I’d put myself on hold, thinking it would be worth it in the end, that one day, someday, when the time was right and I had fulfilled my responsibilities to my parents, my husband, my children, and my clients, it would be my turn, our turn, that Brian and I would finally get to be together and happy. I had believed that this house, which Brian had insisted we buy three years before, was a kind of down payment on that life we would live together and share together in that someday that was always just a little farther over the horizon.
How stupid was that? How stupid was I?
Very stupid. Fabulously stupid. Naïvely and foolishly and trustingly stupid. The magnitude of my gullibility was too great to put into words, or at least the sort of words I was accustomed to using.
That’s when the cursing began.
Words I haven’t used since I was in college and trying to convince people of my worldliness, words I’ve never used in my life, acidic and searingly profane, spouted from my mouth like lava from a volcano.
For the first time in my life, I understood how crimes of passion came to pass. At that moment, if she, the Other, walked through the door, there was no doubt in my mind that I could have inflicted serious bodily harm upon her. I had never been so furious, so emotionally out of control. It was frightening but at the same time strangely exhilarating. I don’t think I realized—not until that moment—how hard I had worked for so many years to keep a lid on my emotions, desires, and disappointments. Initially, my rage was directed only at the Other, but it quickly expanded to encompass the unjust, uncaring universe in general and my faithless, thoughtless, heartbreaking husband in particular.
I ripped the top off another box. It was filled with paperbacks, all belonging to Brian. I kicked at the box, and then, one by one, flung the books into a garbage bag, along with one from my box, a book about rekindling marital romance. I ripped off the front cover of that one, then the back cover, and various pages, whole chapters at a time, and threw them in the bag with the rest.
The next box was filled with old clothes, boots, and gloves. Every single item that belonged to Brian ended up in the trash bag, even his ice skates. When the bag was full, I carted it to the back door, got another bag, and went on a rampage, opening closets and drawers, pulling out everything I could find that belonged to Brian and tossing it all into the trash bag, staying my hand only when it came to his guitar, the one he’d been playing when I first saw him in London.
When I was done, when I had banished every trace of Brian from the house, I ran across the yard in the rain to the old barn that served as our garage, carrying three big black trash bags and a cardboard box. My load was unwieldy and the ground was like a soggy sponge. I didn’t see the stone sticking up from the ground, the one that tripped me and sent me tumbling.
I landed flat on my face in the pouring rain, surrounded by books and papers and clothing and crumpled Christmas wrapping.
After lying there a moment to make sure that nothing was broken, I groaned and got up. My jeans were muddy. So was my sweater. And I was missing a shoe.
I found it, slipped my mud-sodden sock back into it, spit out a few more profanities, and then picked up everything and threw it into the big blue trash can as quickly as I could before running back into the house, water dripping from my hair, mud squelching over the top of my left shoe. I was soaked, filthy, and so angry I was ready to explode. In a way, that’s what I did.
I stood in the kitchen, dripping mud and spitting expletives, feeling powerless and furious. I pounded on the kitchen table, leaving a muddy crescent, the shape of a curled fist, then spun around to the sideboard and snatched a delicate, bone-china teacup with yellow daisies painted on the side, one from the set my mother had given me when the twins were born.
I hurled it as hard as I could against the far wall. It shattered into a million pieces, or maybe just a hundred. It didn’t matter; the effect was the same: destructive and oddly satisfying. Especially when the echo of exploding crockery was coupled with the report of gunshot-loud profanity.
I grabbed another cup from the shelf, flung it, and smashed it. And another. And another. Until they were gone, smashed to smithereens. All six of them. The only thing left was the matching daisy-painted teapot.
When it was over, I walked through the kitchen over the broken teacups, the ceramic shards crackling beneath the soles of my shoes, my breathing ragged from the exertion of my labors, climbed the stairs, took a shower, and went to bed.
It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in four days. I woke up feeling calmer, able to think clearly. For a while.
