The Breakup

by Debra Kent

  ’Til next time,

  V

  April 19

  I heard the phone ring as I was pulling into the garage and I raced to grab it. I was panting when I snatched up the receiver. I should have checked Caller ID first.

  “Hi, baby. Awww, you’re all out of breath. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” There was a low chuckle.

  “What do you want, Eddie?”

  “Hey, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be at least a little happy to hear from me.”

  “You thought wrong, Eddie. You weren’t exactly gentle that day in your truck, or the time before that in my house.”

  “How do you figure?” He laughed. “If my memory serves, you always liked it a little rough. ‘I love being swept away. I love being overpowered,’ ‘I love a man who takes charge,’” he mimicked in a falsetto. “Those were your words, sweetheart, not mine.”

  My head throbbed. He wasn’t wrong. I’d made the confession in one of those self-revelatory conversations characteristic of new lust. I was a little drunk and extremely horny. “For the record, I was not turned on.”

  There was a long silence. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’d never do anything to hurt you. I love you, Val.”

  “Okay, Eddie,” I said, gliding over the l-word. “Look, I really should go. I’ve got ice cream melting on the counter.”

  “No! Wait! I need to talk to you. Listen. Me and Patty, we’re separated.”

  “Again?” I sighed.

  “This time it’s for real. And I know it’s the right thing. It was my decision to move out. But . . . I don’t know. I just need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Eddie.”

  “Oh, come on. Please. I just want to see you. I swear I won’t touch you.”

  I agreed to see him. I told him I’d stop by tomorrow on my way back from the club. Yes, I know I’m an idiot.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  April 20

  Pete woke up with the flu, too hot and miserable to go to school. I scrolled back my Caller ID until I found Eddie’s new number. I expected his husky voice, but got one of those automated, monotone recordings: Please leave message. I mention’s Pete’s flu and said we’d have to reschedule.

  Pete has a fever of 102° and he’s in an awful mood, but he refuses to take medicine. I’ve tried cherry-flavored, grape-flavored, bubble-gum-flavored. Liquid, chewables, the kind that dissolves instantly like cotton candy. I begged, bribed, and coaxed. When that didn’t work, I tried browbeating him into submission and said some things I regret (“If you don’t take this you’ll wind up in the hospital where they’re going to give you a shot!”), but he just clamped his lips shut and turned away. I sometimes wonder whether Pete is a latent Christian Scientist. His aversion to medicine is like some deeply held conviction. He won’t even let me put a cool washcloth on his forehead. I have fantasies of strapping him to the bed and shoving the spoonful of medicine down his throat. I was sorry to have to keep him home today— his class was going on a little field trip to a fire station. I’d bought him the wooden Mancala set he coveted after playing the game for the first time at Hunter’s birthday party. I wanted to give it to him this afternoon, but I could tell he was in no shape to play, so I tucked it under his bed.

  God, I hate it when my kid gets sick! I’m always leaping to the most catastrophic possibility when there’s no reason to think it’s anything other than an ordinary virus.

  Pete has been asleep for four hours. It’s almost dinnertime. I’m going to go wake him up. . . .

  I’m back. Pete’s still sleeping. This is sad: When I went in to wake him, he shakily raised himself up on one elbow and blinked at me. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy. I knew he was still sleeping. He looked right through me. “Daddy? You’re home?”

  “No, sweetie, it’s Mommy. You’re sleeping. You’re dreaming.”

  He beamed joyfully and (still sleeping) said, “Oh, Daddy, I’m so glad you’re back. I knew you’d come back.” He flopped onto the pillow and murmured something I couldn’t quite make out, then started working his mouth as if he were nursing. I called my mother, the one person I knew would bolster my decision to cut Roger (aka “the tumor”) out of my life. Unfortunately, she was in the middle of giving Dad his four million pills and couldn’t talk.

