Kris is kneeling by the toilet, her head lying on her hands on the bowl. “I didn’t make it," she tells me.
“It’s okay," I tell her. “Easily cleaned. And you’re in the right place now.”
But seriously, how can one little person spew so much vomit?
Forty
Michelle
My evening is not quite going according to plan.
I tried to be at peace with the universe. I really did. After methodically destroying Steve’s financial life, I brought my supplies in, then calmly mixed the gesso and, with my new and pristine sponge brush, gently and perfectly primed all five canvases.
I was planning to have a glass of wine while waiting for the canvases to dry, but I never drink when I’m angry. Instead, I decide to do yoga.
Yes, yoga will calm me down. There’s this series of eight easy yoga poses one of the divorced moms at school told me about that is supposed to build confidence and release stress.
I change into yoga pants (and try to remember the last time I actually did yoga in yoga pants), find the purple mat I bought for some introductory class Lauren made us take, then look for the video the mom told me about on YouTube. Here it is: Yoga for Divorcees.
We begin in standing position (or whatever they call it) and do some deep breathing exercises. As I inhale… one, two, three… the instructor reminds me that what I consider my life is not actually my life as I am conscious of it, but is in reality just a huge pool of memories.
Okay, fine. But I need to calm down, not rev myself up. And I’m pretty sure taking a skinny dip through that pool of memories right now will lead to my torching Steve’s car.
As we breathe in good thoughts, and breathe out pain, my thoughts assault me:
Bastard! How many times did he sleep with her while I was the idiot buying new lingerie? And what about all of those times he got home late from work? Was he boinking that horrible woman while I fed his children and helped them with their homework? And why does she win? She doesn’t even have a job, she just lives off of her ex-husband…
Next, we are to drop to downward dog. I can do that. But once I’m down there, my brain goes haywire again…
How come good things happen to bad people? And is he going to marry her? Is that why he filed so quickly? God, that would be humiliating, losing to that narcissistic cunt. I mean, granted, he’s not a catch, and she’d have to live with him, but still…
And now we move onto plank…
Ow! Ow! Ow! No woman my age should have to put herself into plank position unless there is a hot naked guy underneath her.
I try to stay in proper form, but my arms immediately shake and shiver and, after a few seconds, give out beneath me. I drop to the floor with a thud.
And how dare he accuse me of having an affair with Nick during our marriage? Seriously, exactly when would I have found the time to do that? Or the money for a plane ticket?
I ignore the instructor telling me to do a pose I’ve never heard of, and instead bunch myself into child’s pose. I try to focus on my breathing to get myself out of this foul mood while I hear the instructor say, “Nothing changes unless something changes.”
Fuck it. I sit up. What the hell was I thinking, letting myself be alone with my thoughts for even a few minutes? I check the time, and realize the gesso has dried and the canvases are ready for the second coat. I paint all five canvases a second time, and focusing on the methodical process gets me out of my head me a little, but not enough.
To a non-painter, priming a canvas seems kind of pointless: it just looks like white paint on top of what was white before. But to an artist (or at least this artist), it means you’ve done your homework. You’re fully prepped and ready to play. Think of the possibilities!
I decide to cook dinner while the second layer of gesso dries, using one of those boxed meal kits that includes ingredients like purple carrots and bok choy, little plastic bags of pre-measured poblano peppers or garlic, and grass-fed beef that, yes, you could go out and purchase yourself at the grocery store, but isn’t it cuter all pre-weighed and with a recipe card that will explain how to properly cook bok choy and slice the meat against the grain? (Since we all know one couldn’t possibly just look that up on one’s phone.)
A box for a family of four was delivered today, so what the Hell? Why not spend an hour in the kitchen? Lots of people find cooking to be soothing, and I could use some soothing. The recipe card for Florentine Roast Pork also includes instructions on how to make a proper Salsa Verde and how have I gone this long in my life without knowing how to do that?
Calmly, almost in a trance, I take all of the ingredients out of the box, and read the directions. When I look up, I glance at my china cabinet in the dining room, and inspiration hits me.
I walk over to the cabinet, and methodically pull out my wedding china.
This actually takes awhile, as we live in Los Angeles. Earthquake territory. So most residents, myself included, do not display our china: we hide it in china protectors. One pouch for the dinner plates, another for the salad plates, cups, etc.. And then we hide the protectors on a low shelf, tucked away somewhere hidden and safe.
But I’m tired of everything fun in my life being hidden and safe. And I’m tired of only using the china on Christmas. I decide to pull out one place setting and prepare a romantic dinner for one.
I begin by unzipping the cup pouch, which is more of a box, and pulling out one of our Philippe Deshoulieres coffee cups.
The cup is the utmost in elegance. Made in France, its porcelain is translucent, almost ethereal. The gold leaf pattern painted on it is rich and perfectly executed. The piece is exquisite. The artistry, impeccable.
And I hate it.
