A tear rolled down her cheek. “Nothing. You and I are very different people, Emma. I’m not strong like you.”
“Huh! You think I’m strong?”
“Yes,” she said with a gentle smile, “At least you used to be. You’re temporarily…how should I say it…not you? When you stop feeling sorry for yourself, you’ll be strong again. When’s that happening, by the way?”
“Umm…never?” I giggled.
“You know, I wish you would channel all the vigor and drive and guts you have for MY situation and invoke it on yourself. I feel like you have no fight left in you.”
“Things can turn upside down so fast,” I said with the sadness I so often had in my voice these days.
“Where’s that built-in courage that I used to be so envious of?”
“On a long vacation?”
Laura smiled, “Time for it to come home.”
“And time for you to face up to the fact that you have a shitty marriage.” I looked at my sister and she looked really hurt, so I added, “No offense,” which made her smile.
“Things with Alan aren’t that bad,” she said, “We’re friends. It’s been that way for years, for most of our marriage, in fact. So if he wants to live his life this way, I have two choices. Put up with it or get a divorce. And I choose number one. I have no interest in Alan romantically anymore. But I don’t want to meet anyone else either. So I just make it work.”
“Look, I’m not that surprised by what you’re telling me. I never really felt like you and Alan wanted to rip each other’s clothes off or anything.”
“Em!”
“What? I’m just being honest. But the cheating, that truly was a shock.”
“Why? Men cheat.”
“Yeah, but not men like Alan.”
“Why not?”
“Because who would want to sleep with that dork?!”
It really was funny, and we both burst out laughing, but I could tell that Laura was really affected. It was one thing when she suspected her husband of infidelity, but having confirmation that someone actually caught him in the act must have been pretty brutal.
I was so protective of Laura, constantly telling people (in front of her) that she was “the good sister, the one who dedicated her life to helping people, the angel, the good mom, the good wife.” I could tell that this ultimate betrayal was like a knife in her back, and it was frustrating because I couldn’t protect her.
“You know, with Audrey leaving for college in the fall, you could actually have a really nice life,” I said, “You could have lots of freedom, lots of peace, and lots of time to do fun things without a loser who cheats on you.”
Laura nodded.
“I want to kill him,” I said angrily.
“Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”
“Yes, I do. I want to go back to your house right now and kick box the crap out of him.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, I’ve been taking kick boxing classes on Tuesdays and Fridays.” I demonstrated as I spoke, “Right hooks, left hooks, uppercuts, cross punches… I could give him some much deserved bruises. Say the word.”
“No thanks,” she giggled.
All of a sudden, at this very moment, I burst into tears. Laura tried to comfort me, which was totally ironic.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, while semi-hyperventilating, “I just want you to be happy, Laura, and I thought you were.”
“I have a beautiful daughter, a job I love, no financial worries, two healthy parents, an adorable niece, and a crazy but wonderful sister. I have a lot to be happy about.”
Through tears, I asked, “How do we have the same blood pumping through our veins? If I were you, I would NEVER EVER compromise and sleep in the same bed with a cheater like Alan. If I were you, I’d rid myself of the screwed up baggage holding me down. If I were you, I’d file for divorce and milk the guy for every cent I could.”
“And if I were YOU, I’d get over what happened, stop blaming myself, stop feeling guilty and move on. It’s been over a year since Sam died, and it’s okay to still be grieving his death. But this guilt you have over it, it’s enough already. Let it go and try to start moving on. Could you maybe try to date a little bit, dip your toe in the water?”
“No thanks.”
“I’m not saying you should dive into a relationship, but you haven’t even gone out with one guy. In fact, have you had any interaction with a man in the past year, other than dad?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Who?”
“The guy who works in the wine section at Trader Joe’s. He really knows his Pinot Noirs.”
Laura took a deep breath. “You better watch it or you’re going to get some right and left hooks from me. I’ve taken kick box classes, too.”
“Ooh, I’m scared.”
“What about a job?” Laura asked, “Have you thought any more about going back to work?”
“What’s the point?” I asked bitterly, “I don’t need the money thanks to Sam’s insurance policy.”
“Fuck the insurance policy!”
“Laura!” I said with a laugh. I always found it so funny when Miss Prim and Proper used a four-letter word, which wasn’t often, trust me.
“Not for the money, Emma. Work would give you self-worth, satisfaction, and the feeling of productivity.”
“I know. You’re right,” I said, “But I’m not ready. Besides, I like staying home with Isabelle.”
“Who’s in school most of the day,” she answered.
I didn’t say anything for a few moments. I just sat there with my head down. Then, I looked at my sister. “Did I ever tell you my last words to Sam?”
“Why are you bringing this up again?” she answered, exasperation in her tone.
“I hate you,” I said coldly, “Those were my last words. I hate you.”
“Oh my God! Are you going to blame yourself for the rest of your life?”
“I don’t know.”
Laura took my hand across the table and with tears in her eyes, my dear, sweet, gentle sister said softly, “There’s a light that shines on your face. You’re a beautiful woman. And yes, I’m sure it will be years that you will grieve Sam’s death. I think that’s okay. But you’re wasting good years lamenting about what you think your role was in Sam’s death. Emmie, you didn’t have a role in his death. Do you understand that? How many times do I have to say it? You didn’t kill Sam. Come to terms with it. Please.”
