Katie, my niece, was perched in a highchair with my sister beside her, trying to get her to eat some cut up vegetables. I was guessing by the looks of it that more vegetables had made it to the floor than into the little girl’s mouth. Ruby looked up at me, her expression one of exasperation.
“Hey, Vic. Thanks for coming. Let me get through this and I’ll get Sam to take over so we can chat.”
“Sure.” I looked down at my niece. “Hey there, Katie. You torturing your mother?”
Katie’s smile broadened as she looked up at me.
“You know I used to feed your mommy all the time and she always threw food at me so you feel free to throw as much as you can at her. Okay?”
Katie took my suggestion to heart and hollered ‘yuck’ as she mashed some peas into Ruby’s hair as she was bent over trying to pick up some of the discarded food.
I gave Katie the thumbs-up sign and turned to take my seat.
“Ugh, Katie!” Ruby whined. I couldn’t help but smile. Served her right for all the shit she put me through.
And really, you can’t blame me for wanting a little fun before subjecting myself to the torture that was my mother. I stopped to say hello to my grandparents who were very focused on their platefuls of peel-and-eat shrimp, but they did stop eating long enough for me to give each of them a kiss on the cheek. I wondered if my mother had told them about Dave and me. They didn’t let on and far be it from me to break the news to them in the middle of their seafood-fest.
So all that was left was to sit down next to my mother. How very awkward.
Yoga breath, yoga breath, I told myself as I slipped into my chair.
“Hey, Vic,” Steve smirked at me as he crunched his ice cubes. “What’s up?”
I shivered. “Don’t you know how terrible that is for your teeth?”
“Yup, you remind me every time I see you.”
It was hard to imagine my brother was a partner in a successful law firm and drove a big Mercedes sedan; he must be the Bizarro version of himself when he was at work.
“Ignore him, Vicky,” my mother surprisingly jumped to my rescue. Although, I had to admit it was good advice.
I turned towards her. “Listen, Mom, I’m sorry about the other day. I was pretty upset you know and…”
She put up her hand, “No need to apologize, I wasn’t fair to you. What you want to do with your life is your business.” Her tone was curt, but there was no mistaking her words.
I blinked a few times, shocked at her admission. Had hell indeed frozen over?
“I don’t have to agree with your decision, Vicky, but I do have to respect it. Even though it means you’ll never give me grandchildren.”
There it was; the ubiquitous guilt, proving the planet had not come out of alignment. For a second, I thought I was going to get a one hundred percent endorsement of my split from Dave. Glad that the universe made sense again, I gave my mother a half smile. “Thanks, Mom. Hey, let’s go get some food before Steve empties out the buffet.” I jerked my thumb towards my brother’s suddenly empty chair.
* * *
“So are you going to tell me what happened or what?” my sister said over my shoulder as I scooped an overflowing spoonful of chow mein onto my plate.
“Abridged version: I don’t want kids. Dave does. So we’re splitting up.”
“Oh my God, Vicky, really?”
I handed her the spoon so she could fill her plate as I moved on to the chicken balls.
“’fraid so. It’s over.”
“Wow. Have you always not wanted kids, Vicky?”
I took a breath. “I’m not sure. I guess on some level I’ve always known, but I really thought I did. Dave and I used to talk about starting a family and I guess I just thought I wasn’t ready.” I took a big sparerib from the steam table, balancing it over the mound of chow mein.
She nodded and moved over to the chicken balls. “I’m not surprised. You’ve never really bonded with Michael and Katie.”
“Oh now wait a minute, Ruby…”
She shook her head, “I’m not criticizing. And I’m not saying that I think you don’t love them. I’m sure you do, in your own way. I’m just saying that you’ve never been the type to get down on the floor and play with them, you know. I mean, I don’t think you ever held either of them as a baby.”
I thought about what my sister was saying. She was right. Other than one time at a family dinner when I had practically been forced to hold brand new baby Michael, I couldn’t remember holding either my niece or nephew. Dave had always stepped in when a baby was being offered up and I guess I just let him be the one to be the designated baby-holder.