I wanted this cool Jonathan Adler pattern that guests could have actually afforded to give us. But no: Steve had to have the Philippe Deshoulieres. I still don’t know why to this day, but the second he saw it at Bloomingdale's the day we registered, that was what he had to have. And he hounded me about it, day after day, verbally pounding me into submission, until I finally gave in and said we could register for the pattern he wanted.
And so he won the first of many battles by following these three tried and true steps:
1. Not caring about what I wanted.
2. Putting his own wants and needs before mine.
3. Verbally barraging me day after day, hammering home his point over and again, whether I agreed with it or not, until I relented.
And so I gave in. It was the first time in our relationship that I chose to say nothing rather than fight for what I cared about, chose to be quietly resentful. And I mildly hated him for it.
But I was getting married! We would love each other forever! That was worth one concession, right?
Unfortunately, my giving in that day wasn’t the only pattern we established that weekend. Because it was merely the first surrender of hundreds. And every time I gave in, suppressing what I wanted for the sake of my relationship, I frosted another layer of the “why did I ever have a wedding?” cake. I’d take vacations I didn’t want to go on to explore places I didn’t care about seeing. Live in a neighborhood I didn’t feel comfortable in. Not have a third kid. Not spend money trying to get my art career going again.
The day I gave in to the china pattern was the day I started dying inside. The day the relationship started dying. Death doesn’t always happen from a heart attack. Sometimes it begins with a cancer cell, which slowly grows into a tumor while you walk around thinking you’re healthy.
I once had an acting coach insist that if you can’t have your anger, you can’t have your sexuality. That’s not the hatefuck advice it sounds like. What she meant was that if you don’t feel safe expressing how you really feel to someone, good or bad, that person will never mean the world to you. And you should never have sex with someone who doesn’t mean the world to you.
I haven’t had my anger in years. Which may be why I haven’t had an orgasm with Steve in years.
I
hold the cup up to the light, look through its milky porcelain, admire the curve of its handle…
And then throw it full speed at the wall, shattering it into a million pieces.
And I feel just a tiny bit better.
I pull out the next cup, and throw it against the other wall.
Ooohhhh, feeling a little energized now. I pull out the next cup and toss it up into the air in an arc. Crash.
The other nine cups are shattered in moments, and then I’m on to the plates.
The bread and butter plates begin as Frisbees, and they hit the wall in perfect symmetry. But on plate four, I decide to see what this Greek custom is all about, and begin dancing around my living room, throwing down plate after plate after plate while yelling a celebratory, “Opa!” every time.
After that, I plug my iPhone into our speakers, and blast, I Will Survive, while happily trotting around the kitchen, dining room and living room, smashing salad and dinner plates.
When I run out of plates, I move on to the soup bowls, and finally to serving trays and bowls and platters…
And then I realize I’m out of dishes.
But I can’t be out: Stevie Nicks is telling some asshole to Stand Back!” Such empowering music needs percussion accompaniment.
I run to the kitchen, fling open my cabinet, and lift out a stack of our multicolored Fiestaware dinner plates. I am back in the dining room by the time Stevie is back to the chorus, and I throw the dishes in perfect sync to the music while singing along with my own words:
Plate smash, plate smash!
In the middle of my room I can say Steve Fuck You!
Plate smash, plate smash!
And then I stop.
And inspiration washes over me, right there, while surrounded by anger and chaos and broken everything.
I stand in one place, letting an idea percolate and swim around my head as I listen to Stevie finish her song.
The speakers are silent for a moment, playing the hissing room tone that exists between tracks.
And then a bluesy big band begins to play a sultry, sexy vibe. Soon Etta James is crooning, “At last my love has come along. My lonely days are over and life is like a song…”
I listen to Etta for another minute, then walk over to my big bag of art supplies. I pull out a tube of cadmium red, squirt it directly onto my canvas, then take a sable brush to it with both broad and narrow strokes. This isn’t what I planned to paint at all. It’s just… something in my heart that needs to get out. A feeling of what needs to created, whether I planned it that way or not.
I don’t know how long I feather and stroke with that brush, or how long I use the bristle brush with a thirty-seven milliliter tube of pure cobalt blue. Or when I decided to splatter the canvas with dots of jet black. Time just stands still.
I move onto the next canvas, and spend at least half an hour mixing different amounts of white tint to blotches from the same two tubes of green. I don’t know how long I spend on that painting, but I do know the sun is suddenly up.
On the third canvas, I pull out gold paint, splotch it all around the canvas, then squeeze some directly onto my brush. And in the middle of the picture, I write one word:
Persevere.
Forty-one
Zoe
Saturday morning at 4:55 a.m. we are standing next to a big yellow school bus with a bunch of other parents, sipping coffees from stainless steel commuter mugs and hugging our babies goodbye. “Text me in a couple of hours, so I know you’re safe,” I say, as I hold on to Sofia for dear life.
“I will," she promises through a big yawn.
Sofia tries to pull away from the hug, but I won’t let her. “I love you so much," I whisper in her ear. “You are the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Mom, you’re crushing my bun," she tells me, referring to the loose bun she pulled her hair into this morning.
