“I don't know.” Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. I felt a sob lodge in my throat, cutting off my airway.
“Mona, are you all right?” Tom asked, kneeling in front of me.
“No.”
“What can I do?”
“Tell me this isn't over,” I pleaded.
“It has to be.”
“Oh, Tom,” I whimpered, trying not to fall apart.
“It can't stay like this.” I saw the tears in my husband's eyes, and hated myself because I knew I'd put them there.
“I know,” I said, with resignation.
“What do we do?” Tom asked, and I looked at him.
“Do you want a divorce?” I squeaked. “Whatever you want, Tom. I'll do that for you,” I offered, wondering how it was that I had not yet died.
“Is that what you want?”
“No,” I whimpered.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then we have to try and fix this,” Tom said, and my airway opened with a start. I began to cough, then sob uncontrollably. “It's okay,” he whispered, rubbing my back. I cried for a long time, as I held tightly to my husband's hand.
“Is that why your clothes are on the bed?” I asked, once I could speak.
“Yeah.”
“Are you leaving?”
“I thought I was.”
“And now?” I asked.
“I'd rather not. Besides, what would I use to pack my things? Every box in this house is filled with Fangerhouse stuff.” I was pressed against Tom's side. I felt the warmth of his body, the vibration of his chuckle.
“Please don't go,” I whispered.
“I'm not going anywhere. Okay, that's not exactly true. I'd like to go to dinner.”
“You could eat?” I asked him.
“I was on my way to Taco Bell when I saw you. All I've had today is a brownie.”
“A Little Debbie?” I asked, smiling a gentle smile.
“Yeah.”
I sighed, and leaned my head against my Tom's shoulder. He was kind, and predictable, and loved me – and I'd very nearly lost him.
Five
Communicating isn't defined by talking.
It's also defined by listening.
I was in the bathroom restoring order to Denise's fabulous makeover, when Tom knocked on the open door.
“Hey,” I said.
“I made coffee,” he said, and I turned. “Don't worry. I did it right.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“Come have a cup with me. We need to talk.”
I sighed.
We'd already talked. I knew we were making progress, but I needed to take small steps. I took a few toward the bathroom door, and followed my husband in the direction of the smell of Folgers.
“I poured a cup for you.” Tom offered me a cup that said Henry's Septic Service. It had been Ida's, and looked ancient.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling weakly. I took my typical perch near the window.
“Where did you want to go to dinner?” Tom asked, taking the chair across from me.
“I don't know. Olive Garden?”
“Near the Sheraton?”
“Can we get past that?”
“I'm sorry about the whole bathroom thing. It's not like me to behave that way,” he said gently.
“I know. You scared the hell out of me.”
Tom chuckled, and I felt myself relax. “I did a number on that wallpaper,” he admitted.
“I saw that.”
“I did something else today.”
“What?” I asked.
“I made a phone call.”
“Oh?” This was a game Tom and I had played for years. He'd say random sentences that revealed little or nothing, and I'd chew my nails to the cuticles while trying to figure out what he meant.
“I guess I could tell you to whom,” he said, and I smiled.
“That would be lovely, Tom. If nothing else, it would certainly move the conversation along.”
“I called Bathman & Robin. Ever heard of them?”
“I have, but I'm pretty sure you're saying it wrong.”
“I'm not. Bathman & Robin. They're bathroom miracle workers.”
“Oh, like those companies that remodel your bathroom in one hour?” I asked.
“I think it's a day, Mona, but your optimism is refreshing.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “So, why'd you call the crapper superheroes?”
Tom laughed. “Well, I wanted to do something for you, and I know you hate that bathroom.”
“That's nice of you,” I said.
“You did something nice for me.”
“Yeah. I sent you into a frenzy because you thought I was banging the neighbor.”
Tom smiled. “Your motive was honorable, Mona.”
“I suppose. So, back to this bathroom business.”
“I'd like this to be our house.”
“It is.”
“You know, I don't think so. You inherited the house, and we moved in, but I've always felt like we live in Ida's house. It would be nice to make it our own.”
I pondered this for a moment and took in my surroundings. What would it take to make it our own? Where would we even start?
The kitchen could have been retro, but instead, looked tired and outdated. The table and coffeepot were ours, but everything else was Ida's, except the coffee mug. The mug appeared to belong to Henry.
“You have a point, Tom.”
“I think the bathroom has to be first in line for a makeover.”
“Now that I've gotten mine,” I said, and Tom smiled. It was the longest conversation we'd had in as long as I could remember. We hadn't begun discussing us yet, but I was comfortable talking about the house. It was safe.
“What happened to us?” Tom asked.
“I don't know.”
Tom looked at me for a long moment. There was more he needed to say, and I forced myself to breathe while I waited to hear it. “I lied to you,” he said, and the room got quiet.
“You didn't call Bathman & Robin?” I asked, earning myself a weak chuckle.
“Okay, I didn't lie. I didn't tell you something. Something important.”
“What?” I asked, with some hesitation.
