I look around to see if the coast is clear—I don’t want to see anyone right now, especially Brandon. I still haven’t looked to see if he sent his writing, and I don’t want him to see me looking like crap in the middle of the afternoon. I’m sure he heard me coming in late again, and this time with multiple people.
I don’t see anyone other than the men who are mowing, so I head out to the backyard with Dixie. The sun is once again intense, and my pale skin burns under its warmth. It’s an amazing sensation and I decide I should shower and come back out—sitting in bed makes everything worse. Some fresh air is in order to get things back on track. Or at least on track. I can’t go back to where I haven’t been yet.
Dixie does her business quickly and we head back inside. I notice the paint is peeling and chipped around the back door. I absolutely must get a handyman to work on some of these home repairs. I remember the mailbox and decide that I can certainly handle hammering a nail or two to secure the mailbox to the base. Not that I plan on using it to break any more embarrassing falls, but it’s a good idea to take care of these things. Responsible people who are on track have sturdy mailboxes.
Ever since Ron moved out everything has broken in the house, inside and out. Maybe not everything, but I have had more than my share of incidents. With all the bad luck, I began to think that my house was built on an ancient burial ground, and somehow my divorce triggered the wrath of the departed souls. After I shower I’m going to fix the damn mailbox. At least it’s a start.
I feel better after showering and eating some of the soup Rebecca left for me (I have no idea where it came from because I don’t go grocery shopping). I found my Blackberry and checked my business e-mail account. Brandon did send me a manuscript to read. I’m going to get to that tonight. I take Dixie out with me and attach the leash to the tie-out stake in the yard. I bought one of those so she can be outside with me when I’m doing yard work. Since that doesn’t happen often this is the first time I’ve used it. I hammered it into the ground when we had all that rain, so it should be pretty deep and secure. She will love being able to run around the yard a little and sleep in the sun.
I grab my hammer. I found it under my gardening gloves, so that shows how much it gets used, with all the gardening I do. I know I have some nails, too. Yuck, there are so many cobwebs in my garage. When Ron lived here you could perform surgery in the garage, and now I practically need a hazmat suit just to find the few remaining household maintenance items. Now that reminds me of Daniel. Double yuck. I manage to locate a few nails that should work, and head out to do the job.
Now that I’m looking at the mailbox and the base I’m confused. How can I nail the base to the mailbox when the mailbox is metal? I can’t drive a nail through metal. How did Ron do this? Why does everything have to be so damn hard? How do women live alone and not have these problems?
I see Brandon walking across the street out of the corner of my eye. Crap.
“Hey, Claire, do you need some help with that?” His big shiny blue eyes are boring holes through me.
“I just want to get the mailbox to stay on the base. It came loose and I don’t know how to fix it. You don’t need to worry about it—I’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t mind helping you out at all.” He looks at the hammer and nails in my hand. “But I think you’re missing a few screws.”
“That’s not nice! I had a bad weekend!” I blurt this out before I remember I don’t want Brandon knowing my business. “Why are you laughing?”
“Claire…” He can’t stop laughing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that you have screws loose, like in your head. The mailbox gets secured to the post with screws. They came with the mailbox. If it’s loose, the screws probably came out and you need new ones. You can’t hammer a nail into it.”
His smile is making this so much more embarrassing. This man must think I am the biggest idiot in the world. I want to tell him that before he came along my clothes never came off in my yard and I didn’t get drunk and bring home strange men. I also graduated from Smith College (that’s a good school—all girls—Ron insisted!) with a 3.2 GPA in English Literature, and I have only had sex with one man in my whole life. So there!
Just as I am about to respond Brandon kneels down to receive a little wiener dog into his arms. How did she get free? Another strike against me. Now he can add “irresponsible dog owner” to my list of shortcomings.
“Aww…she’s absolutely adorable. My sister has two of these. They’re the funniest little dogs.” Dixie is doing her Cirque du Soleil moves while Brandon tries to pet her. She has pulled the tie-out stake out of the ground, and has dragged it across the street, along with the leash. She’s a strong little thing.
