My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  Watching my parents in this situation was amusing, because although they were desperate to get rid of Joey, there was a certain amount of embarrassment attached to the fact that Joey was being dumped because Kate couldn’t live with a one-armed man.

  I watched Mother’s practiced expression feign interest and delight. She’d mastered this over the years as a politician’s wife. “Oh? How wonderful. Tell us more.”

  “His name is Dillan,” Kate gushed, “and he’s an attorney.”

  All of our eyebrows popped up in unison, and Mother’s smile looked real. “A lawyer; how wonderful,” she said.

  “He’s with Swadderly-Wade.” Kate looked at Dad.

  “That’s impressive,” Dad said with a nod.

  “He’s not only really successful, but he’s very nice too,” Kate said. “His family is from South Carolina, and he’s got the best Southern accent. He’s tall, dark-headed. So handsome.”

  I knew that would really get my parents. We were Southern, even though we’d made our final home in the anti-South. All of us still had an accent, and Mother and Dad still owned a vacation home in Charlotte, just to prove they still loved the South.

  I was trying my best to smile again. Feign a smile. Just like Mother. But inside I was becoming distressed. The thing that had been so reliable about Kate all these years was the fact that she was a continuous disappointment to my parents. It made my life so much easier. Impressing my parents took little work. All I had to do was wear proper clothing and keep my hair a basic color.

  I looked across the table at my father, who’d set his fork down and was now giving his full attention to Kate. Mother’s mouth had spread into an eager grin coaxing for more information. On the tip of my tongue sat many less-than-appropriate questions, but they all drowned waiting in the saliva. I managed to choke out a few basics.

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-four, never married.”

  “How’d you meet?” Surely Kate’s answer would hint to my parents that there was something dysfunctional going on here.

  “At church,” she said innocently, as though the statement held no surprise.

  I snorted. That triggered a cough, then a sneeze. Everyone was looking at me. “Excuse me,” I said through another cough. “Something went down the windpipe.” Like reality. My sister hadn’t been to church in ages. The last time I’d invited her, about four years ago, she laughed at me and told me that if I was ever going to meet a man, I would have to look elsewhere. “The men there remind me of white bread, Leah. There’s nothing exciting. Reliable, sure. But where is the focaccia?”

  I had wanted to point out that the invitation to come to church was for spiritual purposes, but I realized it would do no good. Kate wasn’t interested and viewed my life as boring and pathetic. So I’d not mentioned it again.

  “So is this the focaccia you’ve been waiting for your whole life?” I asked. Only after I said these words out loud did I realize that apart from the context of my head, they formed a very weird statement. Mother cast a sharp look in my direction, a warning that any further word from me could completely destroy any chances for her second daughter to turn out halfway normal.

  “What does this have to do with bread?” my dad asked.

  “I want you to meet him,” Kate said, unfazed by my comment. “I’d like to have you all over for dinner, maybe next week.”

  “That would be lovely,” Mother said, like it was typical for Kate to invite us for dinner. Nobody had been to her apartment in more than two years.

  “I’ll have to check with Dillan on the date. He has a very busy schedule.”

  “That’s fine, dear; we can work around his schedule. And I know Leah can come anytime. Right, Leah?” Mother asked.

  Of course I can come anytime. I have no life. I have no schedule. Nothing I do is important; therefore, I can be at your beck and call. “Sure.” I had to admit, I was curious to meet the new focaccia named Dillan. There had to be something abnormal going on with him, like a third eye or webbed feet.

  Kate detailed Dillan’s life for another ten minutes, including his Harvard education, his wealthy parents, his twin brother, his weekly visits to his elderly grandmother, and his fondness for children. He sounded perfectly preppy, and I had to wonder what impression Kate would make on his parents.

  Finally she seemed to run out of good things to say about Dillan, and as I pushed my plate away she asked, “So, Leah, how’s Edward?”

