Is This All There Is?

by Mann, Patricia

  Beth Thomas has the perfect life. At thirty-five, she’s married to her college sweetheart, has two adorable kids, and teaches part time at the local university. But when a friend persuades Beth to go dancing on a rare night out, a chance meeting with twenty-one-year-old Dave, one of her former students, changes the course of her life. Loud music, too much to drink, and the thrill of feeling young again lead to an unforgettable kiss that was never supposed to happen. As she tries to put the memory behind her, Dave’s pursuit leaves Beth torn between what her mind says is right and what her heart and body crave.

  “Patricia Mann’s Is This All There Is? introduces readers to the seemingly perfect world of Beth Thomas, a 35-year-old mother and wife who takes a risqué detour from diapers and duty to chart a course into erotica, deception and deceit. As the part-time college professor yields to the overpowering push and pull that follow a magnetic encounter with a former student, Beth is held captive in the seductive space that lingers between desire and reason. Honest and moving, Mann’s work is a touching snapshot of middle-America today, a compelling story about one woman’s struggle to keep up appearances while coming undone.”

  - Michelle Hofmann, freelance writer, Los Angeles Times

  “Patricia Mann’s first novel is an emotional tour de force. Meet Beth, Mann’s believable protagonist in Is This All There Is?. On the surface Beth is an average thirty-something suburban mom, overwhelmed with the task of “having it all” and guilty that everything simply isn’t enough. She truly does have it all -- at least superficially. Great husband, two beautiful boys, a part-time gig as a university professor -- literally, the white picket fence scenario. What right does she have to feel that something is missing?

  Thanks to Mann’s expert storytelling, the reader is immersed from page one in a realistic storm of Beth’s feelings as she maneuvers her way through the ennui of marital doldrums, motherhood, and guilt. When a risky solution to her boredom reveals itself through Dave, a former student, it threatens her marriage and her family. Erotically charged and emotionally real, Is This All There Is? is not your simple chick lit love story. Instead it is a manifesto for the age, accurately capturing the complexity of the Gen Xers’ attempts at monogamy vs. the echoes of their parents’ bygone history as the free-love generation.

  Is This All There Is? will surely resonate with women (and maybe some men) who have found themselves in Beth’s circumstances, which according to research estimates is over half the population of modern young marrieds. Beth’s candor and honesty can be appreciated by everyone, even as she embarks on a course of deceit and betrayal. Indeed, her story-telling is compellingly truthful even while she lies to everyone she knows to cover up one bad decision after another.”

  - Corie Skolnick, California Licensed Marriage and

  Family Therapist and author of ORFAN, a novel

  “Patricia Mann has a way of drawing you into yourself and forcing you to reflect in the mirror of life. The delightful twists and turns of Is This All There Is? keep the reader engaged and wanting more.

  Content until presented with an alternate reality, Beth now questions everything in her life. Unable to make a decision on how to move forward, scared of the possibilities, Beth turns to other women for compassion and support. When her friend disapproves, Beth finds a new friend to defend her point of view. Have we not all changed our listener in order to hear what we want to hear? Backed by her mother’s silent approval, Beth is tempted to take the bait and possibly shatter her world into pieces. Does she have a choice between what is expected of her and what she feels is right? Is she destined to follow the fate of her father as she watches her world crumble around her? Navigating through Beth’s innocent, emotional inner turmoil is a testament to Mann’s understanding of a woman’s psyche and the challenges of being a working wife and mother. This is a gripping tale of love, lust and commitment; and any one of us could potentially be in Beth’s shoes wondering, ‘Is this all there is?’”

  - Mimi Sward, Registered Nurse, Certified Lactation Specialist

  “In her book, Is This All There Is? author Patricia Mann shows readers the raw, overwhelming descent of Beth, a young wife and mother, into lies and betrayal. Unable to stop herself from responding to another man's advances, Beth puts her picture-perfect family in jeopardy. Mann's writing is an honest look at the reasons for and consequences of infidelity, as well as the triumph of real, deep love and redemption.”

  - Colleen Valles, Writer and Policy Analyst

  Is This All There Is?

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblence to actual events, locales, business establishments, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MANNEQUIN VANITY PUBLISHING is an imprint of

  MANNEQUIN VANITY RECORDS, SAN DIEGO, CA.

  Copyright ©2013 by Patricia Mann

  facebook.com/patricia.mann.969

  patriciamann.me

  MANNEQUIN VANITY PUBLISHING

  trade paperback edition (2013)

  ISBN 978-0-9831544-3-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address

  MANNEQUIN VANITY PUBLISHING:

  publishing@mannequinvanityrecords.com

  or mannequinvanityrecords@gmail.com

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  MANNEQUIN VANITY RECORDS is a registered trademark.

  Visit MANNEQUIN VANITY PUBLISHING at

  mannequinvanityrecords.com

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  eBook version published by

  MANNEQUIN VANITY PUBLISHING, January 3, 2013

  ISBN 978-0-9831544-4-0

  Cover design by Sarah Hansen of OkayCreations.com

  Book Design by MANNEQUIN VANITY PUBLISHING.