“Thanks,” I smiled, letting those words roll right off of me, as I usually did. At that moment, Laura had a look of defeat on her face.
Our conversation shifted and for the rest of our lunch we talked about fun things such as celebrity gossip, real people gossip, and Izzie, and by the time we finished eating, my sister and I found ourselves laughing and giggling and in pretty good moods, given the circumstances. Of course, both of us were pretty buzzed.
“Well, at least we managed to forget about our problems for a little while, right?” Laura said.
“Yup. We celebrated your birthday, Laura. We celebrated your life.” I held up my wine glass and with tears in my eyes I said, “Cheers to your forty-four years of life.”
Laura held up her glass. “To life,” she said with a smile, “To BOTH of our lives.”
Upon hearing my sister toast my life, pain and guilt enveloped me as it so often did now, as if I didn’t deserve to have a life, since my husband didn’t have one anymore.
As if my sister could read my mind, she said, “Stop it right now.”
Over coffee, Laura said to me, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll consider getting divorced if you agree to go on a date.”
“Tell you what. If Bradley Cooper calls me, I’ll go out with him.”
“That’s not an option. You need to go out with a guy. A real guy.”
“Bradley Cooper’s not a real guy?”
“Em, please?”
“I’ll think about it,” I giggled, pulling out my Blackberry
, “Right now, I’m calling us a cab.”
Laura took a sip of her coffee, motioned to my lips and declared, “I have to go get that lipstick.”
I smiled and gave her a wink. “Lancome counter… Bloomingdales…free gift with purchase.”
.
Chapter 3
Early the next morning, Izzie was sitting on the kitchen counter playing chef’s assistant like she always did when I made salsa. This was becoming an almost daily ritual now. For some odd reason, experimenting with different salsa recipes was therapeutic for me, and whenever I felt sad or depressed or bad about myself (which was most of the time), I did one of two things. I either planted new flowers in my garden or I made (and ate with vegetables or chips) some kind of salsa. After yesterday’s visit to my sister’s house, my garden had several new flowers in it and my refrigerator was stocked with salsa. And still I was making more!
“What should we call this one?” Izzie asked me, referring to the salsa I was concocting.
“Well,” I answered while adding a touch more lime juice to the mixture, “Tell me what’s in it and then we’ll figure out a name.”
My six year-old started naming the ingredients. “Lime juice, tomatoes, onions…”
I nodded my head and added some more garlic.
“Garlic,” she continued.
“Beans…”
“I know!” she exclaimed, “Let’s call it Try not to fart salsa!”
I burst out laughing and then, just to be a good mommy I added, “That’s not nice. Don’t say that.”
“Then why are you laughing?” she giggled.
“Because it’s funny,” I answered.
“Hey, mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Did dad like salsa?”
I thought about the question and honestly, I couldn’t really remember Sam having a strong opinion either way about salsa. “You know what dad loved?” I answered.
Izzie’s eyes lit up, just as they did every time we talked about her father. “What??”
“He loved Taco Bell,” I said with a smile.
“He did?” she asked excitedly, “What did he get there?”
“Everything! He’d order at least five things.”
“Cool,” she smiled.
And that was the end of the conversation. And I was pleased, because I thought it was healthy for Izzie to ask about her dad, which she was doing more and more lately.
Just then the phone rang. It happened to be Stacy McGowan, who was confirming our kids’ play date for after camp. It was mid July, and so typical for this time of year in Chicago, the weather was sticky and extremely warm. So, the plan was to head over to Stacy’s at 3:30 and let our kids play in the sprinklers in her backyard.
Stacy and John McGowan had boy girl twins the same age as Isabelle, and the three had clicked since we’d met them years earlier. Because they’d gotten along so well for so long, I had spent a lot of time at their house for play dates and get-togethers, and I’d become pretty good friends with their mother.
Just as Izzie did, I had always looked forward to going over to the McGowan’s or having them over at our house because talking to Stacy was fun, unlike the forced conversations I’d endured with so many other parents of Isabelle’s friends. Some of them, although kind and decent people, were strange or hard to connect with, and I would find it stressful to sit there and make small talk while our kids were playing. Stacy was different. We had connected right away so our get-togethers became more about all of us, not just the children.
Now that Izzie was a little older, most of her play dates were drop offs. So today, I could easily have dropped my daughter off at Stacy’s house but I chose to come along.
The only awkwardness between Stacy and I was the same awkwardness I had with everyone in my life, which was that the subject of Sam was constantly being danced around. Like all my other friends and acquaintances, Stacy had tried to talk about his death a few times, asking me how I was doing and if I needed anything. I would quickly brush it off, telling her I was fine. Then I’d change the subject. Eventually, just like everyone else, she stopped asking.