  Ordinarily, this would be an easy question to answer. But my gut didn’t want to say nice things about Edward right now. For crying out loud, he’d signed us up for therapy. He’d embarrassed me for embarrassing him, all over a color choice. And I was starting to see him as a fortified piece of wheat bread.

  “He’s fine; thanks for asking.” I smiled, and all three of my family members smiled back.

  Then Mother said, “Kate, why don’t you help me in the kitchen? Let’s see what Lola made for dessert, and maybe you can tell me a little bit more about Dillan.”

  The two rose and carried their plates into the kitchen together. Dad sighed and stretched his arms outward, signifying that a perfectly satisfying meal and conversation had just been consumed.

  “Dillan sounds just about perfect, doesn’t he?” I asked Dad.

  “Let’s just hope he’s a Democrat,” my dad said, then excused himself to the study.

  I sat there at the table alone, listening to the vague chatter of my mom and sister in the kitchen, wondering if the day would ever come when I would have the courage to tell my dad I was a Republican.

  Chapter 6

  [She cowers in her seat.]

  I’d never been to therapy of any sort. Therapy signified everything I was against, which was the fact that sometimes things go wrong in life. On one hand, I couldn’t think of anything more mortifying. Yet, on the other hand, I had to acknowledge that because I had a lot of hang-ups about this, maybe I wasn’t seeing that this was Edward’s way of showing his love for me. Maybe he cared too much about our relationship to let a pink dress stand in the way.

  I tried to leave it at that as I worked on my play throughout the day. Tuesdays were notoriously bad writing days for me. Mondays were always met with a lot of creativity and enthusiasm for the project. Tuesday was known as the Question Mark Day. On that day I questioned everything: what I wrote, why I’m writing, where my career’s going, who’s going to read it anyway, when will I ever get it done. I figured out that I consume three times as much caffeine on Tuesdays than any other day of the week. If I were a smoker, it’d be a three-pack day. If I were a drinker, I’d be dead.

  But on this particular Tuesday, I was trying to sort out a new set of problems that had crept into my day. First, there was the therapy ordeal. I’d worked through it a little bit by giving Jodie Bellarusa a few good lines. She was also against therapy, and that subject worked in nicely since I could give her family background at the same time.

  Second, I couldn’t figure out how my sister had suddenly risen to the top of the stock like fat boiling from a chicken. Except fat is really easy to skim off. Kate, with her unseasonal fur boots and ensemble of clothing that shouldn’t be worn together, had “come home,” in a sense. Except in the prodigal story in the Bible, the prodigal does a little groveling, a little insinuating that he’s no better than pigs. My sister somehow managed to skip that part. Our parents gave her the fattened calf because of her association with a Harvard graduate who likes children and the elderly.

  The Big Bad Wolf liked pigs, children, and the elderly, and look how that turned out.

  Third, Elisabeth’s words continued to ring in my ears. The more I gave it thought, the more I realized that what she was saying about my ability to predict the future did seem slightly plausible. After all, in her own words, something had come true in all three of the plays I’d written.

  So as I stared at the taunting cursor, I had to wonder what exactly I was predicting in this next masterpiece. (Yes, I call all of m
y plays masterpieces. It helps my self-esteem.) Every word I wrote could be someone else’s demise.

  Or your own.

  Jodie pointed that out, citing the remarkable similarities between the two of us. Outwardly, we were very opposite. But Jodie knew a secret nobody else knew. Inwardly, I was one heck of an Italian. But most of it stayed in my head.

  In a way, the possibility that I might be predicting events made the play a bit more tantalizing, like I had some special power to control the universe with a few select keystrokes. But Jodie kept reminding me that the universe I was writing about was my own. Sure, it was cleverly disguised with anti-Leah characters and exotic locations like Detroit. But at the end of the day, I knew the truth.

  The hours ticked by. I’d expected Edward to call to confirm our therapy appointment. I was surprised when he didn’t, and it made me wonder if the relationship was in more jeopardy than I thought. Maybe this was a do-or-die situation and I hadn’t realized it. If I didn’t go to therapy, was Edward going to call it all off?