  I dedicate this book to Corie Skolnick and Lisa Lieberman-Doctor. Without their guidance and love, I never would have had the courage to tell Beth’s story.

  When the time came to publish, my father became my mentor and advocate. He is my hero.

  My heart is also filled with gratitude for the unique ways my husband, sons, and mother have supported me on this decade long journey.

  A final thank you to Jake Skolnick and Liz Imler at Mannequin Vanity Publishing, whose enthusiasm, encouragement, and know-how allowed my dream to become a reality.

  Is This All There Is?

  A novel

  by

  Patricia Mann

  MANNEQUIN VANITY PUBLISHING

  Chapter 1

  His warm, soft hand stroked my back. I kept my eyes closed, hoping he’d give up and go back to sleep. He ran his fingers through my hair, but I didn’t flinch, even when a jagged fingernail grazed my scalp. His touch became more aggressive. He pinched the roll of flesh at my waist as he tried to pull my shirt up from the back. In his last desperate attempt to get my attention, he belted out “maaaamaaaa.” I turned to face him and lost myself in his pale blue eyes. A sharp pang of guilt hit me - I had been lying in that bed, awake, since sunrise, in a place that didn’t include him. I smiled back at his four-tooth grin and offered him my right breast, his favorite one. He cuddled closer and latched on.

  As always, Jack drew me into his world of pure love and pure need, forgiving me my selfishness. He looked so angelic as he swallowed softly, with that tiny pug nose and those full lips wrapped around my nipple. My fingers twirled the little ringlets of his silky blonde hair while my mind struggled to figure out the meaning of the fire starting to
burn inside me. Something was awakening or rearranging itself, and it seemed to be gaining momentum.

  My bedroom walls and quilt, once calming and comforting, seemed dull and outdated now. I was done with floral and forest green. The stack of books on my nightstand looked like it was about to topple. The nonfiction titles reflected my need for answers to the big questions, the fiction revealed a fascination with romance and fantasy. Mostly though they all pointed to an over-reliance on Oprah’s book club. On Rick’s table was a neat stack of the latest issues of Golf Digest.

  I stretched my legs then curled them up into a ball around Jack’s body. His chunky little fingers started to knead my thigh and I closed my eyes and drifted to Vermont, the rustic cabin on Lake Ninevah where we vacationed when I was a child. I was ten years old again, gliding out the front door of the cabin in my frilly pink nightgown. A gust of wind lifted me and I found myself flying high above the ground as I followed the overgrown path to the lake. With feet still not connected to the earth, I detached the frayed rope from the old wood pier and sailed off in the weather-beaten rowboat I adored. It was as if it had been days rather than decades since I was actually there. As Jack suckled harder and the oxytocin high kicked in, I gazed up at the lush oak and willow trees, savoring the chorus of frogs and crickets, the crisp air turning my cheeks pink.

  The bedroom door cracked open. “You up?” he asked.

  “Mmm hmm.” The lake water rippled beneath me.

  “Can you pick up the dry cleaning today?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Beth?”

  I forced my eyes open, knowing he was waiting for a more convincing acknowledgement of his request.

  “Yeah, I know. The dry cleaning. I’ll get it.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “Wait, Rick, I don’t have any money.”

  “Just charge it. We’re low on cash.”

  I looked up and took in his pressed white collared shirt and tie with its dizzying little blue and red spirals.

  “But you said we need to stop… never mind.”

  He leaned in close and without thinking I started to move my lips toward his. His warm Colgate breath crept up my nose as he kissed the top of Jack’s head. Then he was standing again, brushing a piece of lint off his sleeve. Flames rising in my chest. I couldn’t remember the last time there had been a goodbye kiss for me.

  “I’m off. See you tonight.”

  “Kay.”

  “Beth?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Don’t forget the cleaning. I need my gray suit.”

  His Old Spice deodorant stayed with me after he left.

  I heard the slow creak of the old door as he entered Sam’s room to give his sleeping big boy a kiss goodbye. The house felt eerie and still after he drove off. I shivered and pulled the covers up, leaving a gap of air for Jack’s face. They say there’s no such thing as winter in southern California, but the chill in my bedroom that February morning was as palpable as any I had experienced growing up in New York.

  I wasn’t able to find my way back to the rowboat. Instead my sleepy brain took me to the days after seeing my first Broadway play, Annie. I memorized every song and performed for anyone who would listen. Even my mother didn’t anticipate the extent of my elation when she surprised me with a curly red wig and perfect replica of Annie’s signature dress. I wore it for days on end, refusing to take it off to be washed. My biggest fan was our beloved family friend Foster, now long dead of AIDS, but still alive in my mind. His voice rang in my ears. “Honey you are definitely going to be a star one day, a big star.” “I can see your name in lights!” he said with his long arms fanning up and out above his face. How strange, I thought, for a memory like that to bubble up.

