***
Brittany worked for a well-read, and edgy, women’s magazine. She did copy editing and loved her work, but she aspired to become a contributor.. While it could be tedious at times, she was experiencing parts of the trade that could not be learned in school, and part of her long-term strategy was for it to provide a good springboard for her to become an author. While editing didn’t offer some of the more glamorous perks other careers within the company did, one particular advantage was, if desired, she could work from home.
Most of the staff was young, talented, and competitive in a good way, which created an atmosphere that caused her to wake up each morning eager to get to the office Her co-workers also had a fetish for good coffee, each taking turns supplying exotic blends to “experience”, as they liked to say, and their fetish rubbed off on Brittany. The atmosphere in their office was charged with pseudo-sophistication, and she rarely missed a day for any reason, staying home to work would have seemed punitive.
Craig held the position of assistant CFO for a real estate holding company that had varied interests spread across the country. Like Brittany, he loved his job for the added educational benefits it offered, and the many connections he made beyond his job description.
Their jobs were demanding, but whether they ordered in a pizza, or collaborated as they cooked their dinner, they dedicated that time to connect. From the beginning of their relationship they made it a point to use that hour to take turns telling each other about their day and personalizing each other’s workplaces with anecdotes about the people, and the clients they served. Their friendships were a collection of colleagues they integrated into an interesting grouping of colorful people.
***
Brittany continued to wait. Craig was still locked in his office; she reached for a throw and wrapped it around her, shivering in spite of her proximity to the waning fire.
Her dad’s passing had rocked her world and she continued to wonder if she would ever be free from the waves of sadness that stalked her. No one had to warn her the holidays would be difficult and had been preparing herself for that fact. Craig, more than anyone, knew how much she was dreading them, which made his behavior even more baffling.
Deep in thought, she was startled when the door opened and a shaft of light angled across the living room floor, resting on her. Craig’s face was obscured by the light source behind him; he hesitated in the doorway. She could hear him sighing, which was habitual whenever he was facing some unpleasant task—and it was never a good sign. She wished she could see his face.
After what seemed like an eternity, he walked across the room to stand over her, the light behind him still obscuring his expression. She felt powerless, and the unbidden sense of fear gripped her again, this time making her queasy. In an attempt to gain some control Brittany gestured for him to sit down in the chair next to hers, but he shook his head no. She noticed he was clutching a manila envelope tightly in both hands, unnecessary other than to perhaps keep his hands steady. Brittany clasped her own, as if the shaking might be contagious.
He cleared his throat, and sighed again, “Brit, there is no easy way to do this—to tell you this, but something has come up and I have to leave. I am leaving you—tonight.” He spoke to her in a low tone, with a tremor in his voice that left no remaining doubt to the seriousness of what was occurring.
Trying again, she gestured for him to please sit down, still not grasping what he was telling her, thinking he meant something to do with business. He ignored her gesture, holding the envelope out for her to take. Reluctantly she took it from him, asking, “What do you mean you have to leave? Tonight? But why?”
Once he was relieved of the envelope he stepped back, sighing again before answering, “Brit, I am filing for a divorce. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but an emergency has come up. Believe me; I wanted to do this another way…”
There it came, out of nowhere, the blindside move, the checkmate, game over—her Christmas surprise.
***
The impatient honking of a horn from outside the house interrupted him, allowing him a reprieve from going into more detail. He looked out the window, clearly relieved to not have to continue, announcing, “It’s my cab. I need to get to the airport to catch a plane. I’ll be leaving my car here for the time being. Brit, I know you have questions, but they will have to wait. I have to go.” He looked toward the window again, and then at the fire, at the door, the ceiling, his feet…anywhere but at her.
“That’s it?” She asked him, incredulous—she wasn’t going to let him walk out without some explanation.
He cleared his throat, “I’ve been seeing someone. It was her father who called me this afternoon at your mother’s; she was pregnant had a miscarriage; she is hemorrhaging. He says her condition is serious and insists that I come—now. He sent a plane for me.” He paused and added, almost pleading, “Please don’t call me. If you need to contact me do it through my attorney; his number is in the envelope.” Unable to look at her, he offered a lam-“You deserve better than me…”
“If you recall, that’s what my mother told me after I introduced you to them.” Brittany couldn’t believe the distant, cold voice she heard speaking belonged to her. But, she could tell they hit their mark; because for the first time he looked right at her.
“She did say it, and she was right. I know this won’t be easy to explain and I’m sorry for that.”
The horn sounded again, this time requiring him to dash outside to tell the driver to wait. By the time he returned Brittany was on her feet. She felt numb, sick to her stomach, and twinges of anger were surfacing, but she was, after all, her mother’s daughter, and for once she was thankful that the years of walking around with books on her head, and having been tutored how to pretend that everything was fine when it wasn’t, were kicking in.
