by SE Reynolds
He turned and walked out of the restaurant while I froze. My face was burning hot, and my throat was tightening. I felt like a caged animal in a zoo. People were staring. I heard whispers.
"It must be a Match date. Yikes, glad I'm not single."
I turned to the exit and calmly walked out the door. I went home and consoled myself with a pint of Ben and Jerry's. But this time with George, he didn't leave. He stayed and invested time. I, in turn, kept the conversation light. Even when things got serious as he talked about the downside of being an orthodontist and the amount of money he spends on malpractice insurance every year, I guided the conversation back to light and funny.
"So, George, do you know why the bar association code of ethics prevents lawyers and clients from having sex?" I said as I leaned over the table and closer to his face.
"No, why?"
"To prevent clients from being billed twice for essentially the same service."
I winked at George, and he laughed.
"That's funny, Stacie."
"I'm here all night, George," I said as I giggled and took a sip of my beer.
After two hours of laughing and effortless conversation, George walked me to my BMW. He pulled me into his arms, giving me, what seemed like, a thirty-second hug. I felt like we knew each other for more than two hours.
"I had a great time, Stacie. You are a funny lady," he said while waiting for me to get into my car.
He made sure I was safely tucked in with the engine started before he walked away. Driving home, I turned on the radio, and the Jonas Brothers were on. I turned it up and sang along.
"I've been dancing on top of cars and stumbling out of bars. I'm a sucker for you."
For a few minutes, I didn’t have a care in the world. I was happy and hopeful and high on the night, and now I'm back to square on, alone in my big house in Fairmont Estates. Fairmont is an upscale gated community in Fairview. Being a partner at Simon, Franklin, and Shewster, a lucrative family law practice in Old Town Fairview, allowed me the means to purchase my dream home. I was so excited when my name was finally on the sign that covers our office door, even if it’s the last name on the sign.
I always wanted to live in Fairmont. I passed it every day on my way to my office. I wanted a house with windows on all four walls, not just on the front and back like my apartment. I wanted a big yard for Porky, and one day, I hope to fill it up with a husband and two children, but time is getting away from me. I'm thirty-seven, and my hormones are raging. They are yelling at me daily to hurry up and fill my uterus with a baby.
Fairmont Estates has several different models. Some houses look like mini castles, some look like mini ski chalets, some look like Victorian mini mansions, but I chose the one that looks like a mini-White House. It has six bedrooms and five bathrooms across three levels. The main level has a wide-open and airy floor plan, with each room flowing into the other with barely any walls. I can stand in the middle of the main floor and see the inside of the kitchen, family room, and dining room. Only the bathroom and the study are closed off. I converted the basement into a total gym. I have weights, a treadmill, a rower, a stationary bike, and a sauna. All are in mint condition, except for the sauna. I use it frequently, thinking if I sweat enough, I will easily lose a few pounds. I do until I drink a glass of water to rehydrate; it puts the pounds right back on every time.
All the bedrooms are on the top floor. My bedroom is my happy place, my peaceful, safe place. I had the walls painted yellow and the built-in bookshelves painted white. I adorned the shelves with childhood memories and awards from high school and college. I save all memorabilia of my successes: medals from high school and college debate teams; a picture of me holding my law degree with my parents by my side; and my senior prom picture with Ralph, my high school boyfriend.
Ralph and I shared the love of debating and the love of Jacko's Double Mocha whip coffee and croissants. We became friends on our first day of high school. I met him in French class. He was sitting next to me when our teacher, Madam Durand, passed out a sheet of French first names. We had to choose a name we wanted to be called for the rest of the year. I chose Monique. It sounded beautiful and exotic, but Ralph was struggling. We had only five minutes to review the list before telling the teacher what our French alias would be. He kept looking at the clock and then down at the sheet of names. I felt the need to help him. I scanned through the boy's names and found the name Guy. The same name as handsome Guy Winship in The Summer of My Sky-Blue Bikini, my paperback novel I had just finished. I tapped Ralph on the shoulder.
"Pick Guy, that's such a cool name, pick that," I whispered.
Just then, the teacher approached Ralph.
“Comment t’appelles-tu.”