  I’ve decided to let Pete sleep through dinner. When he wakes up, I’ll see if he’s in any mood to talk about his father. Interesting: Pete never brings up Roger when he’s awake, but only when he’s asleep— delirious, even. Similarly, Roger was most intimate when he was talking in his sleep. In this urgent voice he’d say things like, “You’re a wonderful woman.” Or, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Or, “I really do love you.” Of course, he might have been addressing one of a thousand conquests, but somehow I always believed he was talking to me, saying things he didn’t have the inclination or courage to say during wakefulness.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  April 21

  My printer is broken, Pete is still sick and he still won’t take any medicine. He slept most of the day while I paid bills and balanced the checkbook. I have exactly $7,947 in checking. My average monthly expenses are:

  $1560 mortgage (thank God we refinanced last year)

  $125 electric

  $75 gas

  $60 water (why is it so damn high? Is there a toilet running somewhere in this house? Must call water company to check.)

  $190 phone

  $35 cell phone

  $28 basic cable service

  $275 Jeep payment (he refused to buy the cars with cash, even though he could well afford to)

  $255 van payment (yes, I continue to pay off Roger’s van because the title is in my name, something I stupidly agreed to years ago)

  $129 home equity loan

  $450 groceries

  $140 gas (it cost me $35 to fill up yesterday. Jeez!)

  $12 local paper

  $35 Chicago Tribune

  $40 lawnmowing service (May through September)

  This doesn’t include Pete’s camp fees, new clothes and shoes for Pete, life and health insurance, homeowner’s and auto insurance, dry cleaning (gotta try Dryel), eating out, birthday presents, car wash, cosmetics, medical visits. Add it all up, and I have enough money in checking for about two more months of bills.

  Why the hell didn’t I put some money aside and invest in the stock market? I feel like such a loser, like there was a big money festival going on and everyone went except me. Some of my neighbors are now multimillionaires, all because they bought some hot technology stocks and cashed in at the right time. There are now rows of shiny new Lexuses and Lincoln Navigators and BMWs parked in driveways that were occupied by Ford Tauruses and Toyota Camrys only a couple of years ago.

  My parents always said the stock market was just another slot machine. They didn’t play either, and now my mother barely has enough money to cover Dad’s medical bills. This divorce settlement had better happen fast—and it had better be generous—or I’m going to have to find a job. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but I’d rather not have to work until Pete goes back to school in the fall.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  April 22

  Pete is up and around but he’s still running a fever, so we’re homebound again today. Kevin was nice enough to stop by and pick up the broken printer. I asked him to stay for coffee and we finished off half a tray of butterscotch brownies. Kevin stood up and stretched like a little boy. His T-shirt inched up to reveal a flat belly, a few wispy blond hairs. “Can you direct me to your bathroom?”

  “Sure. First door on your right.” I started clearing the plates.

  Pete appeared in the foyer. “What’s that noise, Mommy?”

  I didn’t hear anything.

  Pete pointed toward the bathroom door. “Listen.”

  Actually, I did hear a faint buzz coming from the general vicinity
of the bathroom. I figured it was the toilet or maybe the air-conditioning. But when Kevin opened the bathroom door and saw us both standing there, he seemed flustered.

  “Oh, hi, this is my son, Peter,” I said, hoping to break the tension.

  Kevin wiped his damp hand on his shorts then stuck it out. “Much obliged,” he said, smiling. He knelt down. “I’m going to fix your mom’s copy machine. Do you like fixing stuff?

  Pete nodded happily. “I fixed my bike when the wheel got stuck. And I took apart my radio and put it back together.”

  “Really? That’s amazing. I took apart a Game Boy the other day.” It didn’t seem like Kevin was doing this to impress me. He seemed genuinely engaged. He told me later that he loves kids, especially when they’re still unselfconsiously curious about the world. When Kevin needs what he calls a “kid fix,” he visits his sister in Detroit. “She and my brother-in-law have two boys and a girl and they think I’m the coolest guy in the world because I know who Pikachu is.”