“I can’t believe that little whack-job broke free. That thing must not be secure.” I know he’s thinking—who’s the whack-job here?
“I can take a look at it for you. It’s hard to get these things screwed into the ground tight enough. I could do this and the mailbox screws. It’s the least I can do since you are going to read the manuscript I sent you, right?” He holds onto Dixie tightly while she licks his hands. He must have had something to eat recently.
“Great, you can do all of my screwing.” My heart immediately flutters and my cheeks burn upon realizing what I just said.
Brandon is smirking. Why do men always smirk when a woman is squirming?
“That’s pretty funny. Seriously, I have to go to Lowe’s later. I will pick up the mailbox screws for you, and I’ll get Dixie’s tie-out stake in the ground safely. You don’t want this little cutie getting away.” He removes the stake from her leash, and she runs to me.
Dixie is in heaven with all the attention, and her tail is moving like a windshield wiper in a monsoon. “Thanks. I appreciate it. As you can see, I’m clueless with this stuff. And yes, I will read your book. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Great. Why don’t you take her inside and get some rest? And Claire—everyone gets drunk once in a while or does something silly.”
“Silly? I don’t know what you’re referring to. I don’t do silly things.” I manage a smile. Am I flirting with Brandon?
“No never…hey, do you ever walk Dixie? Like on the road? In clothes?” He can barely contain his glee over this reference to my unfortunate incident.
“You’re just mad it was raining and you couldn’t see well.” I pick Dixie up and put her on my hip, like a baby.
“Yep, you got me pegged, Claire.” Brandon chuckles and nods his head. “But seriously, let me know some time if you want a dog walking partner. The weather is getting nice and I kind of like the walking trail in the neighborhood. Now go inside and read my book. I intend to be a millionaire author and time’s a wastin’.”
I smile and turn away. I look back as I carry Dixie to the door, and wave to Brandon. He’s still standing there by the mailbox, awkwardly holding the tie-out stake. As we retreat to our separate corners, I try to pretend that both of us don’t look just a little bit sad.
CHAPTER TEN
I hear a light tap on my office door. I listen more intently. There it is again.
“Come in!”
The door opens a crack and Justin appears in the doorway, holding a folder.
“Hey, Claire. Did you have a good weekend? Uh, you left this in my office last week, and I figured you might need it.” He waves the folder like a white flag.
I sit up straighter, as if better posture will erase the memory of his touch and those whispered words. “Hi, Justin. You didn’t have to bring that by, but thanks.” I am dodging the weekend question.
He tentatively enters the office and hands me the folder. He looks like a cross between a little boy who is afraid of the headmistress at the orphanage and a puppy who wants a belly rub. I’m hoping he’ll turn around and go, but he pulls my guest chair a bit further back from my desk and slowly lowers himself into it.
“We also need to talk about that training you’re going to host for me.”
<
br /> At least he’s keeping it professional.
“Right. The IT Security rollout. When did you want to do that?”
“I sent you an e-mail with the dates and the calendar invites. I just need you to book the rooms for the sessions.” He pauses and looks right into my eyes, and I’m aware of the empty space where my hope used to reside. “Claire…?”
“I’ll take a look at the e-mail and…” The tears start before I can finish my thought. I am not sobbing, the tears are just rolling down my face, like rain water on a window pane.
“Claire, I don’t understand why you’re so upset with me. I was a dick to you all the time and embarrassed you, and now when I say I’m sorry and try to be nice, I’m making you cry. I was only trying to tell you you’re beautiful.” Justin looks so painfully young. When he’s talking about software and malicious spyware he looks like a grown man, but when his emotions soften his finely chiseled face, I can see the adorable little boy he once was. He’s right—he will have beautiful children.
I take a deep breath to fuel my response. “Justin, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry for acting so foolish. It’s just not something I want to talk about. You didn’t do anything wrong and I’m flattered that you would have any interest in me. But—it’s complicated.” I reach for a tissue to wipe my face and look away, as if I am fascinated by the guys pruning the bushes across the parking lot.