While I showered and dressed, I began thinking practically about my situation, considering what my life might look like if Brian wasn’t in it.
In a brief moment of lucidity, I had taken Lanie’s advice and placed a call to her divorce lawyer, Libby Burrell, who gave me a quick overview of the procedures, the timeframes, and the ravages that divorce would likely cause to my life, my family, and my finances. The last point was driven home with particular emphasis when she informed me that she would require a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer before taking me on as a client.
“It’s obviously a lot of money,” she said in response to my gasp. “But I think that figure is in line with the reputation and results you can expect from our firm, as well as the importance of the path you’re about to take. For some couples, divorce is the only option. But this isn’t a step you should take lightly, Gayla.”
The conversation was so depressing that it brought on another crying jag as well as a trip to the liquor store for a second bottle of scotch. But she had a point. Getting a divorce would change my life completely. I needed to be prepared for that, to think carefully about what came next. There was a lot to think about.
One of my biggest, most immediate concerns was housing. Where would I live after the divorce? Without Brian’s income, I obviously couldn’t afford to keep our apartment. What could I afford? A prewar studio in the Village with quirky neighbors, real wood floors, and a bathroom the size of a phone booth? Something more spacious but in the outer boroughs? Or New Jersey? Lanie’s spare bedroom? Would I live alone? Get a roommate? A cat?
After the divorce, which of our friends would be his and which would be mine? And where would the kids spend the holidays—at his place or mine? Or would I pass my turkey baster on to the next generation, letting Maggie take over the organization and execution of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners? Or would we meet on neutral territory, become one of those families who celebrate Thanksgiving in hotels and learn to live without leftovers, or spend Christmas in a condo in Hawaii, forgoing gifts because there’s no room in the luggage?
Would the dissolution of our marriage be amicable and equitable, as Brian posited? Or vicious and grasping, as Lanie predicted?
And when it was final, would I date? Would I go to bed with other men? Would they expect that? After how long? Did I even want to sleep with other men? Would other men want to sleep with me? Maybe not. Maybe I’d never have sex again. Or maybe I would, but then the guy would never call me again. How humiliating would that be?
On the other hand, I thought as I went downstairs to the kitchen, plugged in the coffeemaker, and started sweeping up the broken teacups while waiting for the coffee to brew, maybe it would be great.
Maybe some kind, handsome, fun-loving man with good hair would be interested in me. Maybe he would listen to me, really listen—as opposed to talking on his phone and pretending to listen—and find me interesting. No, fascinating. Fascinating was better. And maybe I’d feel the same way about him. And maybe, after some time had passed and I was ready, say, two or three months, I’d invite him to come inside after one of our dates, and he’d stay. No, he’d ask if he could stay. And I’d say yes. And we’d kiss passionately and go to the bedroom and get undressed. And I wouldn’t be embarrassed because by then I’d be in better shape because I would have started going to the gym again. And the sex would be great—so great! Better than it had
ever been with Brian—not that I was sure exactly what it would take to make it better than it had been with Brian. I had no basis for comparison. But it would be better. Much better. And I’d realize what I’d been missing all those years. What had I been missing all those years?
Would I marry again? How would the kids take it? What if they didn’t like my new husband? What if he didn’t like them? No. Not a possibility. I wasn’t going to marry anyone who wasn’t crazy about my kids.
Would Brian marry again? Definitely. Memo or no memo, Brian was the marrying kind. He said that woman he’d slept with meant nothing to him, but she’d probably figure out how to get her hooks into him. That kind always did.
And Brian, the stupid sap, would be too clueless to know what was going on, or how ridiculous he looked running around with some bimbo half his age. Of course, I didn’t actually know how old she was, but she had to be younger than him, a lot younger. And after his money. That kind always was. Except she was probably so stupid that she didn’t realize he didn’t have any money, not really.
