by Cathy Lamb
“You don’t?” the host asked. “Please explain what the swinger lifestyle is and then tell us why it doesn’t work.”
Our mother described the swinger lifestyle and how couples swapped partners for a night or weekend. “The swinging lifestyle is beneath all of us. It’s dangerous. It’s dirty. It’s slutty. It definitely veers off into a beastly area. Same with bed hopping. This”—she made quotes in the air with her fingers—“ ‘hooking up’ mentality with no emotional attachment, no love and friendship, is a sexual mistake. Don’t do it. It will only shred your confidence and self-respect. Sex is special, it’s not a drive-by shooting, it’s not a ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’ It’s the gift of yourself, it’s a relationship.”
She smiled, leaned slightly forward. Her purple lace negligee showed. She hiked it up for the cameras.
“Thank you, Mom,” I said. “Nice advertising.”
“She looks so innocent,” Lacey said. “Like a red-haired lollipop.”
“She’s a ball breaker if I’ve ever met one,” Tory drawled, then said, “On TV.”
We all laughed.
Our mother’s last words were, “Don’t you be afraid of lubrication creams!”
We knew the truth about Brianna O’Rourke. She was Betty Crocker meets Knitting Queen. Glasses and flat shoes. Snow White house, and cooking club with her girlfriends.
“Who wants me to read their horoscope?” Tory asked. “Good. You first, Meggie. Today is your day to reach out to a Pisces in need. That would be me. . . .”
Aaron knew how to start fights, lie his way through, shut me down, twist things to blame me, minimize his transgressions, not take responsibility for his behavior or attitude, and attack.
A day later he’d turn on the charm and romance me. He’d be emotionally available, my best friend, and all over me with praise and compliments.
For a while.
It was his way of keeping me constantly in emotional flux, confusion, and mental mayhem. I couldn’t see my own way out. He was so clever, the way he manipulated me.
He wanted compliments on his lovemaking. He wanted compliments if he made dinner. He wanted compliments on his looks. He wanted compliments on everything. It’s exhausting to constantly compliment someone. It’s exhausting to be constantly asked, in one way or another, to compliment. “My people loved my idea today . . . did you notice that I rewrote the beginning of my film? It’s much better now, isn’t it.... Don’t you love my hair? . . . I am sick of doing all the work around here without getting thanked. . . .”
My own health was deteriorating rapidly. I lost weight. I couldn’t eat. I started having problems swallowing. I had constant, freewheeling anxiety.
I did, however, find the strength to refuse to work with Aaron on my next film, as I could not endure working with him again. I also knew I would be gone a lot, and that would save me. He threw fits each night for weeks.
When I received excellent reviews for the film, I hid them from him. When he found out, he raged. “You hid them because you didn’t think I could take it, right? Honestly, I can’t believe, my friends can’t believe, that you had even one accolade. I mean, the film, if you can call it that, was okay, Meggie, but it wasn’t great. The film we made together was much better. What did you do, sleep with the reviewers?”
After that fight, I left for Oregon. I didn’t even tell him. He called me ten times a day, begging me to come back. I didn’t return the calls. I ate and slept like a normal person.
When I arrived, Lacey said to me, crying on my shoulder, “What happened to you?” She picked up my hair like it was a dead animal. “Have you decided not to brush your hair?”
Tory said, “I am nauseated. What are you wearing? Those jeans are way too big. You’ve lost too much weight. Is that a shirt from twenty years ago? Is this a joke? Is this a fashion joke? It’s not funny, Meggie.”
My mother said, after I cried on her dining room table, “Let’s bake a cake. The serenity will allow you to think rationally about leaving Aaron. No. Let’s bake three cakes. Here we go, dear.”
My grandma said, “You are more unhappy than a rabbit with his neck caught in a noose. Don’t be a pansy-wimp. Divorce is the only answer sometimes, so grasp it and go. I need you back up here with me anyhow.”
Marriage, to me, was a lifetime commitment, through thick and thin. I didn’t want a divorce. I had spent my whole life trying to be excellent—at Lace, Satin, and Baubles, in school, and in filmmaking. To admit that I had failed, chosen poorly, made a mistake, I could hardly wrap my mind around that one. Plus, I had vowed to stay “till death do us part.” Aaron wasn’t dead, and neither was I.
