by Leanna Ellis
“Wait!”
She turns around, walking backwards away from me, but doesn’t slow her pace. “I’ll be back later. Don’t worry.”
That usually translates into parental language as WORRY. Actually I was going to suggest she take Cousin It for protection and for the dog to expend some energy. Then all the questions I should ask before Izzie goes off with some boy, like to see Gabe’s driver’s license and check police records, cause a pileup in my brain like a traffic jam. I step out of the doorway to wave them down, but they’re already running down the street, their long legs matching each other stride for stride.
“It’s good for Isabel to see boys.” Marla stands behind me in the foyer. “She’s certainly old enough.”
I close the door, harder than I normally would.
“She’s pretty enough to have them lined up around the block if she’d only take a little care with her appearance.”
Slowly I turn and face my ex-mother-in-law and give a tolerant half smile. Don’t say anything, Kaye. Do not engage the enemy. It’s a debate I can’t win. “I better go take a shower.”
“Yes, you should. Before any more visitors arrive.”
Like Cliff. My half-smile congeals. Keep walking, Kaye. Just keep walking.
“Are you seeing anyone, Kaye, besides that man who was here the other night?”
That stops me. “No, no I’m not.” I regret my defensive tone. But I truly hate that question. I hear it all the time from old acquaintances, which implies I’m a loser if I haven’t latched onto someone since Cliff left. “Besides I told you, Jack’s a client.”
“Really.” The way she says that word is more like of course. “It’s been two years.”
“Fifteen months.” What’s the deal? Is there a time limit on letting go of a marriage vow? God doesn’t have time limits, does He? Nothing is impossible with Him.
“That’s plenty of time to get back in the game. Of course, you’re probably still pining over Cliff. That’s understandable. He’s quite a catch. But honestly, he’s interested in”—her gaze trails over my scantily clad and lumpier than usual form—“greener pastures.”
My shoulders stiffen and my eyelids prickle with sudden tears. She hit the bull’s-eye with that remark. I scramble to come up with a crushing reply, but I don’t have one. Which only makes me feel even more inadequate.
“And, I hate to say this, Kaye, but that may be your problem.”
“Oh really?” Kaye! What are you doing? Be quiet. Disengage. Retreat! Retreat! I cross my arms over my chest as if that can protect me and can’t seem to stop myself from asking, “And what’s that?”
“You have let yourself go in the past year. Why, I was actually stunned when you came to my house a few months ago. Stunned. Not that you were ever modelesque in appearance. But you presented yourself well enough before, or so . . .”
My hand automatically reaches up to touch my hair, which I haven’t had cut in a while and my roots are showing at least three inches worth. I slap my hand down to my side. “Well, I should take a shower. So I’ll be more presentable.”
With as much dignity as I can manage, I sweep into Izzie’s bathroom, step over the towel she left on the floor, shut the door, and turn the water in the shower on to block out any crying sounds I might make.
But I don’t cry. Instead, I give myself a hard look in the mirror. This is not recommended at any time of day. With or without daylight.
Is that why Cliff left? Because of the way I look? Because of some inherent flaw? It doesn’t matter now why it happened. What matters now is getting him back. And would he come back with me looking like this? Maybe Marla is right (for the first time ever). Maybe I should focus on me just a little bit more. In order to save my marriage.
And so I make a desperate, this-is-an-emergency call to my hair stylist. I’d call Marla’s handsome surgeon but there isn’t time before dinner. But I splurge and get a manicure and pedicure along with a new outfit.
Just in case Cliff does show up.
“What happened to you?” Izzie asks when we all end up home together later in the evening. Cousin It leaps around me like she’s eaten jumping beans.
“What do you mean?” But I know. I’m just being coy, actually embarrassed. I touch my new locks’ length defensively then point at the dog. “Down!”
“Is that a new outfit?” She circles me. “And new hair?”
“Not exactly new. Trimmed.”
“And highlighted.” She nods. “Sweet.”