  My imagination took me back to the impending dinner Kate had referred to, where she would introduce Tall, Dark, and Handsome while I explained that ever-reliable Edward had dumped me because of a pink dress.

  I looked at the clock. It was six. I had half an hour to decide. I snatched up the phone and dialed Edward’s home number. This was ridiculous. I wasn’t going to stand for it.

  I was greeted by his voice mail. A sweaty tingle pricked my skin. Edward was always home at six on Tuesdays. Where would he be? I hung up and redialed. Again, his voice announced he wasn’t home.

  I dialed his cell phone. I’d only dialed it once, when I had a flat on the interstate. Edward made it clear that his cell phone was for emergencies only. I think he purchased a total of twenty-five minutes every month.

  He didn’t answer that either.

  My chest felt tight as I hung up the phone. I staggered to the window in my apartment, which I lifted with a hefty shove. Sticking my head out, I tried to breathe in some fresh air, a near impossibility in the city. Then I heard the phone ring.

  After bumping my head, I hurried over to the phone and snatched it up. “Where are you?”

  “Leah?”

  “Mother?” My heart thumped in my chest. I smoothed down my breeze-blown hair as if she had the power to see me standing in my living room with this shocked look on my face. “Hi there. How are you?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Why?” I asked innocently.

  “You sound frazzled.” A favorite of her words, frazzled had so many different meanings and intentions. Here it meant that I was doing a poor job of hiding my irritability at a situation that she wasn’t privy to. Yet.

  “Sorry, I thought you were . . . Edward.” Why lie? Maybe it was time to spread the news about my sudden concerns for our relationship. Maybe Mother could help me through my feelings.

  I could hear her breathing.

  “We’re running late for something, and I don’t know where he is.”

  “I was calling about Dillan. Aren’t you thrilled? Kate has finally found someone worthy of her.”

  My eyeballs rolled as far back in my head as they could without rendering me unconscious. “We haven’t even met him yet. He could be a jerk.”

  “Did you see the way she talked about him? I’ve never seen Kate that passionate.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. Why was Mother calling anyway? She never called to simply chat. Small talk was a waste of time in her world. I looked at my watch. I would have to leave in five minutes if I was going to make it on time.

  But then again, this could be a good excuse not to go.

  I waited for Mother to continue.

  “I just want Kate to be happy,” she finally said. There was something strange in her voice. Emotion. Huh.

  “We all want Kate to be happy,” I said. But I knew Mother was really trying to say she wanted Kate to be normal.

  Mother’s voice reverted to tidy and polite. “Well, I just wanted to see what you thought about the situation.”

  The part of me that admitted I’d been snappy when I thought the caller was Edward also wanted me to confess my hesitations about Kate’s relationship. But my mother sounded so happy . . . so hopeful that Dillan might be the answer to her deepest longings—that one day soon the formal family portrait she’d always dreamed of might become a reality.

  Admittedly, I was curious about Dillan myself. What about Kate was he attracted to? What made him think that bringing her home would fulfill his mother’s dream? Maybe his parents were dead. That was a reasonable explanation. Or maybe in an insane asylum. There were too many possibilities to consider at this point.

  I realized Mother was waiting for me to agree with her. “I think it’s great,” I said. That’s what she wanted to hear. In my mind’s eye I could see that thin smile of satisfaction spread over her lips.

  “Well, we’ll see.” Always the diplomat.

  I looked at my watch. “Mother, I’d better go. Like I said, I’m meeting Edward.”

  “Something fun, I hope?”

  “As fun as it can get with a physicist,” I said jokingly. I almost said psychiatrist. Wouldn’t that have been something.

  “Well, have a good time. We’ll talk soon.”

  I hung up the phone and grabbed my handbag, checking to make sure I’d put the paper with the directions in it. I stopped at the door of my apartment, keys in hand, and stared at my watch. How could I agree to do this? How could he ask me to go to therapy with him by way of a flower bouquet and a coupon? This wasn’t even insanely expensive therapy. This was discount therapy!