I returned to Los Angeles, but after three months I once again felt like I was living under a black cape of doom and destruction, constantly attacked and bone weary. I told Aaron I was leaving him.
He had a breakdown and dropped into semihysteria. He promised things would change. They didn’t.
I left.
He was committed when he stood on top of a building in downtown Los Angeles after threatening to jump. One of the police officers almost lost his life trying to save him.
I learned then what I should have known before I married him. He should have told me.
I had a right to know.
I would clarify by saying that this was “personal fraud.” Had I known about it, I would not have married him. That makes me sound like a terrible person. However, it is the truth.
There are many questions I have about marriage, not that I will get married again.
When we take vows “until death do us part,” the implication is that the marriage will last until someone is residing in a coffin. But is the death of a marriage, through affairs, abuse, neglect, addictions, personality disorders, or continual misery and loneliness, also death?
What if there were secrets you didn’t know before you married that you had a right to know? Isn’t your spouse breaking the vows before the vows are said? If so, does that mean we can walk out free and clear? When we make a commitment, is that forever, regardless of new circumstances?
Is it immoral to leave a mean or neglectful spouse if he comes down with a disease because you can’t tolerate the thought of being both caretaker and punching bag?
Is it immoral to leave a mentally ill spouse who won’t agree to treatment? Even if the person agrees to get treatment, is it okay to leave? What if by staying your health fails because you’re married to someone who will never be able to function as a spouse, who will always take and take and suck the life out of you? Is it fair to expect someone to give up their entire life to stay with a mentally ill spouse?
But isn’t staying when things get tough part of marriage? The good and the bad? The lucky times and the bad surprises? Rich and poor? What about the love you had for that person on your wedding day, the commitment you made? Wouldn’t you want that person to care for you, to love you, if your life fell apart? How can you justify leaving a spouse who has an illness in his head that he did not bring on himself?
What role do children play in a divorce? If there’s no abuse, and the spouse is a good-enough parent but a lousy mate, should we stay married, and suck it up, until the kids are grown? What do we owe our children? How much sacrifice is too much? Will a divorce simply cause a whole new set of problems, particularly for the children, and not solve anything?
What do we deserve in life, in marriage? Is it spoiled and entitled to even talk about “deserving more?” Is a good-enough marriage good enough? Do we expect too much?
I struggled with these questions years ago.
The end result was staggeringly poor.
“Did you tell Cassidy no sex, too?”
I put my cell phone on speaker as I walked to my dull, pesky, gray car from work. Ten o’clock at night. Way too late. “Hi, Lacey. What are you talking about?”
“When you told her no smoking pot or drinking for three weeks and then you’d take her to dessert class, did you tell her no sex, either?”
She let out a screech through clenched teeth.
“Problems?”
“Of course there are problems. I have three teenagers. There are always problems. It’s a matter of which problem is setting me on fire.” Lacey’s voice went into shrieking mode. “The police brought her home. She and Cody were having sex in the middle of the football field on the fifty-yard line this afternoon.”
“The fifty-yard line?” Sometimes I am glad I don’t have children. “Well. Perhaps they were talking about sports, naked? Any chance of that?”
“Zero chance. I asked that kid what she said to the officers, and she said, ‘We didn’t even know they were there until they were, like, three feet from us! It was a surprise!’ Honestly, Meggie, I think she was impressed by how quietly the police snuck up on them.”
I shut the door of my car and leaned back in the seat. “Then what happened?”
“I guess that stupid boyfriend, Cody, rolled off and they dressed! I am not going to live through these teenage years. I can feel my hair graying.”
“The police brought her home.”
“Yes. My daughter was brought home in the back of a squad car. This is something to write about in the Christmas card along with Hayden turning into a girl and Regan’s growing collection of animals.”
“She’s a daring one, isn’t she?”