“I take it she lives somewhere else?” she asked in the same strange, brittle voice, while following him upstairs, incredulously watching him stuff random articles of clothing and toiletries into his carry-on bag. “Yes, she lives in Winnetka, Illinois, near Chicago. Her parents live there, also—that’s where we will live.”
After a few minutes, he resumed his painful dialog, “Brittany, don’t worry about money. I am going to be very fair with you financially. In the morning I intend to transfer enough money into your checking account for you to use to pay off any outstanding bills and your car. If I calculated wrong, let me know and I’ll deposit more. It’s unfortunate, but you will probably need to sell the house, but do it when it feels right. I had it appraised and there is some equity even if you price it low; the equity is yours—I don’t want it. I’m leaving those details up to you.” He paused for his words to sink in, before adding, “I won’t be coming back.”
He picked up his carry-on, but Brittany got up and walked ahead of him while they descended the stairs and moved across the living room toward the door. She opened it and held it open for him. He stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do, sighing one last time before grabbing his jacket and brief case, quickly proceeding through the open door; somehow managing not to touch her. She was amazed how, after all the sighing, he wasn’t hyperventilating. Once outside, he turned to speak to her; it would be the last time she would hear his voice, although she couldn’t know that yet.
“Brit, I wrote you a letter—it’s inside the envelope I gave you and will explain some of this—along with some signed legal documents you will need to put things in your name. I’m sorry—please know that.” He looked back at her for some response, but now it was Brittany who looked away. Getting none, he nodded his head as though something had been resolved, then quickly walked away from her toward the waiting cab.
Before getting in the cab he looked back toward the house, but she had disappeared from sight. Inside, Brittany barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.
Chapter Three
Brittany stared up at her bedroom ceiling wishing she could relapse back into the grief-i
nduced coma that had allowed her a temporary escape from reality. It was the morning of the third day after Christmas, and after spending two days curled up on her bed in a fetal position Brittany knew what she couldn’t afford to do was to allow herself to fall further into the victim role. She was not going to succumb to the mental inertia that was a precursor to depression, and, subsequently, would result in a string of bad choices. That scenario was not idle speculation; she had watched two of her colleagues go through something similar and with disastrous outcomes, including one becoming dependent to anti-depressants and the other self-medicating.
For two days she had blown off answering incoming phone calls, and was suddenly concerned that she might have missed something important, or one from Craig. There were no calls from Craig, but four were from her mother, two from her neighbor, and one from the Disabled Veterans— the call that inspired her to get moving and take advantage of their offer to haul away “unwanted items” by putting them on the curb.
She got up, pulled on some sweat pants, and started down the stairs, her eyes immediately landing on the Christmas tree that was still aglow from Christmas night. The sight caused a reaction that was physical as well as psychological. The tree has got to go, she decided. Resisting the urge to pitch it out the front door and into the yard and create yet another dilemma in her quest to finally be rid of it. Each ornament symbolized a special memory, and those were the memories she was determined to obliterate any way she could. The Disabled Veteran’s invitation was perfect timing.
She recalled an acquaintance who, having gone through a divorce, told her afterward how she was envious of widows. At the time, the comment hit Brittany as bizarre, until she explained how a widow had the blessing of being able to go back into her memories, and could draw comfort from them by remembering their good times together. She further explained that after her marriage ended she couldn’t trust her memories; whenever she remembered something, or looked at pictures of she and her ex-husband, she couldn’t stop from wondering when he had started wandering away from her, was there one woman or were there more, and finally questioning if he had ever really loved her at all.
To achieve closure she said she discarded, or gave away, every item that was a reminder of the hypocrisy of their marriage, with the exception of those things that might be meaningful to their son one day, and those she packed away. Sadly, closure still eluded her.For years she had to play Tug-of-War with her ex over custody issues with their son, claiming that would be another advantage of widowhood. Now, Brittany could see that what her friend had told her was true and she was glad they had no children.
Brittany felt the nostalgia closing in on her like darkness, oppressively pressing in on her mind and her body, from some invisible, sadistic force that hammered in the realities she was wishing she could avoid. But, she knew from previous therapy, the pain was also an inevitable part of the road to healing.
“No!” she said aloud, reining in her thoughts, I won’t allow it. Somehow, she had to resist being obsessed by a run-away thought life.
***
The following morning, with a mug of aromatic coffee in hand, she sat down at the planning desk, finally prepared to open the envelope Craig handed her on Christmas night. If she was going to function again, it was time to face the music. Her life, in a moment’s time, had moved beyond function into dysfunction She decided she could fight her way through this, and not let dysfunction's tentacles turn her into someone she didn’t want to be.
His letter was handwritten; some parts almost illegible, with words crossed out and scribbled over. She could tell from looking at it how difficult it must have been for him to write.