"Guy, my name will be Guy."
"Aww tres bien, Gee."
"I said Guy," Ralph replied.
"It is pronounced Gee, jeune homme."
I burst out laughing, and so did the rest of the class. Ralph shrugged.
"Thanks a lot, Monique."
We became instant friends. Over time we both realized our luck at finding a date in a world of skinny popular girls and buff popular guys was more complicated than we thought. We were each other's physical equal, both with a few extra pounds.
One day after French class, Ralph stopped me in the hall and asked me to go out with him.
"Where?" I asked.
"I mean do you want to be my girlfriend?" he said. I immediately said yes.
The idea of being someone's girlfriend sounded so nice. I could be myself around Ralph. He was my best friend and boyfriend, all wrapped up in one. After a year of dating and heavy petting, we decided to wait until our Senior Prom to have sex. We both were virgins and didn't want to leave high school with a halo over our heads, so we planned our first time well in advance. His job was to reserve a hotel room and bring a pack of condoms, not sheepskin condoms, but 100% latex condoms. It was my job to bring the KY Jelly and a bottle of liquor. He reserved a room at the Holiday Inn, and I stole a bottle of vodka from my parent's liquor cabinet. I wish I could say our night was magical and amazing, but I don't remember. I remember leaving the prom early, driving to the hotel, taking shots of vodka in the hotel, rolling around the bed, a sharp pain, and then crying. I woke up the next day with an upset stomach and blood-stained underwear. Ralph felt terrible and apologized extensively. I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for hurting me or having sex with me. It was all very confusing.
After our graduation, we stayed together through the summer. The sex got a bit better, at least for me. I finally was able to climax, but Ralph never could, and he seemed okay with that. Ralph and I never really broke up. We just went to college. Ralph got accepted to Syracuse, and I stayed local. Our phone calls gradually became less and less. I no longer expected or anticipated them. There was no final conversation that put a stamp on the end of our relationship. It just died quietly, slowly, and painlessly. Ralph and I are still friends today, well, on Facebook anyway. He is a CPA living in Buffalo with his boyfriend Jack and their black lab Russel.
Encircling my prom picture is my teddy bear figurine collection. They seem to soften the memory of my drunken prom night with Ralph. I love teddy bears, but I'm allergic to the dust mites that cling to them, so instead, my mom gives me little teddy bear figurines as gifts representing stages in my life. There is birthday bear, Girl Scout bear, sweet sixteen bear, graduation bear, professional bear sitting at a tree-stump desk, and bumblebee bear dressed in a bumblebee costume. Bumblebee bear doesn't constitute a stage in my life; it's more of a reminder of my reaction to bees. Mom gave it to me when I was five after being released from the hospital. I went into anaphylactic shock after playing the bumblebee game with a real bumblebee I found sucking on my mom's lilacs. I'm bringing home my baby bumblebee. Won't my mommy be so proud of me, I sang while cupping the bee with my small, chubby hands. I remember the stinging pain in my little palm, screaming to the point of choking, and throwing the bee across the
grass in disgust. Then everything faded to black. The next thing I remember, I was in the hospital, eating Jell-O and listening to the doctor explain to my mom how to use an EpiPen.
Unfortunately, my bear collection stalled after professional bear. I wonder if my mom purchased bride bear and momma bear just in case. I'm sure she bought them a long time ago, thinking they would be mine by now. I feel bad for her; she's been waiting a very long time.
Oh no, here it comes, but I'm not going to cave this time, so I sit up, trying to defeat the ice cream craving that tries to consume me during times like these. Times where disappointment leaves little stinging pangs in the pit of my stomach, and the only thing that numbs them is spoonsful of cold creamy sugar.
No, Stacie, don't eat now, it's too late, and it will go straight to your tummy and hips.
Weight goes to my boobs first, Mom, then to my tummy, and then my hips.
I pull the big square, yellow, satin pillow over my stomach to suffocate the little craving demons. Tonight, they die fast as my breasts beg me to release them from my binding bra that fit perfectly just a month ago. My breasts have grown half a size over the last few weeks. Who needs a boob job, when a daily dose of Ben and Jerry’s has the same effect and it’s non-invasive?