“I’m going to get some of the shrimp.” I tried to run away from my sister and the truth.
Sadly, it didn’t work. “Right behind you.” Ruby put down the sparerib tongs and followed me to the next steam table. “I’m not criticizing you, Vicky, I’m just saying I’m not surprised. Although, how you hooked up with Dave, who is like the biggest kid lover on the planet, I don’t know.”
How had I never seen the signs that Dave and I had been incompatible from the beginning? Maybe I had been in denial because I knew in every other matter we were perfect for each other. “Neither do I,” I mused aloud, more to myself than to my sister.
I spooned a few shrimps onto the last fraction of white space on my plate and headed back to the table. Right into the alligator pit.
The second I got the napkin on my lap was my mother’s signal to pounce. “So how are you holding up? Have you talked to Dave?” she asked, her sweet voice not hiding the meaning of her words.
I kept my voice low, not wanting to be the new subject of family gossip if I could help it. “I have spoken with him, but no, we’re not getting back together.”
Mother waved her fork at me dismissively before stabbing at a spring roll on her plate. “It’s only been a few days, you’ll work it out.”
It was easier just to keep my mouth shut than argue, so I tucked into my food, thankful that whenever the conversation at the table looked like it was going to turn to either me or anything to do with the subject of divorce, I could always get up to go get more food. I got a new respect for the buffet and how one could definitely use the concept to their full advantage.
I now saw why this place was so popular with families.
Chapter 9
“Get off your ass and get out of that apartment, that’s what you need to do,” Zoë said, her tone reminding me of Mr. Anderson, my tenth-grade math teacher who was forever giving me detention. (“When will you learn, Victoria, that coming to class late is as bad as not coming at all?” I’d shown him: I’d finally learned not to go at all. Although perhaps it wasn’t the best tactic as it resulted in my having to repeat the class.)
Always reluctant to do what I was told, I scoffed at Zoë, suddenly very sorry I’d picked up the phone. And anyway, she was beginning to sound like Kendra. “I’m fine. I’ve already been looking for a new job,” I lied.
“Oh yeah? Where?” there was no fooling Zoë.
Damn. “I already had an interview with a couple high powered executives: Ben and Jerry.”
“Shut up, Vic, I’m serious. You haven’t gotten off Jen’s couch for over three weeks.”
It was a sad truth. Before I realized, I had become firmly entrenched in a routine that was proving difficult to break. I would wake up while Jen was getting in the shower. Like a good houseguest, I would get up and pack Jen’s lunch and fix her some breakfast, all to be ready for her to grab on her way out the door. Then, I would resume my spot on the couch and sleep for two more hours until Ellen came on. After that, the day would become a blur of talk shows and celebrity updates on E with a good dose of Law and Order reruns thrown in at lunch. Most days I barely ate; if I consumed food, I would just have to go buy more, and the whole goal of cocooning on Jen’s couch was not having to leave the apartment. I had become a bona fide recluse, the only positive in my life being that I had finally
dropped those nagging ten pounds.
“What am I supposed to do, Zoë?”
“Well for starters, stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
That pissed me off. “Why can’t I feel sorry for myself?” I snapped. “Why can’t I sit on the couch and eat ice cream all day? My fucking marriage is over for Christ’s sakes.”
“I have not forgotten that, but, and I know this sounds harsh, but it was your choice. It’s not like Dave died and you’re suddenly a widow. I’m just saying that instead of wallowing in your self-pity, you could be out there doing something productive.”
Bitch. And it really pissed me off that she was right. “Like what?” I said, sounding pouty even to myself.
“Well, what about getting a place of your own?”
“You just want the commission of selling me a place,” I said, only half-joking.
Zoë laughed. “Damn right I do. What are you doing with the house? Are you going to sell it or is he going to buy you out?”
I swallowed past the new lump in my throat. “We haven’t talked about it.”