I’m not sure if her scrutiny is more embarrassing than Marla’s. She simply gave me a quick up-down glance and said, “I’m glad you decided to listen to my advice.”
Which made me want to shave my head.
“You like?” Hope teeters on the brink, and I hate feeling as vulnerable as I do.
“Lookin’ good, Mom.” She winks. “Do you have a date or something?”
“A date?” I almost choke on the word. “No, no, no.”
She leans close and I smell the faint scent of chlorine on her skin. “You want me to hook you up with my coach? I could drop a hint—”
“No.” My tone is forceful, almost a bark. Definitely alpha-dog zone. I attempt to soften it. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just felt the need for some updates.” I stop short of telling her I’m hoping her father will come for dinner. I’m not up for her negative response. Besides, verbalizing my hopes too often ends up jinxing them. I’d rather keep my hopes and prayers between me and God.
She hugs me. “Well, you look good enough to go on a date.”
“Speaking of dating”—I turn away, grab the casserole, and shove it into the preheated oven, hiding my hopes and dreams and closing the door on them—“you’ve been seeing that new boy . . . what’s his name?” I feign ignorance.
She gives me a look that tells me my cover is blown. “We’re just friends, Mom.”
“Gabe is a nice guy.”
“We’re friends. That’s it. He just lost his dad last year.”
My eyebrow arcs. Is she as good at denial as I am? “But I thought Jack was—”
“His dad died from some disease or cancer or something. I can’t remember. And he’s living with his uncle.”
“Uncle.” I mouth the word, which disintegrates all my preconceived notions about Jack. So maybe he’s not in the middle of a divorce. I shake loose the baggage I imagined Jack carrying. I’m the one with totes, carry-ons, and trunks of rejection and failure on my back. Have Izzie and Gabe connected because of their losses? “Well,” I draw out my comment, not wanting to make her defensive and not wanting to push a relationship on her, “you can never have enough—”
Her cell phone buzzes, the beeps and blips forming some semblance of rhythm. She grabs it, reads the monitor, and begins texting a message back.
I watch the intensity tighten her features. “What’s going on?”
“Can we have company for dinner?” Her thumbs move independently as they maneuver the tiny keypad of her cell phone.
I’ve always tried to accommodate Izzie, allowing her to invite friends over. Better here than going off somewhere I don’t know about. And better than me being stuck alone. Still, I imagine Cliff coming for dinner and finding the table crowded with more than just his mother. I don’t need any distractions. Especially cute young women at the table for competition. “Is that Amy?”
She continues texting.
“Tonight really isn’t a good—”
“It’s an emergency, Mom.” She gives me a look that convicts me of selfishness.
“All right.” God’s in control, right? I just wish He’d zap Cliff with a sudden I-gotta-have-my-wife-back vision. You know, a Saul-on-the-road-to-Damascus type of moment. “Who’s coming?”
She pushes the nosy dog away. “Cousin It’s family.”
“Gabe and . . . his uncle?” I swallow the sudden awkwardness. At least another couple of guys won’t be a threat to my grabbing Cliff’s attention. Definitely better than hip teen girls with
firm thighs and cover-model bodies. When she sets down the phone, I ask, “So what’s the emergency?”
“Oh, nothin’.”
“I thought you said there was an emergency.”
“Well, yeah, sorta. Movers are there. It’s nuts.”
“Movers?”
“Mom”—her tone dips into that why-are-you-making-my-life-so-hard range. She picks up her phone and holds it out to me. An offer or challenge? “If you want to know so bad, call him yourself.”
Tossing together a quick salad, I glance over my shoulder at the sound of heels clicking against the linoleum. “Oh, good, you’re dressed.”
“What do you mean by that?” Marla places a hand on her hip even though her bloated, bruised features don’t blink or flinch. She had a doctor’s appointment earlier in the day when the drainage tube was removed. She looks slightly less like an insect.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I give myself a mental shake from the flustered feeling of having company dropping in suddenly. It’s one thing to have teens over without preparation time. It’s entirely another proposition to have adults—especially Cliff. I sent Izzie to pick up her bathroom, which will have to act as the guest bath. “We’re going to have company for dinner.”