  “Hey, I know who Pikachu is! He’s that yellow Pokémon with the lightning bolt tail.”

  Kevin grinned and tapped me on the nose. “Then I guess that makes you the coolest girl in the world.”

  “I guess so.”

  I called Eddie, told him I wanted to reschedule for Friday, when I was sure Pete would be back on his feet. Eddie offered to come by the house, but I quickly told him that would be a bad idea. After I hung up the phone I closed all the shades and locked all the doors and windows.

  I checked my e-mail again. Word of my divorce must have finally hit the Center, because I’m suddenly getting mail from the social workers and secretaries. Everyone wants to know how I’m holding up (fine, I lied), and they’re worried about Pete. Seeing the Center’s address and phone number at the bottom of the e-mails reminded me of my old boss Cadence and the hideous spectacle I made of myself—not once, but on countless occasions, in meetings, in her office, even at the awards ceremony, where I managed to attach a tablecloth to my waistband and drag away the entire table setting, centerpiece and all. I find myself masochistically imagining Cadence’s smug reaction to the news that my marriage—my whole life, in fact—has blown apart. In my worst nightmare, I am groveling at Cadence’s feet, begging for a job, any job. She gives me a gofer job, and I spend my workdays running her personal errands. I see myself squatting behind her Rottweilers to scoop up their droppings.

  No e-mail messages from Zoe Hayes’s father. I guess he doesn’t consider my dream a hot lead. Fine. I’m glad I sent the e-mail, because if Zoe had turned up in a little bird cage somewhere, I would have felt unspeakably remorseful keeping my dream to myself.

  The search effort has all but fizzled out. The first couple of weeks were filled with energy and hope as fliers were posted and search parties with police dogs scoured the area. Now the yellow ribbons they wrapped around trees and fence posts are ragged, and the newspaper has no coverage, not even a line or two. To date, the only trace of the missing woman is a single crew sock. There are fewer female runners on the roads and in the park now, and more men than women are walking the family dogs after dark.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  April 23

  Pete is still home and bored out of his mind, but I’m tired of playing entertainment director. Such is the plight of my only child. He’s just not skilled at occupying himself and my patience usually expires after the seventh hand of old maid (which I’ve been compelled by political correctness to rename “big loser”). In a couple of weeks he goes to camp, and we’re both thrilled! I think I may be ready to go back to work.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  April 26

  It’s soggy and drizzling and I have a headache. I want to put together a résumé but what’s the point if I have no printer? Or am I just procrastinating?

  I called Eddie to confirm our appointment. I suggested we meet at the public library (public being the operative word), but Eddie insisted he didn’t feel well enough to go out and said he’d feel more comfortable talking privately. I’m meeting him at his apartment.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  April 27

  I dragged myself out of bed this morning and studied myself in the mirror. My eyes were smeared with yesterday’s mascara and my hair was as dull as dirty laundry. I wore one of Roger’s discarded Nike T-shirts and a pair of black Victoria’s Secret panties that fit rather nicely—two years ago, for about twenty minutes; now the elastic waistband cuts into my belly and leaves jagged red marks. My upper arms and inner thighs jiggle gelatinously and I could successfully hide a crack pipe in my chin.

  I know I’ve gained some weight since last summer, but don’t know for sure how much, since I refuse to weigh myself. Besides, all I really need to do to confirm my expanding girth is simply look at the tag in my pants. I’m up one size now and growing. Why is it that I’m either losing weight or gaining, but never just holding steady? My doctor had said I might gain weight on Prozac, but I hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. I knew I was getting fat, but it hadn’t bothered me much, though I suppose that’s probably another effect of the drug.