Justin sighs and says, “If you ever want to talk about it, let me know. I am really not that much of a dick. My mother taught me something.”
The word “mother” starts the tears again and I quickly wipe them away. “I’ll get that training set up for you. Please send me a copy of the presentation notes, if you have them.”
He rises from his seat and turns to leave.
“And Justin?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not a dick.”
I smile at him and he slowly lets a grin creep up at the edges of his mouth, and relaxes his shoulders, as if I have given him permission to let things return to normal.
“I could say something obnoxious but I’ll let that one go.”
I yell, “Out,” playfully as he closes the door.
I need to stop letting my emotions show at work. This exchange has only made my neck hurt worse. After all I did fall twice this weekend, and once hard enough to knock myself out cold. I wish I could call Justin back in and let him give me a full body massage right here on my desk, but I need to leave that poor guy alone. I reach for my cell phone and dial my massage therapist’s number.
Julie’s receptionist kindly informs me that she has a cancelation tonight. I readily accept and she takes down my information. I hang up with a more optimistic attitude. An appointment with Julie in the same week is a blessing, so same day availability is a freakin’ miracle.
I open up Outlook and my calendar pops up. Even though I will not forget I have this appointment, my superb organizational skills dictate that I must record it. Unlike Rebecca, I only record actual business and personal appointments. She has invited me to “Remind me to Show You My Cruise Brochures—You’re Going!” No, I’m not, I say out loud to no one. I am afraid of water, I can’t swim, and the idea of being on a huge boat in the middle of the ocean is not even something I will consider. I get nervous at the car wash and repeatedly check to make sure the windows are closed.
I enter my appointment and then I notice the thing that I wish I had forgotten. I have my yearly exam with my gynecologist today. Awesome. So now I can get felt up by two professionals today, Julie and Dr. Mason. One is definitely more pleasurable than the other, and I guess paid, clinical touching is all I’m going to get right now. At least I won’t cry, fall down, or end up with a hangover today.
Dr. Mason is the rock star of gynecologists in Richmond. Not only is he a superb physician and a highly skilled surgeon, his bedside manner is off the charts (he is also fairly young and attractive, as far as doctors go). He was genuinely compassionate when I had my hysterectomy, and during every one of my miscarriage ordeals. I wish I could say the same for my husband. Mrs. Mason is a lucky woman. Because of his extreme popularity, he’s a busy man. Similar to Julie, if I miss this appointment I won’t get another one for a month.
An hour later, I take the elevator up to the 2nd floor of the hospital, where all the doctor’s offices are located. Dr. Mason is a partner in a large practice—they must have twelve or more doctors, and an unbelievable array of nurses and support staff. I am ushered into the office, checked in and sitting in the comfortable, yet stark, waiting room in a matter of minutes. Although I love Dr. Mason, I hate his waiting room. It’s reminds me of bad things. I wish I could wait in my car and be taken in through a back entrance, like a celebrity or someone with a highly infectious disease.
I should be getting over this by now, but seeing pregnant women makes me physically ill. I can avoid them out in the world, but in here their maternity smacks me in the face like ice pellets in a Nor’easter. Why are these women able to give their husbands children? Fulfill their destiny? And all sorts of women who have zero education, money or the ability to care for a child have no problem getting pregnant. There are tons of fantastic couples on long waiting lists to adopt the babies of these super breeders, who often keep the children and do an abysmal job at parenting. I wish the stork brought babies.
I pick up a People magazine (my one indulgence at the doctor’s office and hairdresser’s), and start flipping through the pages to take my mind off my problems. Of course this is the celebrity baby issue—pages and pages of babies and gorgeous women with baby bumps. The worst is the couples—the radiant little mothers with the proud fathers. Thankfully, I am interrupted.
“Hey, Claire?” A woman I instantly recognize sits down next to me.