But he’d probably end up spending our kids’ inheritance buying her an enormous, vulgar engagement ring anyway, and showing up at family gatherings, reunions, weddings, and the birthday parties of our yet-unborn grandchildren, dangling his trophy wife from his arm like a bauble from a bracelet, showing off her big diamond. And her big boobs. And her . . . Damn him!
The volcano erupted again. I grabbed a sugar bowl from the sideboard and lobbed it like a grenade against the wall, smashing it to smithereens.
I felt better.
But also a little foolish, especially since I had only just finished sweeping up the shards of the teacups. And because I had really liked that tea set.
Continuing to smash family heirlooms against the wall didn’t seem like a good idea, so I drove to Goodwill and bought a whole crateful of mismatched china plates, cups, bowls, and saucers for six dollars.
For the next several days, night or day, whenever I felt the lava beginning to bubble, I would go outside and hurl dishes against a stone wall until the threat of eruption had passed. Better there than in the kitchen.
It wasn’t dignified, but it kept me together, sort of. And it was a great sleeping pill, better than Ambien.
Three nights later, I had a dream.
I dreamed that Brian showed up at the cottage with a moving van and her, the Other. I don’t remember what she looked like, or even seeing her face. In my dream she was always turned away from me or standing in a shadow, but I knew she was beautiful and younger than me. She had blond hair that reached past her shoulder blades, falling in a golden cascade down her back. I remember him standing on the porch of the cottage, with me in the doorway, as he looked over his shoulder back to her, saying, “She always wears it loose.” I remember following his adoring gaze back to where she was standing, next to the moving van, watching her turn slightly to one side, seeing a bulge beneath her blouse, realizing she was pregnant, pregnant with my husband’s child. I remember the look of bliss on Brian’s face and him saying, “Twins. We’re going to need more space. The nursery furniture is in the van, so if you’ll just get out of the way . . .”
I remember slamming the door in his face and locking it, Brian shouting to let them in, that I was being ridiculous, that I’d brought it all on myself, and then pounding his fist against the door, shouting and pounding.
Gasping, I bolted upright in my bed. My heart was pounding, and my throat felt raw. My eyes were hot, filled with unshed tears.
I got up as quickly as I could, ran downstairs in my pajamas, grabbed a raincoat off the hook by the back door, stuffed my feet into a pair of green Wellington boots, snapped on the porch lights, and ran to the wall.
It was dark and raining, but it didn’t matter. I was used to it by now; it had rained every day that week. I reached into the crate where I kept the dishes, grabbed a blue saucer, heaved it at the wall, and missed. No matter.
I grabbed a second saucer, a plate, two cups, a bowl, throwing them as hard and fast as I could against the wall of rounded stones, hurling curses, sobbing my frustration, howling for vindication, finding none.
I smashed every piece of crockery left in the crate, at least a dozen pieces, but it didn’t help—not like it had before. Desperate for relief, frightened of my own fury, I looked around for something else to throw or kick or do. Something I could control.
A rusted shovel was resting against the silver-gray boards of the barn. I grabbed it, circled to the side of the house, and started digging.
The grass was soft after so many days of rain. My boots made muddy impressions in the sod as I pushed the metal blade into the ground and scooped up green shovelfuls of sod.
It was easy going at first, too easy, but the soil was harder a few inches below the sod, partially frozen and unyielding, studded with stones. I had to pound the blade against the dirt and stomp my foot against the top of the shovel to gain even a few inches’ entrance into the earth. My breath became labored as I continued to dig, adding more and more soil to the growing pile, grunting as I wedged the metal blade under the edges of flinty stones, pried them loose, and tossed them into another pile, the cold rain falling from above, dripping from the edge of my hood and onto my bare hands so they slipped against the wooden handle of the shovel, making the work even harder.