I unbutton my blouse and undo my bra. Ahh, I can breathe. I catch myself in the mirror that is hanging on the wall at the foot of my bed. From this distance, my breasts look wonderful; full, ripe, a solid size C. They still look like those of a young woman. My sister would complain about hers sagging and how her son sucked the life out of them, but mine are not like that. They are still sitting upright, staring right back at me in my mirror, and they are perfectly symmetrical. Breasts are a wonderful thing. Not only are they beautiful, but they are functional. They provide nutrition to a baby and pleasure to a man. Each nipple has hundreds of nerve endings. The slightest touch can cause sparks throughout a woman's body. I so desperately want to use them for what they are intended. I want them to pleasure a man I love; I want them to nourish his children before it's too late. I turn on the TV and prepare for another night by myself in my big canopy bed. The eleven o'clock news is on. I close my eyes and pray silently to myself.
Please, God, please let tomorrow be the day. Please let me meet him tomorrow. I don't have much time left. I want a nice man, and I want to give him beautiful children. I don't want just this. I know I should be grateful for just this, and I am. I just need a little more. I've been a good person. Please see that, please recognize that, Amen.
I feel tears develop in my tightly shut eyes, but before I open the flood gate, I hear the news anchor speak about a mayor's wife that died of cancer. I should feel guilty for indulging in self-pity, but I don't. I feel comforted knowing someone else is just as lonely as me, if not more, and now I can sleep.
Chapter 5 – Virginia
"I know, Mom, I know. I don't know how you got through it all. I can't imagine. You were so young, so dependent on Dad. I know. So, how's your neighbor? Oh, what's her name? Yes, Louise, how's she doing? Good. You should invite her over for dinner. It'll give you a chance to cook for someone besides yourself or my picky-eater son. Mom, hey, I got to go. It's my boss. Okay, love you too."
I put my phone down on the nightstand and stare at the bottle of Benadryl sitting beside it. If I take Benadryl now, it will take me about thirty minutes to nod off, drastically reducing the time between now and five p.m., the acceptable time to have my first glass of pinot grigio. I have no commitments today. Harry picked Robert up a half-hour ago for a day at the shooting range and then an afternoon at Hooters watching the World Cup qualifiers. Even though it's my Saturday, I didn't have any plans made for Robert and me. I get it. He's a teenage boy. He needs his dad, even if his dad is Harry.
I shouldn't feel guilty for wanting a day of sleep, erasing the memory of me for a while, but I have “you really should see your” mother guilt creeping in my head. I haven't fully recharged from visiting her last weekend. It started off good; it always does. Mom was so happy when I arrived with bags of her favorite Trader Joe's treats: samosas, cheddar chips, and dark chocolate peanut butter cups. I heated the samosas and made her a small batch of dirty martinis. It was a crispy, low humidity early summer day, so we sat on the back porch where we used to sit years ago as a family. I refrained from drinking anything but water to be clear-headed enough to drive the conversation away from any cliff that presented itself and back to the right lane, where I can easily take any exit if things go south.
"Wednesday, no Thursday, I made fried oysters. Louise came by just as I was sitting down to eat, so I had to offer her some. So now, I don't have any leftovers."
"Fried oysters aren't really good the second time around, Mom."
"True, true. I make too much anyway. I still can't cook for one person. What do you do when you don't have Robert? Do you make enough for several meals?"
"Sometimes. I'm not the cook you are, and I don't enjoy it like you do, so I order take out."
"That's so expensive, Virginia. I wouldn't worry so much about it if you were still with Harry, but now you need to be more conservative with your spending…I just don't get it…I just don't get why you left sweet Harry. He's so doting, so good to you and Robert. He's charismatic and funny. I just love his little accent. You had it all with him, and just like that, you walked out. I guess it's none of my business, whatever."
"It's not, but that never stops you. We just grew apart, Mom. I sound like a broken record, but you just don’t let it die. It’s not complicated. It’s very simple. We aren’t the same people we were when we met."
"Well, that sounds easily fixable. Quit being selfish, Virginia. If your dad were half the man that Harry is, I would've, well, you should've sucked it up. Look what you are doing to your son. Now he's just a statistic."