“Hi, Roberta. How are you?” We exchange awkward hugs in our waiting room chairs. Roberta is the wife of Ron’s best friend, Jeff. They met playing softball years ago, and Roberta and I used to watch them play game after game, cheering our boys on. It was a fun time, before I tried to get pregnant, and she was always nice to me. I haven’t seen them since the divorce.
“I’m doing great. Both of the boys are in high school now. Jeff is pretty busy at the car dealership—people are finally starting to buy again, thank goodness. And I’m getting my dog sitting business off the ground.”
“I have a dog now. A little wiener dog. Give me your card—I’ll keep you in mind.”
Roberta rifles through her purse and comes up with a card with the cartoon drawings of several breeds of dogs, and of course one looks like Dixie. Wiener dogs are so popular. “Here you go, thanks. So what’s new with you? Have you met anybody new?” My favorite question again.
“I’ve met lots of men, but let’s just say they have all fallen short of the mark so far.” I smile as I always do when married people ask this question. Plus I don’t want anything negative getting back to Ron.
“Have you talked to Ron lately? I guess you wouldn’t. I keep forgetting that when you have no children there is nothing to keep you in touch with an ex.”
I wince at this and she notices. “I’m sorry, Honey. I forgot.” She pats my hand and quickly shifts gears. “Ron has this new girlfriend. Not so new—it’s been like six months or so. I swear she’s a mail order bride.”
“What? Why would you think that?” I look at her like she’s on drugs.
“She’s Russian for starters. She doesn’t seem to work anywhere. She isn’t forthcoming about her background and she says they met online.” She does the air quotation marks so I will understand how rare and unusual it is to meet someone this way. Roberta has obviously seen the movie “Lars and the Real Girl,” where the main character orders a blow up doll online and pretends she’s his new girlfriend from Russia.
“I see. But you have met her and she’s a real person?” I do want to rule out Ron having a new mental illness.
“Well yes…,” she says slowly. “She’s a real person, but not like you and me.”<
br />
I wish they would call my name now. I don’t want to talk about Ron, and this woman is so sheltered. I don’t care if she’s married, has she been living under a rock? People still come to this country from other places, and millions of people are meeting “online.” She probably can’t even use her e-mail. Good thing dog walking doesn’t require any skills.
“As long as he’s happy.” I force a smile.
“Yes, you’re right. Of course. I just think our Ronnie could do better.”
“Claire Ratzenberger?” Mercifully the nurse assistant is calling me.
“That’s me, gotta go. It was nice talking to you, Roberta. Say hi to Jeff.”
As I gather my things to go, she says, “You kept Ron’s name?” I pretend I don’t hear her and disappear into the exam room area.
The young assistant asks me the usual questions, takes my blood pressure, and records my weight. Even though it’s been two years, she’s still asking the date of my last period. My age is probably throwing her—most of their post-hysterectomy patients are much older. I don’t blame her. I just wish they would highlight this fact on my chart so I can avoid this question every year.
She ushers me into the exam room, which is below zero, as always. She apologizes for the arctic chill, and points out the little space heater they have provided. They never get the temperature right in these rooms. It’s warmer outside. They could set up tents in the parking lot and it would be more comfortable, since women sit naked in these rooms in paper robes. They aren’t going to be hanging any meat or preserving dead bodies in here, so they could turn up the heat. My mother would say it has something to do with Obamacare.
I do my obligatory undressing, put the robe on and drape the white paper over my legs, as if the sight of my legs is going to be so inappropriate for the doctor to see, when in a few minutes he will have his whole hand inside of me.
I wish I hadn’t run into Roberta. Why do people assume I want to hear about Ron? I guess seeing me is awkward and she doesn’t know what to talk about. She never called me after we split up, but I get it. He got custody of those friends, and she shouldn’t feel guilty. I can’t help but wonder about his new woman. Maybe he did try to find someone who would be more compliant under his regime. The only way he ordered a mail order bride is if they were free. She must do something to make money. The last thing Ron would want is a dependent.
There Are No Men Page 9