Dear Brittany,
This isn’t how things were supposed to turn out. Please forgive me. I met someone. I don’t expect you to believe me—it just happened. I wasn’t looking for it. I met her father on a business trip to Chicago. After working together a few times and he offered me a job (which I declined at the time)—he was a client of my firm. He invited me to his home for dinner on one of my trips and that is where I met Gina. I know the timing sucks. Since your dad died I haven’t known how to tell you, and now I am forced to, and I still don’t know how. I have already begun the paperwork for a divorce as well as instructions for some of the things (like putting your car in your name, bank account, etc.) that you will want to do right away. Gina is pregnant and we want to be married as soon as possible for the baby’s sake.
You are a beautiful, talented, and good person. I still love you, if that makes any sense at all. I look in the mirror, see myself, and can’t believe I have the capacity to do something so hurtful to you when I truly care. But I have done just that, and I am not sure there is absolution for it.
I didn’t deserve you and you didn’t deserve this.
Craig
How could he? She thought, angry again. They had been living a lie for months. They’d had sex together, planned trips, and were even talking about having a baby of their own. How could he? She felt violated.
Standing to her feet she crumpled the letter into a ball threw it on the kitchen table. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see it had been written before Christmas night, questioning whether his plan had been to leave without facing her at all. She couldn’t prove it, but she felt pretty certain he’d procrastinated with facing her so long that the unexpected turn of events denied him that option.
Can it be possible I’ll never see him again? For a moment the thought panicked her.
Also inside the envelope were copies of documents, along with another, more formal, typed letter explaining in detail how he intended to treat her financially. She scanned the ledger and saw he was being more than fair. If anything, it was punitive for him, leaving her to further speculate where the money funding the divorce was coming from; she knew they didn’t have that kind of cash lying around. Pacing back and forth she read through the second letter point by point for a second time, seething as the realities sunk in.
Her emotional adrenaline was surging. With the help of the anger, assisted by too much caffeine, she was spurred forward to dial his attorney’s phone number. “Is Mr. Chandler there? She asked the female voice that answered. The voice told her he was “in a meeting”, which Brittany concluded was an excuse for him to not take her call. Using her coffee/anger/adrenaline buzz to the fullest, Brittany informed the woman that she was on her way over, and expected the paperwork to be ready for her to sign within the hour.
One hour and twenty minutes after Brittany Foster-Larson (soon to resume being Brittany Foster) arrived at the offices of Chandler & Associates, dressed in her bathrobe, sweatpants, and slippers. She walked up to the receptionist, demanding, “Where do I sign?” An hour and a half later she exited their offices with her goal, for the most part, achieved.
While it wasn’t exactly that simple, and there would still be things that needed addressing, she left feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from her. On her way out she handed the attorney Craig’s letter stating his specific assurances for how she would be treated financially. Mr. Chandler took it from her, reaching out to pat her hand, mentioning he felt strongly she might want to consider getting some therapy. How patronizing, she thought, indignant.
On her way to her car it dawned on her that she had, in a sense, signed her life away. Amazingly, she had not read one word of what she had signed and probably wouldn’t look at the paperwork again unless forced to. Plus, she had given Craig’s attorney her only copy of his letter of intent. It was a gray day, and the mist from earlier had turned into a steady drizzle. Brittany stared at the car’s windshield watching tiny droplets form and then merge together to slide down the window. Impulsively, she reached out and with her finger drew a heart on the window, got into the car, starting it, and turning on the wiper, watching it swipe it away the heart. Just like that, my marriage ended, she thought. The manila envelope, with the details of her unexpected freedom inside it, quickly disappeared into the glove box so she woul
dn’t have to look at it.
On her way home, on a whim, she pulled her car into a parking space in front of a hair salon in her neighborhood that took walk-ins, went inside, asking for their best stylist for short hair. Within minutes her long auburn hair had been cut off. She watched it falling to the floor, enjoying her rebellion.She had grown it out because he liked long hair. When she left, she was holding a plastic bag full of hair she vowed would be donated to a good cause once she figured out how.
***
It wasn't until she saw the car in the driveway that Brittany realized her mother was actually concerned after days of not being able to reach her. This spiked another rise in her adrenalin level, only this time it made her feel shaky. The car was unoccupied, so she knew her mother had used her key to let herself in. Did I leave his letter out or did I put it away? She asked herself, panicked by the thought. If it was lying out in the open, her mother would not hesitate reading it.
Brittany found Alma seated on a bar stool, calmly sipping a cup of tea she had brewed for herself. The crumpled letter had been smoothed out and was in Alma’s hand. If her father might remind one of Jimmy Stewart, Alma might be said to resemble Glenn Close. She was actually quite beautiful, but in a wax museum sort of way. Brittany had spent much of her young life looking at her mother’s impassive face, trying to guess what she was thinking. Part of Alma's control over her daughter was that Brittany never had been able tell what her mother was thinking, so therefore no matter what her responses were, she had already been set up to fail.
More than the Sum Page 2