“Listen, Vic, I know it’s tough. I’ve dealt with a lot of divorce situations, but you and Dave will make it through okay. I think you just need to talk to him and figure out how you’re going to split everything.”
Split everything. Dave and I had to cut our lives in half. I get the Tupperware patio set and he gets the hair dryer. The ten-speed blender becomes mine and mine alone and Dave becomes the sole user of the Keurig. My mouth turned to sand as I contemplated the complexities arising out of our separation.
“Vic? You there?”
“Yeah,” I croaked, forcing some saliva into my mouth. “I guess he’ll probably want to keep the house.”
“Well then, he’ll have to buy you out. Any idea where you want to live?”
New Zealand? Antarctica? Mars? “No, I haven’t thought about any of this, Zoë.” I began to cry. I wasn’t ready for this.
“Aw Vic, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re right. This is stuff I need to do.” I reached for a Kleenex. “I’ll call Dave and let you know what he says. Maybe a condo or a townhouse…” I dreaded having to call Dave, but it couldn’t be avoided: I had to start moving forward.
“Good for you. I’ve gotta run to the office, can I get you anything on my way by?”
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “Nah, I’m okay. There’s still some ice cream left.”
“Oh hey, you know I forgot the reason I was calling. There’s an opening up at my office for a part-time secretary if you’re interested. I know it’s probably not what you’re looking for, but it might help in the interim.”
“Dare I ask how much it pays?”
I could almost hear Zoë cringe. “Well like I said, I only see it as being an interim thing. Twelve bucks an hour.”
That was a far cry from the draw that Dave and I pulled from his very successful practice, but those days were gone now. Although, it was fair to say that I was probably still entitled to some of the money that came in from the practice I had helped to build.
“What the hell, I’m not making any money sitting here. And if it’s part-time, I can still look for something else.” I swallowed as the thought of looking for a job left a sour taste in my mouth.
“Cool, just fax your resume up to the office as a formality. I’ll tell Jim it’s coming.”
“Hey, Zoë?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, sweetie. Anytime.”
I hung up the phone and dabbed at my eyes with the Kleenex, taking several yoga breaths. Finally, I tossed the tissue into the garbage and, determined to take Zoë’s advice, got off the couch to go turn on Jen’s computer so I could update my resume.
Chapter 10
“The job’s yours if you want it,” Jim said, shrugging his shoulders and dismissing the piece of paper I had shoved into his hand as though it was written in Japanese.
So much for the four hours I had spent agonizing over trying to make my working past sound impressive, even though it wasn’t; I had finished college and worked at my husband’s practice. But apparently none of that mattered anyway.
“Thanks, when do you want me to start?”
Jim looked around, for no reason that I could decipher, and shrugged again. “I don’t know, how’s tomorrow?”
I looked at Zoë, who had driven me up to the office for what was supposed to be an interview. We hadn’t gotten past the threshold of Jim’s office before he stood to greet us and tell me the job was mine. For this, I shaved my legs, borrowed Jen’s power suit and even put on makeup. Zoë’s face communicated exactly nothing.
“Sure, tomorrow works for me.”
Jim stuck out his meaty hand and I took it in my own, marveling at how his hand could be so sweaty and clammy even though he’d wiped it on his jacket before offering it. Yuck. But I pumped it the two times my dad had always said made up a good solid handshake. (“Don’t give a weak handshake, whatever you do, Victoria. Men especially need a good solid handshake. Two pumps, good and firm and you’ll never lose a deal.”)
He let my hand go and pushed his fingers through his very thinning hair. “Great, welcome to the team. You know how to make good coffee right?”
I laughed out loud until I realized I was laughing alone. He was serious. I glanced over at Zoë, who looked like she’d just swallowed a glass of sour milk. My smile disintegrated as I tried to save face. “Well I am getting divorced, but it’s not because of my coffee!”
Jim chuckled nervously, wiping his hands on his jacket again, though this time it wasn’t in preparation for a handshake. Mental note: divorce joke not a crowd-pleaser.