The only people who had never stopped trying armchair psychotherapy on me were Laura and my mother. They would plead with me to open up. They would tell me it was unhealthy to bottle up my feelings. And I would tell them that not only were my feelings bottled, but that the lid was on so tight, not even one of those bottle-opening gadgets from Bed, Bath and Beyond would help get the lid off.
So here we sat, Stacy and I, in our bikinis, lounging and soaking up the sun, peacefully watching our kids play in the distance, and definitely not talking about Sam. I’ll never forget, we were discussing the Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony break up.
All of a sudden, up walked two men, Stacy’s husband, John, and some other guy whose looks literally made my jaw drop. Both men were dressed in business suits, and I immediately surmised that this hot hot hot stranger, who looked a bit younger than me was one of John’s co-workers from Winchester Foods, which was one of the largest food manufacturers in the U.S., second only to Kraft and Sara Lee.
Upon the sight of this man, I felt as if I’d just woken up from a deep sleep. Maybe Laura had planted the seed in my head the day before, or maybe it took seeing the most absolutely drop dead gorgeous man on earth, I’m not sure. All I know is that suddenly, one look at my friend’s husband’s co-worker had just given me the first sexual impulse I’d had in years. John’s friend was literally causing me to have trouble breathing. And it was very scary, but amazingly appealing.
“Hey, honey!” exclaimed Stacy as she got up to hug her hubby. “Hi, Preston!” she then said as she hugged Mr. Perfect.
Preston?! That was his name? ‘Oy Vey!’ was all I could think. Emma Jane Bricker, nice Jewish girl who married nice Jewish guy (nice during most of the marriage, that is), was now struggling for air at the sight of a guy named Preston, who’s ethnic and religious background were both unknown at this point, the only certainty being that he wasn’t of the Jewish faith.
“Hi, Emma!” said John, leaning down to give me a hug, probably trying to ignore the fact that my mouth was hanging wide open, my eyes were glazed, and my body was trembling harder than the recent earthquake in San Francisco.
The twins began to swarm their dad, and my heart sank while I watched my sweet daughter watching them closely, probably wondering why it was so unfair that she didn’t have a daddy to hug.
“Emma, this is Preston Christiansen,” said Stacy, “He works at Winchester with John.”
Now I almost burst out laughing. This was too much. Christiansen was his last name? How much more non-Jewish could he get?!
“John’s my boss, actually,” said Preston with a wide grin, “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I said to Jesus Christ’s son.
I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it or just wishing it, but Preston held his gaze a little longer than someone would normally, and I wondered if it was because he could sense my attraction to him. Yet, I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told me that every girl acted like she was in a trance-like state when introduced to him.
“And this is her little girl, Isabelle,” said Stacy.
Preston leaned down and shook my daughter’s hand and at that moment, watching him treat her like an adult, I knew he didn’t have kids. I also knew with certainty that he was single. “Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile.
“Nice to meet you,” she said in her sweet, little voice.
“Preston had to take his car in for service and it won’t be ready for another hour so we thought we’d hang out here while we wait,” John explained.
“Want a drink?” Stacy asked the guys, “Coke, Diet Coke?”
“I’m good, honey,” answered John.
Preston responded, “I’ll have a Coke if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll have you!” I felt like saying. But I didn’t. I just sat there dazed.
Stacy headed into the house to
get the drink while John went to swing the three kids on the tire swing.
“So, how do you know Stacy?” Preston asked me.
“Our kids go to the same camp,” I answered.
“I see,” he nodded.
His big brown eyes were haunting, almost, and his dark skin seemed so soft and perfect, not to mention the six pack abs I knew without a doubt were hiding under his white business shirt and tie. I had a strong desire at this moment to rip off his clothes right then and there and put my hands all over his chest. ‘What was happening to me?’ I wondered. For so long, not one thought of sex. Now I was bursting with sexual energy.
Just as Stacy came out with the Coke, Izzie came over to me and sat on my lap. “Mom,” she said, “I’m thirsty.”
“I have apple juice in the fridge,” Stacy answered, “Let me go get it.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, lifting my daughter off my lap and standing up, “I’ll go.” Then I headed into the house to get the drink, holding my stomach in so tight that it was actually painful.
Once in the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator door and got a very annoying surprise. The big plastic container of apple juice practically jumped out at me and fell out onto the floor. It was obvious that one of the kids had put it in the fridge just halfway onto the shelf.
I quickly grabbed a roll of paper towels that was lying on the counter and then got on my knees and began to clean up the spill. As I was wiping up the puddle I heard the screen door open and figured it was Stacy. I was very wrong.
“What happened?” I heard Preston ask me with a chuckle.
I was both frightened and electrifyingly excited when I looked up and saw him standing over me. My heart began to pound literally outside my chest. “Oh, it’s fine,” I managed with a nervous smile, “Just a little spill.”
Mr. Major Christian Person then did something I couldn’t believe. He got down on his knees beside me. “Let me help you,” he said softly, taking the paper towel roll out of my hand. He never took his eyes off of mine. Slowly he began to wipe the wood floor.
“Thanks,” I said. Then I had to look away. This was just too much for me. I was afraid he could see right through me, and see how much I wanted him to grab me, take me to a bed (any bed) and throw me down on it.
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