And I try to remember the last time I ever brushed her hair. I used to hate that chore even more than pushing swings. On a girl, particularly one with long hair, the job requires tugging and hair pulling, there are usually tears (from her and me), and inevitably I would have to do it before even getting my morning coffee. I would silently curse that chore, and count down the days when it would all be over and she could brush and style her own hair.
Now I would give anything to have those mornings back.
“I just want you to know that," I tell her, letting her pull away so I can grab David into a hug. “I want you both to know that whatever college you decide to go to, wherever you decide to live when you get older, whatever job you decide, however many times you get married and whomever you choose, and whether or not you decide to give me grandchildren, I will always love you infinitely. More than you can ever imagine, and I have been so lucky to get to be your mother.”
I hug David tightly. “What? Are you dying?” he asks jokingly.
“No. I just want you both to know how much I love you. We are a family, no matter what.”
Following my pronouncement, Carlos puts both hands on my shoulders and deadpans, “So apparently, Mom’s been drinking.” Then in his normal voice tells the kids, “You guys have an amazing time. Buy whatever college T-shirts or mugs or souvenirs you want. We’ll see you Wednesday night.”
The four of us do one more round of hugs, and then Carlos and I head to our car.
Once we’re in the car, Carlos asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah. I just hate this. It’s like this big shoe is about to drop… no, more like be thrown at me… and I’m just sitting around waiting for my life to end.”
Carlos sighs loudly. Maybe a little angrily.
“What?” I ask.
“I hate that you equate living with only me as your life being over.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It kind of is.”
“No, it’s not!” I snap.
Carlos seems startled by my outburst. He starts the car, and we begin to drive home in silence.
I lean my chin into my fist and look out the window. “Fuck," I mutter to myself.
“What?”
“Fuck. I said ‘Fuck,’” I repeat. Then I throw up my hands and exclaim, “Fuck!”
Carlos doesn’t respond. Intentionally keeps his eyes focused on the road and away from me.
“You want to drive to Vegas?” I ask in my normal voice.
“You hate Vegas.”
“Yeah, but you like it. And we could go eat too much at the all-you-can-eat buffet and have sex all weekend.”
“When was the last time you wanted to have sex after eating too much?” Carlos asks, sounds genuinely confused.
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
“Okay, what is going on with you? You said you wanted to talk last night. Is everything okay?”
Is everything okay? No. Nothing is okay. I want to take back the last week. I want to take back the last seventeen years. I want to start over again. I take a deep breath, and mentally prepare to get out the words: I kissed Tom.
My phone beeps. I check it to see a text from Sofia:
I love you. We are still a family no matter where I go to college. And you’re an awesome mom.
Then one from David…
Tell Mom she’s starting to creep Sofia out. She’s gotta pull it back a notch.
This is Mom.
Oh.
Well…
Pull it back a notch.
I look over at Carlos. “Want to stop by the store and get a bottle of orange juice and champagne? Celebrate another first day or school?”
He shrugs. “Not really.” Noticing my reaction, he clarifies, “I’m just really tired, and I was looking forward to getting some sleep in this weekend.”
“Okay. That makes sense," I agree.
“You’re welcome to sleep with me," he offers.
“Okay.”
We ride home in silence. When we get home, we both slink under the covers, fully clothed, and spoon.
I’m not tired.
I wait until Carlos falls asleep, then tiptoe over to Sofia’s room, and lie down on her bed.
It smells like her. I pull her old teddy bear to me, hug it tightly…
And cry my guts out.
Forty-two
Alexis
The rest of Friday night was peaceful, though messy and occasionally interspersed with Kris’s dry heaves.
I didn’t sleep a wink. I wanted to make sure she slept on her side, so she didn’t choke on her own vomit and to do that, well, Tunny and I decided to have her sleep in our bed.
Seriously, how do newborn parents get any rest? I just stared at her all night, worried if she was okay.
The next morning begins at nine a.m. in my kitchen as I cheerfully yell, “Breakfast!” like Donna Reed in 1958.
Kris slowly ambles downstairs, each step appearing to take everything out of her. “Why do people drink?” she whines.
“Well, that’s a complicated question," I say as I pull out white cardboard takeout boxes from a big white bag. “But, safe to say, frequently for the wrong reasons. Aspirin’s on the counter, and I made you my favorite hangover breakfast: scrambled eggs, bacon, chocolate croissants and coffee. There’s also orange juice.”
“You made all this?” Kris asks through a headache as she sits down at the kitchen counter stool.
“Well, I made a call. What would you like first?”
“To not have had so much to drink last night," she says. As I hand her her phone, then take a plate and begin putting various foods on it, she says, “My God, I only had one cup of punch, and two beers. How did I get so drunk?”
I eye her sympathetically as she checks her texts. “I’m going to guess there was a liquor in the punch called Everclear. It’s sort of like vodka, only way stronger and without much flavor. I let your dad know you were staying here.”
Hangovers & Hot Flashes Page 28