I didn’t care. I wanted it to be hard, so hard that it would tax every muscle of my body and clear every thought from my mind. I dug and grunted and sweated and cursed and cried, my tears mixing with the rain, sinking into the soil. I dug until my hands were blistered, until my arms were shaking and so heavy that I couldn’t lift them.
After a time—I don’t know how long—the sun rose and the rain stopped. So did I.
I loosened my grasp on the shovel and watched it drop to the ground, then trudged into the house, pulled off my boots and coat, and collapsed onto the living room sofa, too exhausted to climb the stairs.
It was enough. I was done.
8
Gayla
Somebody was knocking.
I sat up, blinking as my eyes adjusted to daylight and my brain cleared enough to remember what I was doing on the sofa and why my clothes were wet.
“Be right there!”
Maybe it was Drew. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses. Who else could it be? I didn’t know anyone in New Bern.
The man standing on the back porch had blue eyes and brown hair that needed trimming. Not a Jehovah’s Witness. Jehovah’s Witnesses had short hair and wore dress shirts and ties, not flannel shirts and jeans. My inner New Yorker felt nervous about opening the door to a strange man, but I did it anyway. I couldn’t very well leave him standing there.
I opened the door a couple of inches, ready to slam it closed, just in case.
“I’m Dan.” When the announcement of his name elicited no spark of recognition from me, he said, “Dan Kelleher? Drew’s dad?”
“Oh. Oh, right!” I grabbed his outstretched hand. “Hi!”
I knew about Drew’s father, but we’d never met. If I hadn’t been so groggy, I might have guessed. He had Drew’s eyes and sharp-angled jaw. However, the senior Mr. Kelleher was just a little shorter than his son, probably about six-two, and more filled out. His voice was deeper, too, so deep he could have gotten a job as the midnight DJ on the cool-jazz radio station.
“Gayla Oliver,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
I opened the door wider and smiled, even though the act of smiling made my head hurt. What time was it? Late, I was sure—too late to be still in my pajamas and sporting a bed head.
“Would you like to come in?” I asked, sincerely hoping the answer was no.
“Just for a minute. I don’t want to keep you from anything.”
He stepped through the door and scanned my kitchen, which was spotless. Aside from the books heaped on the table. And two empty bottles of scotch sitting on the counter.
“I have a cold,” I said, sniffling to back up my claim.
; “Uh-huh,” he said, raising his eyebrows in a way that made it clear he wasn’t buying my story. “You shouldn’t go out in the rain like that. You could catch pneumonia.”
He’d seen me? Digging holes in the dark and rain in my pajamas? Great.
The Realtor, Wendy Whatever-Her-Name-Is, had sworn that the trees on our property were so thick the neighbors couldn’t see us. I guess she was wrong.
Dan Kelleher shoved his hands in his pockets. “Listen, Mrs. Oliver . . .”
“Call me Gayla.”
“Gayla.” He nodded, cleared his throat, looked down at his shoes. “Right, Gayla. The thing is, I don’t want to pry into your private business or anything, but with the leaves not out on the trees yet and our place so close to yours . . .” He lifted his eyes to mine. “It’s just that the noise really carries, you know? And I have to get up pretty early these days.”
I felt my cheeks flush. I knew where this was going.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately and . . .” I shrugged and threw my hands out. “For some reason it just helps if I throw dishes at rocks. And curse.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, drawing out the first syllable and clipping the second, turning the affirmation into an expression of doubt. “And dig holes in the middle of the night?”
“Yes. Well. I wanted to get a start on my gardening.” I reached up to smooth down my damp hair. “Probably not a great idea in this weather.”
“Probably not. That’s another reason why I came by. Thought you might want to borrow my rototiller.”
“Your rototiller?”
“It’ll turn the soil about fifty times quicker than you can with a shovel, and it’ll dig the beds deeper. You ever use one before?” I shook my head. “I’ll show you how. The starter is a little temperamental, but you’ll get the hang of it. How big a garden are you putting in?”
Apart at the Seams Page 7