“I’m just kidding, my coffee’s fine, it’s my cooking you’ve got to watch out for.”
Oh my God, Vicky, stop talking.
Thank God for best friends. “Well, Jim we don’t want to take up your time. You wanted Vicky for mostly the afternoons, right? How’s noon for her to start tomorrow?”
Jim nodded and before I could open my mouth again, Zoë had me by the elbow and pushed me out the front door.
We were halfway to her car before she spoke. “What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know, I guess I got nervous. I’ve never really had an interview before except for when I worked at the summer camp, but that was back in high school.”
Zoë took a deep breath. She clicked the remote and the doors of her SUV unlocked. “Well good thing you won’t have to do that again for a while.”
Amen.
* * *
Despite Zoë’s good advice about how I needed to sort out everything with Dave, I just wasn’t ready. So, in denial I had stayed, Jen’s home becoming a safe haven of pajamas, great girl conversations and the kind of ice cream and Oreo dinners I hadn’t enjoyed since college. I didn’t even mind that I slept on her hand-me-down, ancient couch as long as it meant I didn’t have to really think about where my life was going. The only thing that was going to get dicey was my lack of wardrobe; now that I was starting a job, I was going to need more clothes.
There was no avoiding it; I needed to make a trip home.
As I approached the front door, I felt weird. It felt like even though I had a key and legally owned half of the house, I was a stranger. It was like a whole lifetime since I had left.
Shoving my key into the lock, I was sure Mrs. Calder across the street was watching from her kitchen window, wondering why I hadn’t been there for so long and had no suitcases to explain my absence. I was sure Dave wouldn’t have told anyone, maybe not even his parents unless they’d happened to call. The neighborhood was surely abuzz with talk of my sudden departure. “Oh that poor Vicky Blumenfeld,” they would say. “She turned into one of those Desperate Housewives…Well, it was only a matter of time…Maybe she’s barren and it strained the marriage…Maybe she had an affair.” Oh yeah, I’m sure the Blumenfeld rumors were extra juicy.
Thank God it wasn’t summer; I couldn’t bear the thought of Dave and I being the subject du jour of the annual street party.
“Hello?” I said tentatively as I opened the door. Dave would be at work, but there was a tiny part of my brain that suggested I announce my presence: there was no telling what he had been up to since I left. Probably nothing out of the ordinary, but there was always the chance that there was a new woman lingering in what used to be my bed.
Hardly, it’s been less than a month and it took Dave three years to get up the nerve to ask me out.
But as I stepped into the foyer, I was overwhelmed by the unmistakable sweet smell of…God, what was it? Oh yes: dorm room. It was an aroma that took me back several years to when Dave and I were first dating. Its origins were numerous, encompassing everything from unwashed laundry to a funky bag of hockey equipment to food and unwashed dishes. By force of habit, I kicked off my shoes in the front hall and moved further into the house to investigate.
Not surprisingly, on the coffee table sat a pizza box (likely containing twelve uneaten crusts), a Styrofoam container coated with barbecue sauce full of discarded chicken bones, and an assortment of paper boxes. Dave had hit the trifecta of order-in foods: wings, pizza and Chinese. I knew there was a good chance if I came back the same time next day, I’d see a discarded bucket with the Colonel’s face on it.
Also not surprising was the pile of clothes on the floor beside the couch; why move them to the laundry hamper if there’s no one around to tell you to?
So Dave wasn’t cooking, which was no surprise. Nor was he cleaning up after himself, no shock there either. But what drew me deeper into the room was not the evidence that my husband was a slob, but evidence of something else.
On the far side of the table, within reach of his favorite spot on the couch were a framed picture and two open photo albums among a smattering of crumpled up napkins and paper plates. At first, I was angry that he was eating over our pictures, turning the pages of our life together with his inevitably greasy fingers, but then the true meaning of the scene hit me: he was suffering. Dave was really hurting. And like all of my girlfriends had done in turn over the years, he was reliving the relationship through pictures after the painful breakup.
Life, Sideways Page 6