  Jack continued his lazy nursing for a while, not really hungry but happy to use me as a pacifier. He took frequent breaks to peek up and grin as milk dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin, which softened my agitated heart. I thought about what life would be like when he was weaned and in his own bed. His brother nursed and slept with us until he was almost two. I smirked as I recalled the day we searched for the perfect racecar toddler bed. No parenting book would support such blatant bribery, but it did the trick for us. Before long it would be time to retrieve it from the attic and coax Sam’s little brother into it. Fear and anxiety danced in my stomach when I thought of the dead space that would be left in our bed.

  As Jack gently released his grip from my breast and started to play with his toes, a long to-do list made its unwelcome appearance on my mental screen. One chore would pop into my head and then disappear, quickly replaced by another. I leaned over Jack, careful not to put any weight on him, and grabbed my journal and a pen from the nightstand. After dating the page, I wrote two questions: “Do other women fantasize about living a different life? Do they passionately love and loathe their families at the same time?” I put the journal down and wondered what Rick would make of those questions. For a brief moment I considered leaving the journal wide open, but then I realized it would never occur to him to peek.

  The hardwood floor felt cold under my feet. I slid into fluffy slippers and wrapped myself in my once pristine thick white robe, a birthday gift from my mother-in-law from the days before kids. Now it was decorated with the yellowish remnants of spit up, the faint orange of pureed sweet potatoes and the grayish green of mashed peas. I scooped Jack off the bed and headed for the kitchen. The powerful smell of nothing told me this was not one of those glorious mornings when Rick left behind half a pot of hot coffee. I pictured him at Starbucks, whistling or chatting with a beautiful blond in a business suit as they waited in line with no toddlers tugging at their legs.

  Of course Rick wasn’t the type to whistle or chat in the Starbucks line, but I needed something to fuel the bitterness I felt. I pushed Rick and his imaginary girlfriend out of my mind and made my own coffee, with Jack on my hip. When I set him down in front of a brimming bin of colorful building blocks so I could unload the dishwasher, he looked at me as if I’d insulted him.

  “No, no, no, no.” He shook his head back and forth, his blond curls flying. I needed to find a quick distraction before a full-fledged meltdown ensued. I opened the door to the bottom cupboard piled high with the assorted pots and pans he always coveted from his high chair and handed him a wooden spoon. His eyes gleamed as he absorbed the notion of carte blanche, flinging the shiny cookware all over the fake brick linoleum floor and pounding on it as hard as he could, creating a loud clatter throughout the house.

  Standing over the sink, I stared out the window at the bright yellow house across the street, its white picket fence lined with perfect rows of soft pink, orange and buttercup roses. My lawn, with its brown patches and weeds, was no match for theirs. I should throw Jack in the baby carrier and get out there to pull some of those weeds later, I thought. I knew I wouldn’t. The motivation just wasn’t there anymore. Even with the perfect house across the street glaring at me every day. And I was comforted by the recent discovery that life wasn’t perfect there, either - a few weeks earlier, our baby monitor crossed with theirs. I recognized the voices from our small talk about kid friendly restaurants and reliable contractors. “I hate you,” she shrieked. Crackle, crackle. Then his voice: “You frigid bitch, why don’t you just... ” Crackle, crackle. Her again: “I can’t believe you… ” Crackle. Now him: “If it weren’t for the kids I would… ” Crackle, crackle. And then, a peaceful silence, but only because the signal was lost.

  Chapter 2

  My eyes drifted to the cracks in the beige tile counter my elbows were resting on. I told myself things would look brighter once I got some coffee into my system, but I didn’t actually believe it.

  I opened a stuffed drawer and waded through assorted batteries, matches, chip clips and tangled piles of charm decorations for wine glasses before finally finding a pad and pen. I spoke my list out loud to Jack as I wrote: “Whole Foods, Mommy-n-Me class, Grade papers, Gift for Justin, hmmm… what would Just
in like?”

  “Tatatatatata,” he said as he gummed the wooden spoon.

  “Yeah, trains, that’s right, Justin’s really into trains.”

  I continued to write and verbalize my list for Jack.

  “Make dentist & haircut appointments. Dry cleaning. Call Grams to ask questions for Sam’s family history project.”

  I looked at the clock. 6:48. Almost 10:00 in New York.

  “We can do this, Jack. All I need is five minutes. Can you give me that?” I tucked him into his high chair and sprinkled Cheerios on the tray.

  “Hi Grams, it’s Beth.”

  “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. I haven’t heard from you in so long. How are you?”

  “Well, I’m actually pretty exhaust… ”

  “Your mother tells me you’re still breastfeeding. It’s been long enough if you ask me. Maria down the street here breastfed her son till he was five, poor thing is ten now and has no friends, can’t leave his mother’s side. It’s a shame. Such a handsome boy too. God bless him.”

  “Don’t worry, Grams, I won’t breastfeed Jack till he’s five. I just… ”

  “And you work too. It’s too much. I was just telling my friend Lenore from church about you - my granddaughter the journalism professor.”

  “Grams, it’s not journalism, remember, it’s communication studies. And I’m not really a professor. I only teach part-time, just two... ”

  “Still, it’s too hard. You can’t do it all. I tried to breastfeed your father you know, tried with your uncle Benny after that too, but it just didn’t work.”