“Did Cliff call?”
Her question jolts me. “No. Was he supposed to?”
She gives a tiny shrug of one narrow shoulder. “He said he would if he thought he could swing by.”
The doorbell rings. Is that Cliff? Or Izzie’s friend? With the back of my wrist, I push back a lock of hair and take a heaving breath. Am I ready to entertain? Am I ready to impress Cliff? Or will company only interfere? No, no . . . God can do all things.
“I’ll be in my room then.” Marla turns on her heel.
“But—”
She gives a defeated wave with her hand. “I’m not up for company.”
“You look fine.” I trail behind her, trying to appease her as I’ve so often done in our relationship. “Really. These folks won’t care. They’re just coming for a quick meal.”
“Give them a gift card for Sonic.”
That stops me in my tracks. I blink as she continues down the hallway toward her room . . . my room. Maybe it’s for the best for her to be out of the way. Out from between Cliff and me. “I’ll bring you a tray.”
Izzie emerges from her bathroom. “They’re here?”
“Apparently.”
“What’s up with Marla now?”
“She’s feeling a bit self-conscious.”
“That is not true!” Her voice barrels out of her room like a steaming freight train. Then she steps out into the hall. “I simply don’t feel up to making idle chitchat with people I don’t care to know.” Her gaze flicks over Izzie. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
With a huff and narrowing of her gaze, the evil look as I call it when it’s aimed in my direction, Izzie turns on her bare heel.
A vein throbs in my temple.
As the doorbell rings again, I force my lips to lift upward in a variation of a smile. “Everybody ready?”
“I’ll get it.” Izzie brushes past me. “This’ll be fun.”
But when she opens the front door, she does a quick about-face and takes long, determined strides toward her room.
Surprised by her reaction, I move toward the front door as if I’m rubbernecking a wreck on the highway, unable to help myself. “Cliff!”
My ex stands on the front porch. He looks good, if I do say so myself. My hand flutters to my chest as I feel heat rising inside me.
“Kaye.”
“Your mother said you might call.”
“Didn’t have time. Thought I better see how she’s getting on here. If she’s doing okay.”
My smile falters, but I manage to press the corners in place and not let them compress into instant irritation. Okay, God, I need a miracle here. Because I feel my annoyance meter escalating in spite of my determination to smile and be gracious. No “Thanks for taking care of my mom.” No “Gosh, it’s nice of you to let my mom stay here.” No “Wow! You’re looking great, Kaye.”
“If you don’t think this is a suitable environment, then I can help her pack her bags and put them in your car.” My words come out short and clipped and probably not from God. But I can’t seem to stop them. “I’m sure she’d be perfectly happy at your place.”
Cliff does that glance down his aquiline nose at me. He has an uncanny ability to flair his nostrils in a snort of superiority. “Have a bad day, Kaye?”
“Busy as usual.”
Then his disconcerting look disappears under a bright smile, which is his usual business tactic for closing a sales deal. And he’s good at it. But his teeth seem three times brighter than they used to be when we were married. Barbie probably took him off coffee and in to see the dentist. But she’s gone now! Out of the picture.
He claps his hands, rubbing them together then steps into my house. “So what’s for dinner, hon?”
I’m not ready for this. I should have bought flowers for the table, set out candles, turned on romantic music instead of feeling sweaty from running around trying to throw together the rest of dinner for a suddenly growing group of people who most probably won’t get along.
Cliff turns around in the foyer, eyeing what I’ve done with the place. “Brings back memories.”
Since he never lived here, I ask, “Of?”
He loops an arm around my waist and pulls me close. My heart flutters weakly in my chest. “When we first got married. Remember that horrible little house we had then?”