“My dad left me a trust fund. My mother didn't know. I've been meaning to talk to you about it, but I hadn't decided if I was going to.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked, although I already knew.
“I figured I could use it to start over if our talk went badly.”
“You've been thinking about the talk?” I asked, feeling myself tense as we approached the serious subject of our defunct marriage.
“I have.”
“Are we having the talk now?” I asked him.
“I think we're starting.”
“And we're not getting a divorce?”
“I'd rather not,” Tom said. “I'd like to try again.”
“Me, too,” I whispered.
“Without lies,” Tom said.
“No lies.”
“I should have told you about the money. Half of it would have been yours anyway.”
“You looked into divorce?” I asked, feeling myself go pale.
“No. I just assumed.”
“Oh.”
“I've only known about the money since last Thursday. My mother called me and asked me to stop by. You were working that night, so I went to see her. My father's lawyer died a couple of months ago. His son found some papers in my father's file. It was the paperwork for a trust fund he'd established.”
“Your dad left you money, and you'd like to use it to remodel our bathroom?” I asked.
“Among other things.”
“Exactly what are we talking about, Tom?”
“Enough for a better life. We could go back to school, Mona.”
“We could?”
“Yeah. We could do something with our lives. Do you want to stay at WalMart?”
“It's not my dr
eam job.”
“I know. Selling cars isn't my dream job, either.”
“I know. It hurts me every time I see you get in that car.”
“It hurts me, too. It's pretty ridiculous, isn't it?” Tom asked, and I smiled.
“What would you like to do, Tom?”
“I've been thinking about that, but I've been fairly single-minded lately.”
“Why is that?” I asked my husband.
“I told my mother we haven't had sex in four years,” he said, and I gasped. There was something so wrong about our lack of intimacy, which was exacerbated by saying it out loud.
“Oh, God,” I said, sounding as horrified as I felt. “You told Doris this?”
“Yeah.”
I said nothing for a minute or two. I was too ashamed. “It's been five years, Tom,” I admitted, and my husband looked at me.
“Five?” he whispered, and I nodded. “Wow.”
“I know,” I said.
“Is that normal?”
“No. Nothing about the way we've been living is normal.” For a moment our eyes locked and held, as if we hadn't seen one another in a very long time, and I suppose we hadn't.
Tom finally spoke, interrupting the silence. “I took tomorrow off of work.”
“How come?”
“Bathman & Robin are coming.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“Yeah, and I bought this today,” he said, reaching into the cupboard beneath the sink, and pulling out a small, nondescript paper bag. “It's Jack Daniels.”
“Jeez.”
“I know. I was pretty hurt. I was tempted to crack it open in the car, then thought better of it. The only thing worse than driving that piece of shit would be getting busted for drunk driving in it.”
“That's a damn good point,” I said, and he laughed.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“I'm off, too.”
“Wanna get drunk tonight and have sex?” my husband asked, and I shivered. I was married to this man. Of course I should be sleeping with him. So, why did it frighten me?
I pondered this only a moment.
Intimacy was terrifying. If I did this, if I let this man into my heart again, and we couldn't find our way back, I'd be destroyed.
Screw it!
Even if we didn't sleep together and he left, I'd just about die, so why not!
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Good. Go get yourself cleaned up, you look like hell!” Tom ordered, and I laughed.
I did as asked, returning to the bathroom by way of the bedroom, where I stopped to grab the payload from Kohl's.
“Tom?” I called, from the bathroom.
“What?” he responded, sounding like he had something in his mouth.
“Are you eating?”
“Fudge Round.”
That's my Tom. “Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want to.”
“What?” he said, from right outside the door.
“How much money are we talking about?” I asked, holding my breath. This was the Holy Grail of taboo topics in the Sigg's household. Unless someone was dying, and had to buy an organ, no one discussed money.
“Two hundred grand!” my husband said, and I damn near swallowed my tooth brush.
“No shit?” I said, opening the door a crack.
“No shit,” he replied, winking at me. “My grandfather had old railroad stocks he didn't think were worth anything, so he stuck them in a box in the attic. My father found them right before he got sick. Set me and Robbie up with some security for the future.”
“Does Robbie know?” Tom didn't often talk to his younger brother, and I wasn't sure anyone knew where he was. Robbie was a genius who preferred to live as a gypsy.
“I tried to find him on Facebook, to tell him I needed to talk to him. There wasn't a photo, so I'm not sure I got the right guy.”
“You have a Facebook, Tom Siggs?” I asked through the crack.
“I'm a man of mystery,” he said, and I laughed.
“I guess so. I'll be right out.”
“Hurry,” Tom encouraged, and I closed the door in his face, but gently.
“I will.”
Six
The Hatfields and McCoys never solved anything
by shooting at one another.
I emerged about twenty minutes later, and tiptoed to the kitchen. Tom sat at the kitchen table, drinking the last of the coffee. An empty Fudge Round wrapper was tossed on the table in front of him.
“Holy shit,” he said, and I smiled.