"Really? Do you even know what that means, Mom? Robert will be fine, just fine. Kids are resilient; besides, it's better this way. At least he doesn't have to hear all the crap I had to growing up."
"What crap? You had two parents together. We stuck it out. We didn't give up just because we got bored."
"You're right, Mom. You did the best you could. So, what are you making for dinner tonight?"
"You have no idea what I went through with your dad."
"Yes, I do, Mom. You've told me more times than I can count, but I have to give you credit; you stick to the story. It never changes."
She ignored me and continued towards the cliff. By then, I was too tired of staying in the safe zone, and she needed to release some pain even if it only gave her temporary relief. So, I settled in for another repeat episode of Dad and the German Whore.
I still remember the first time she told us the tale. It was another crispy, low humidity early summer day when I was twelve. My mom and dad enjoyed their late afternoon martinis on the back porch while my older brother, David, lounged on the steps sipping a Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. David was making a rare appearance that day, and I didn't want to miss it, so I joined them, hoping he'd break out his guitar and play "Country Roads" for my mom. It was her favorite; she'd always sing along, and as long as the song lasted, we were a typical happy family. But not that day; that day, I learned that my kind, loving dad wasn't just my dad but a deeply flawed man.
It started innocently enough. Mom and Dad were gossiping about the neighbors; then Mom brought up Mrs. Ellis' way too short shorts, and then my dad smiled and shook his head. Big mistake! It pissed off Mom even more. Knowing that he just stepped on a land mine, my dad retreated quickly to his vegetable garden on the other side of the yard. Mom didn't have Dad around to fight with, so David was the obvious second choice. David stayed out too late the night before and came home smelling of sweet smoke and empty beer cans. And without fail, like he always did after a stoned summer night, he stumbled to his room, slammed the door, and strummed violently on his guitar while yelling at the top of his lungs.
"I'm eighteen, and I don't know what I want. I'm eighteen. I got to get
away...."
I always thought he made the song up, but I found out it was by Alice Cooper as I got older.
"You're going to turn into your father if you keep it up, David," Mom said.
"Give it a break, Mom. Look at old dad, picking vegetables, minding his own business, getting away from you," David laughed and then chugged the last of his beer.
I could see Mom's eyes widen with rage as she speeded towards the cliff.
"You think he's so great and wonderful, but he's a cheater. He had an affair, David, when we were in Germany. I was stuck in a tiny apartment in Nuremberg. I had nowhere to go. I couldn't drive; I was fresh out of the hills of West Virginia. He would just leave me after I made him dinner, and he filled his gut. He'd leave me and go to that German whore. I was ignorant but not stupid. There is a difference, you know. He would come home smelling of her, that whore. I thought he'd get bored with her, but instead, he told me he was in love with her, and she was pregnant. He said he was going to be with her but still provide for us. I begged him, literally begged him not to leave us, David. You were just a baby. I had no job. I was totally dependent on that son of a bitch. He said he'd provide for us, but that was it, and then he left. I didn't see him for weeks, it seemed. He came back once to drop off money and some baby food and diapers. He didn't ask how you were; he just put the shit down and left. We were second to him, David. He didn't love us. He loved the German whore."
Mom sobbed; a real guttural cry came out of her. I thought she was going crazy like straight jacket mad. I was scared and looked at David for some kind of reassurance, but he just shook his head.
"He's over there, Mom. Are you hallucinating? Why don't you go to bed and dry out!" David said in disgust.
"The baby died. The whore miscarried. God knew what he was doing. Your dad came back with his tail between his legs. I took him back. I had to. I had to survive."
I felt like I was witnessing something very disturbing, making me feel sick and angry inside all at once. The first time I remembered having those feelings was when I watched Ivan, the neighborhood bully, torture a little frog he found in my front yard with a stick, and the last time I had those feelings was when I found out my husband wasn't just my husband but a very sick man. Unlike my dad, I didn't find out about Harry all at once in one big reveal. No one gave me all the gory details and forced me to consume them in one big gulp. It was gradual, but only because I was in love and denial.
