obediently into it.

  “I thought we were leaving immediately.”

  “No way. We’re early. I never could have pried you loose if we’d waited any longer.”

  “Has anybody ever told you you’re brilliantly manipulative?”

  “Ha. Hang on. I have barely begun with my evil master plan.” She disappears into the bathroom, and I figure she’s off to do some more primping, but she reappears almost immediately with a mirror, a comb, and a cosmetic bag. Misgiving pricks up its ears in warning, followed by full-on emergency alert sirens when she drops the bag on the table, shoves the mirror into my hand, and moves behind me.

  “Val. What are you doing?”

  “You are so tense. Relax a little.” Her fingers massage the knots in my shoulders. It hurts, but it’s the good kind of hurt, and I feel my body easing under her touch. Her hands work their way up my neck to the base of my skull. “Even your hair is tight. I bet it makes your head ache.”

  I tug my head forward, away from her meddling hands, but she’s already removed two heavy combs and is loosening the tight French braiding. I can’t contain a sigh of relief as my hair loosens and cascades down over my shoulders.

  “You have such beautiful hair,” Val says. “Mine’s already full-on gray if I don’t dye it; yours hasn’t even got a thread of silver. I don’t know why you keep it tied up so tight.”

  “Vanity,” I whisper.

  “Earlene dyes hers, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And that young one—Felicity—she’s got a different style every week.”

  “You don’t understand.” My hands are shaking, my breath catching in my throat. Tears are about to follow.

  “Thomas again?” Val asks.

  Thomas again. Thomas always.

  Getting my hair done was one of my last outward rebellions. Abigail was a baby, and the disconnect between the Liz I’d always been and Elizabeth, the wife Thomas was shaping me into, was beginning to frighten me. I’d dropped into a hair salon on impulse, carrying Abigail asleep in her car seat.

  “What do you want done?” the hairdresser asked, running her fingers through my hair.

  “I don’t know. Something different.”

  “Let’s go short,” she said. “That’s the new look. It will bring out your beautiful eyes and be so easy to maintain. Lots of moms go short.”

  I was feeling reckless and wild, a little desperate. “Do it,” I told her.

  But I didn’t love it. I looked even less like me in the mirror, my head too small. My ears too big.

  “What have you done?” Thomas demanded when I walked in the door.

  Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over, beyond my ability to hold them back.

  “Vanity,” he said. “I thought you were above that, Elizabeth, but I suppose all women are prone to it.”

  I cried harder, humiliated and broken, and his face softened. He drew me into his arms and stroked my shorn head. “Hush now. It’s just a lesson. Forget your hair and the things of this world. Focus on what we are called to do. God gave you to me as a helper. So be that, Elizabeth. That’s what you’re here for.”

  His words sank into my vulnerable soul. As soon as my hair was long enough, I started braiding it without a word from him, a reminder to myself of the dangers of vanity.

  Now, as I look in the mirror, I see a shadow of my younger self. I run my fingers through my hair. It feels decadent and luxurious. My face is softened by the waves. I look younger.

  “How about a little makeup?” Val asks.

  “I’m in mourning. The hair is more than enough.”

  She holds out a tube of lipstick. “Of course you’re in mourning, darling, it’s only been three months. But this isn’t the eighteenth century. It’s not like there are rules.”

  I laugh at that. “Are you kidding? There are rules, all right. It’s just that they’re invisible and nobody ever wrote them down.” I’m shocked by the amount of bitterness in my voice. If I continue as I am, I’ll end up like Earlene. A bitter, wretched, resentful old woman.

  Lipstick is such a small thing. I uncap the tube and smooth a touch of color onto my lips.

  “Remember Eve and the apple,” Thomas says inside my head. “She had the whole garden of paradise, and yet she wanted more. Look where that got her.”

  “If this is paradise, you can have it,” I retort.

  “What’s that?” Val blinks at me, and I laugh, shaking off a nearly physical sensation of bondage.

  “Never mind. Are we going, or what?”

  “I’ll get my keys.” She dances her way toward the door. I look at myself one more time in the mirror, guilt raising its ugly little head.

  “It’s only the one time,” I whisper, just in case God and Thomas are listening.

  Chapter Five

  I hesitate at the back of the theater, lagging behind Val, enveloped in a haze of sensory memories. The hushed murmur of a waiting crowd filling the seats. The heat and glare of the spotlights. The controlled chaos behind the scenes. And a clear vision of my old self standing in the spotlight. She spreads her arms wide and smiles at me. You’re here. You came back.

  The vision shatters as a large man strides out to center stage. “New blood!” he booms, no need for a microphone, his voice projecting to the far corners of the room. “Excellent, excellent. Come on in, ladies. Have a seat. We were just getting started.”

  “Hey, Val! Come sit over here.” A small woman waves at us from the second row. It’s hard to guess her age. Her hair is snow white but thick and wavy, pulled back in a casual ponytail. Her eyes, black and inquisitive, belie the crow’s-feet around them. The woman beside her is her polar opposite, well above average height, with drooping jowls and more than enough weight for the two of them. Her hair is short, thin, and mousy, but her eyes are a startling green and her smile reveals straight, very white teeth and a deep dimple in one cheek.

  “Meet Tara and Bernie,” Val says, settling into a seat beside the small woman. “Ladies, this is Liz.”

  I’m about to ask which name goes with which face when the large woman’s gaze slips away from me and to the back of the theater.

  “Ohhhh, there we go,” she murmurs. “I could look at that until the cows come home.”

  A man stands at the back of the theater, not hesitant or undecided, just surveying the scene. I guess his age at fifty, mostly from the
lines in his face. He’s fit enough to be much younger, dressed in well-worn jeans and a flannel shirt.

  “Bernie. Stop objectifying the poor man.” The small woman, who must be Tara, elbows her in the ribs.

  “Poor man, nothing. And you’re just as bad.”

  “He’s off duty,” she says virtuously. “You can only ogle him when he’s in uniform. There are rules.”

  “Volunteers as an EMT,” Val supplies in response to my raised eyebrows. “Bernie has a thing for a man in uniform.”

  “Or preferably out of uniform.” Bernie waggles her eyebrows.

  “Lance, stop your dillydallying,” the man on the stage booms. “Sashay on up here. We were waiting for you.”

  The man laughs, easily, and saunters up the aisle in no particular hurry, settling into the seat behind me.

  Val squeezes my hand. “I’m so nervous!”

  “You’ll be great.”

  “For those who don’t know me”—the man on the stage pauses for the wave of laughter that runs through the small group scattered through the front seats—“my name is William Shakespeare. Oh, I’m just kidding. Don’t we all wish? William Smith, but my friends call me Bill. I’ll be running the audition today. The play is Just Say Yes by Imelda D. Bainbridge. It’s a romantic comedy about a woman having a midlife crisis. She makes a resolution to say yes to any opportunity that comes knocking, which gets her into all kinds of trouble and into an unexpected relationship. It’s also a musical, so there will be some choral singing, and we’ll be working with the community orchestra.”

  Bill claps his hands. “Okay, let’s get started. We only have a few women of a certain age here, and we’re going to have all of you read for Lacey, our female lead. We’ll audition for the male lead at the same time. Anybody have a monologue you’re dying to perform? No? Great, let’s dive in. Val, come on up.”

  “Me?”