“How do I look?”
“You're beautiful, Mona,” he said.
“I'd forgotten I could look like this,” I admitted.
“You look like someone I used to know.”
“I think I used to know her, too,” I said, fighting tears. “You're going to make me cry.”
“Then I'll stop. I'm starving. I don't want to wait another twenty minutes.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we?”
He was shaking, or was it me?
I couldn't tell.
I felt like a woman on her first date, frightened and unsure, yet filled with hope.
How had I lived for so long without this man in my heart? How was it the distance hadn't killed me?
“Damn,” I whispered, wiping my eyes on the corner of the scarf I'd draped over my shoulders.
“Please don't cry, Mona. Not before the sex,” Tom said, and I laughed. He kissed my cheek, and led me to the door.
We opted for Applebee's to avoid the vicinity of the Sheraton. It was pretty dead, as expected for a Monday night, and we were seated almost as soon as we arrived. Tom ordered an ice tea, and I splurged on a margarita, then another. By the time we left, we were both sedate from the food, and I was fairly loose from the tequila.
“Your chariot, madam,” Tom said, holding the door to the Jeep.
“Thanks,” I said, stumbling slightly against his side.
Tom reached to steady me, and I wrapped my arms around him. He pressed his lips to mine, and I kissed him back with all the fervor of a lonely wife. “Take me home,” I whispered, and he helped me into the truck.
“Let's go,” he said, firing up the Jeep.
The drive would have been uneventful, if Tom hadn't reached for my hand. He squeezed it, and I turned to look at him. His face was bathed in shadow, then light, then shadow, as we moved along the parkway. He was beautiful, my Tom. How had I forgotten?
I laid my head against the glass and closed my eyes.
“Thurman's out there,” Tom said, as we pulled into the driveway.
“Gross,” I muttered, and Tom chuckled. “Go get the Jack. I'm gonna get the mail.”
I calculated the distance to the mailbox against the height of my heels, factoring in my Blood Alcohol Level.
“Okay. Be careful, Mona. You look a little unsteady.”
“I am.” I was half in the bag, about to face the neighbor I detested, and whose penis I had seen less than twelve hours ago. Then I was going to sleep with my husband, whose penis I hadn't seen in years. “I'll be damned,” I whispered, steadying myself against the Jeep.
“Evenin', Mrs. Siggs, you have too much to drink tonight?” Thurman hollered from across the street, and I felt tequila rushing through my colon.
“Cold medicine,” I lied, my words sounding something like code messin'.
“Hope you feel better,” Thurman said, and I forced a smile I was pretty sure looked like something reminiscent of a Fun House.
“Thanks,” I said, slipping off my shoes, and toddling up the sidewalk. Tom was on the porch with the Jack Daniels.
“I got some glasses,” Tom said, handing me a half-full glass of amber-colored liquid.
I slammed mine as Tom watched curiously. I held my glass out and he refilled it.
“I'm gonna hurt tomorrow,” I said, not caring if I did.
“Me, too.”
“I'd hurt worse if you'd left tonight,” I said,
and Tom sighed.
“So would I.”
“To husbands who give second chances,” I said, raising my glass.
“To beautiful wives,” Tom said, clinking his glass against mine.
Tom took my hand and led me to an old wicker love seat. I sat beside him, and leaned against his side. “Here we are,” he whispered.
“Yup. Here we are.”
“Do you remember the last time we were truly happy, Mona?” my husband asked, and I shook my head.
“No,” I admitted.
“We were happy when we moved here,” Tom said.
“Once the medics came and the funeral was over,” I said, and I heard my husband chuckle weakly.
“That was a difficult day,” he said, and I sighed.
“It was. I'd never lost someone I loved before Aunt Ida.”
“It's very hard,” he whispered.
“I don't want to lose you,” I said to my husband.
“Then, don't,” he replied, his two lone words carrying a powerful meaning. I said nothing, which for me was some remarkable feat. The night was quiet, and we both stared into the darkness.
“Mona?”
“What?”
“Just for tonight, can we pretend the last five years didn't happen?”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Can I kiss you?” Tom asked, and I shuddered.
“I'd like that.”
He kissed me, softly at first, then with a passion that was almost frightening. His hands were in my hair, his lips on my neck, and suddenly I felt like someone had set my Victoria's Secret shit on fire. It was amazing, and I hated myself when I pulled away.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
“You don't want to?” he asked, sounding so hurt I wanted to hurl myself into traffic, which made no sense, since there wasn't any.
“I do want to, Tom.”
“Mona, please. Please can we try?” I looked into my husband's eyes, and sighed.
“Give me the Jack.”
“Why?”
“I need one more shot.”
“You've already had too much,” he said, without a hint of condescension.
“I know. I may need some help to forget.”
“Here,” he said, handing me the bottle.
I took an enormous gulp and felt the burn as the liquor slid into my stomach. I wasn't much of a drinker, and I knew I'd have a hell of a hangover in the morning, but I didn't care.
Becoming Mona Lisa Page 4