  My hands were actually trembling. A sick feeling washed over my stomach. Maybe Edward would take a hint if I didn’t show up. Maybe he would see what a moron he was for how he reacted to the pink dress.

  But that was just a fantasy. I couldn’t bear the prospect of harming our relationship. So how could I not go? The sickness slowly faded. My stomach started rumbling with hunger instead. I hadn’t eaten much all day, but there was no time to eat now. I closed my eyes and stepped outside, shutting the door behind me.

  Waiting for the elevator, I had a sudden craving for focaccia.

  I wasn’t a fan of public transportation. I liked to drive. It was the Southerner in me. Edward thought I was insane. He took the T everywhere. But I liked my car. As I drove the short distance toward downtown Boston, fighting the mad and rushed crowd of cars on this Tuesday evening, I couldn’t help the memories that flooded my mind. I recalled the first time I’d brought Edward home to meet my parents. I had been nervous, wanting him to make a good impression, wanting my parents to approve. Edward, whose excitement level could be measured by how far up his eyebrows rose on his forehead, even looked more anxious than normal. We held hands and walked up the long sidewalk and steep steps that led to the gigantic wooden door of my parents’ five-thousand-square-foot manor. Dad had worked years and years in Washington so they could live peacefully in a house too big for them and too formal for any grandchildren they might someday expect. I’d always hoped they would move back to the South, where our Southern accents could really shine. Mother had opened the door, a pleasant and inviting smile on her lips. She shook Edward’s hand, and she invited us in. Dad came down the spiral staircase, stoic and mannerly, his tall shadow leading the way.

  We enjoyed a pleasant dinner, filled with predictable and easy conversation. Edward’s long and impressive credentials took us through the first two courses. Dad’s carried us through the third and fourth. The fifth course included a short explanation about the sister I hadn’t mentioned. Over dessert we discussed favorite movies.

  And that was it. That was the evening. Back then it seemed perfect. Everything had gone as planned. But as I drove now, something recurred in my mind. It was Mother’s expression. There hadn’t been a bit of surprise in her face when she met Edward. It was as if he was everything she’d ever expected me to bring home. Why was that bothering m
e now? Was it because over the phone I’d heard a hint of tantalized excitement in her voice when she was talking about Dillan?

  I focused on the road, realizing I was getting close to the address I was looking for. I had folded the piece of paper neatly three times and stuck it between my fingers like a cigarette. I reread the address, the only line showing between the folds.

  I found the building and drove around trying to find a parking spot, questioning my decision not to use the T. Finally I spotted a car leaving. I took its place and got out, dumping quarters into the meter. It only allowed an hour. That would be a good excuse to leave.

  I walked two blocks toward the building, old and tall and imposing with dusty ornate windows and faded brick. It looked to be important once. It reminded me of Dad. I double-checked the address. This was it.

  I opened one of the front doors and stepped through. Elevators waited lifelessly against the back wall. The lobby was clean but didn’t look to impress. I moved to the elevators and pushed the up arrow. One slid open, its doors rattling and revealing its age. Inside, I punched the third-floor button. The elevator didn’t even give me the courtesy of a ding. It just hoisted me up and slid its doors open again. I walked out, surprised to find a large, empty, unfinished area waiting for me. A group of people clustered near the windows, their chairs situated in a small circle. Nobody turned to watch me. I looked around. The floor was cement. Sheetrock stood where walls should be. New wood paneling was unpainted. The ceiling’s electrical, venting, and plumbing showed. Maybe I had the wrong place. I had imagined a more intimate setting, like an office with plush leather and expensive wood desks and elaborate bookcases. And also, far fewer people. Like three . . . me, him, and the therapist.

  I looked at the small crowd, trying to find Edward’s curly golden hair. I glanced back down at the piece of paper in my hand. According to it, I had the right place. I reread the coupon. Conflict Resolution Class. The word class did seem to signify we weren’t going to be alone. That cheap man! Couldn’t he have at least paid for private therapy?