  But today I’d wanted to be lean and pretty, not hideously bloated. Today I would meet Eddie, and while I had no interest in sleeping with him, I felt compelled to look attractive, relatively speaking. This has nothing to do with Eddie, and everything to do with growing up in a house where makeup was as essential as shoes. You didn’t leave the house without it. I remember the first words from my sister’s mouth not six hours after I’d delivered Pete. I was in my hospital bed, still heady with joy and drugs. Teresa walked in and said, “Put on some lipstick, would you? You look like death!” My mother nodded in agreement and began searching her bag, smiling as she pulled a gleaming gold tube from its depths. “Have lipstick, will travel!” she said cheerily, and tossed the tube onto my lap.

  I yanked open the bathroom drawer in search of something that might transform me. I found the Preparation-H (bought it after I read that it’s great for firming your face. Brings new meaning to the term “butthead.” Never had the nerve to try it); six Maybelline lip crayons purchased purely on impulse at the supermarket; wet eye pads that look and smell exactly like raw cucumber slices; twelve different foundations, ranging from porcelain to medium beige (none of which matches my skin tone, which, on this day, could be most accurately described as piss yellow); a little pot of coconut-scented body glitter (bought at Claire’s in a moment of self-delusion). I slammed the drawer shut and climbed into the shower.

  Despite the heat, I chose a black top with three-quarter-length sleeves to hide my upper arms, and pulled on my only nice pants, black Tencel with a flat front and side zipper. I pulled my hair back, slapped on some Origins Pinch Your Cheeks and lipstick, and rammed a Pop-Tart into my mouth, then washed it down with a can of diet Coke.

  I dropped Pete and Hunter off at school, silently cursed all the skinny young mothers with their flat bellies and long legs, then headed west. As I drove downtown, I ran through all the possible and improbable reasons for Eddie’s sudden desire to see me:

  1. He’s madly in love with me and can’t live without me.

  2. He wants to have sex.

  3. He needs money.

  4. He’s moving to Idaho to join a militia, and wants to bid me farewell.

  5. He’s considering starting psychotherapy and wants a referral.

  6. He’s taking art lessons and wants to draw me. Naked.

  7. He’s gay.

  8. All of the above.

  9. None of the above.

  I stared at the green steel door and suddenly felt the impulse to turn around and run back to the Jeep. I can’t explain it exactly. I wouldn’t say it was a guardian angel, or some supernatural voice urging me to run. I just felt I should leave. Fast.

  I started to turn when the door suddenly swung open and Eddie pulled me inside. He hugged me. I stiffened against him. “I’m so glad you came,” he whis
pered. He closed the door behind me and locked it, first the deadbolt, then a rusty chain. “I’m so glad you came,” he repeated, and I saw that his eyes were watery, as if he might cry.

  The small apartment was hot and airless. The blinds in the living room were drawn closed. The room was sparsely furnished. I recognized a few pieces from his office, the yellow leather couch and a coffee table strewn with empty Fritos bags and candy wrappers. A small TV was on the floor in the corner. Wheel of Fortune. No sound.

  Eddie gestured toward the couch, but I didn’t want to sit down. I didn’t want to do anything that might lead him to believe I planned to stay for more than a few minutes.

  “You know I hate to drink alone, but I guess I’ll make an exception in this case.” He sauntered toward the galley kitchen and disappeared behind a wall. “I think I’ll put in a Tombstone pizza. Pepperoni okay?”

  “Fine,” I called out, wondering how I’d eat when I had no appetite. I felt my stomach clench, followed by an urgent need to use the toilet. I hunted in my purse for Immodium but found only a couple of loose Tic-Tacs. There were two doors, both closed. I guessed that one was the bathroom, the other a bedroom. I moved toward the first door and turned the knob. It was locked. My cramps worsened. I turned the other doorknob. The bathroom door opened. I scurried in and locked the door behind me.

  I laid some toilet paper down on the seat and lowered myself onto it. I ran the water to mask the sounds of my intestinal distress. I could hear Eddie calling to me from the kitchen. “Val? Val?”

  “I’m in the bathroom, Eddie,” I yelled out. “Give me a minute.”

  “You’re where?”

  “The bathroom,” I shouted louder. Soon he was at the other side of the door, rattling the knob.