Horrible? My throat works up and down in an effort to swallow. I have fond memories of that time, of the early days of our marriage, of eating mac-and-cheese in bed. We were poor but happy. Or so I thought. But from Cliff’s look, I can tell his memories of that time are skewed. We both gave up dreams—my college degree for a wedding ring and baby; his other girlfriends for a ball and chain.
Cliff releases me and walks into the den. He makes the room feel smaller, insignificant, as I suddenly see it through his eyes. Well aware of his particular tastes, I imagine the thoughts running through his mind about my secondhand furnishings. Which was all I could afford when we separated and divorced. But even though I wasn’t happy with the circumstances, I tried to make the best of it. And I like my home. It’s the first place I’ve ever been able to afford on my own.
In the time we’ve been apart, Cliff has never been here. When he’s had Izzie for weekends—when he cared enough to force the issue and I could make her go—I’ve driven her to his posh townhome in Southlake Town Center, which he bought with money from a trust from his father. A trust that didn’t transfer to spouses and was not part of community property. Money he never wanted to touch while we were married.
Which reminds me that Isabel originally answered the door, and I glance around for her. Nowhere in sight. I could really use her help while I gather myself together, escape to put on lipstick. “Izzie,” I call out, desperate to gather our family together, “come say hello to your father! Izzie?”
“Hi, Dad,” comes the unenthusiastic voice of our teen from down the hall.
“Iz.” He sounds equally disenchanted. A soft whine carries through the house. “What was that?”
“Your mother,” I joke.
He frowns. “Does Iz have a dog? You didn’t—”
“I didn’t.” But I suddenly resent his insinuating I shouldn’t have. What’s it to him anyway? “It’s just visiting, and she’s apparently not happy in the crate.”
“Best place for a dog.”
His comment rankles me. Cousin It is goofy, destructive, and high-maintenance, but Cliff long ago lost the right to tell me what we should or shouldn’t do.
Then he faces me. “So where’s Mom?”
“In her room.”
“Locked up like the dog?”
I roll my eyes like Izzie. “Resting. Hiding.” I shrug. “You know her.”
“She’s had a trauma, Kaye. You could be
a little sympathetic.”
My jaw drops. “I’ve been completely sympathetic. I’m the one that opened my home to her, remember? I’m fixing her meals. I’m dispensing her meds. I’m taking her to the doctor. What, about all of that, implies a lack of sympathy?”
His forehead folds in on itself. “I know how you feel about her.”
“Do you? Then why’d you let her come here?”
“Why did you?”
“It seemed the right thing to do. But after all these years you still don’t want to see her the way she truly is.”
“Cliff?” A weak voice floats down the hallway.
I release a huffy breath and manage to refrain from rolling my eyes again. Here it comes—manipulation in the extreme. Cinderella, I’m sure, didn’t have to contend with this.
“Mom?” Cliff beelines it in the direction of my bedroom. “Yeah, it’s me.”
I take a slow, deep breath, feeling my flushed face dampen with sweat. Never when we were married would I have spoken to Cliff so forcefully. I’m not sure if I should have started earlier or if I’m ruining my chances now for reconciliation. I doubt Barbie ever raises her voice or Botoxed eyebrows.
Bracing myself for more dramatics, I follow him down the hallway and enter Marla’s temporary sanctuary. The lights are off, but a candle I don’t recognize on the bedside table is lit, giving the room an eerie, flickering glow. This could be a scene right out of The Munsters, with one bunch of limp flowers next to the stately roses overseeing the body splayed out on my bed like a corpse. Marla, dressed in a flowing negligee, is the monster pretending to be weak and lifeless. Her hand lifts limply.
Cliff cups his hands around Marla’s and kisses the back of her knuckles. “How are you feeling, Mom?”
“I’ve been better, dear. How was work today?”
“Closed a deal.”
She reaches up and pats his hands. “That’s wonderful.”
He glances over at a tray I brought Marla earlier with cheeses and fruits to snack on. Not one slice is missing. “Are you eating?”
“It’s difficult to chew.”
Cliff looks over his shoulder at me. “Don’t you have something like . . . I don’t know . . . applesauce?”