“She’s a horny one, that’s what she is. I was so furious my hair felt like it was tingling, and Matt was so upset he had to lie down on the couch while the police were talking to us. He said he felt faint. Cassidy boinged up and brought out her cinnamon rolls, plates, napkins, and darned if we’re not all sitting around eating cinnamon rolls with the police officers.
“They said they weren’t supposed to eat on duty, but they saw the cinnamon rolls and couldn’t resist. When the police were leaving, Cassidy thanked them for the ride, and they said you’re welcome, and she said it was nice to meet you, and they said it was nice to meet you, too, and she said she was sorry for the trouble, and they said that’s okay, young lady, all polite. I could tell they thought she was a nice girl except for the fifty-yard line madness.
“I shut the door and started yelling at her, and then, right in the middle of my yelling, as if she’s not even listening, she says”—Lacey mimicked Cassidy’s voice—“ ‘I am so glad that I didn’t promise Aunt Meggie I wouldn’t have sex because then I wouldn’t get to go to dessert class.’ ” Lacey made a screeching sound through her teeth again.
“Lacey, you need to calm down. You’re pregnant. Please. For the baby—” My words fell on deaf ears.
“So I railed at her, but I could tell she was only thinking about baking pastries. Matt was still lying on the couch, white as a dove. When I was done she wrapped her arms around me and said, ‘Mom, I’m so sorry for upsetting you.’ Notice that she didn’t apologize for the fifty-yard line fiasco. She said, ‘I’m going to make you dinner. I know you’re tired. Sit down, please.’ So that horny girl made my favorite spinach salad with the bacon crumbles.”
“Oh, I love that salad.”
“She brought it to Matt, the traumatized husband, and me. She had Hayden and Regan in there helping, and they’re all laughing and talking. She made those crispy bread things with the basil and tomatoes and cheese for appetizers.”
“One of her best.”
“Then she made crab cakes. They were delicious, and she made that white sauce with the chives for dipping, too.”
“I love her crab cakes. Are there extra?”
“No. Are you kidding? Finally, she melted chocolate over vanilla ice cream. Delicious.” Lacey’s voice was calmer.
“She’s a horny chef.”
“She’s so naughty.” Lacey sighed. “I love that child, but she cannot keep her pants on or her skirt down to save her life.”
I didn’t know what else to say except, “I’m looking forward to dessert class.”
“You . . . you’re here.” I stood up, wobbly with surprise, and gaped at Blake. He was in faded denim jeans that fit him smooth and perfecto, and a dark blue shirt. He was tall and filled up my pink office like a friendly, thick chocolate bar.
As Lacey, Tory, and I were going over the incessant, exhaustive details for The Fashion Story, Abigail had knocked, opened the door, and introduced Blake with a flourish. “Meggie, Tory, Lacey, oh fabulous, you’re not fighting or decapitating mannequins or throwing arms. May I present Portland Police Chief Blake Crighton?”
“Hello, Meggie.” He smiled.
I felt my jaw drop, like I was trying to catch something with my mouth.
Tory said, “Holy moly.”
Holy moly?
“I remember him from Wood Carving Night,” Tory said, standing. “He is desire on wheels, isn’t he?”
Lacey said, and I’m not sure she realized she’d spoken aloud, “Now, that’s a wowza man for you.”
A wowza man? I shushed them, blushed. Why must I blush around Blake?
“Hello, Lacey, Tory.” Blake extended his hand, smiling, shaking Lacey’s and Tory’s. “It’s a pleasure to see you both again.”
“This is a bad day,” Tory said. “I wish I had met you first. Do you like martinis? You are yada yada yada.”
“Thank you, and no, I’m not a martini sort of man.”
“Hello, Blake,” I managed to squeak out.
“Sorry to drop in on you without warning, Meggie, but I knew if I called you’d say no.”
I’d say yes to you, handsome.
“I’ll say yes,” Tory said. “Let’s go.”
“No to what?” I said.
“An early dinner. You said you liked Italian, and I just heard about an excellent Italian restaurant.”
Lacey said, “I am so glad you’ve come to take Meggie to dinner. She needs to eat. I mean, she does eat. She eats some, but not much. She might eat you.”
I groaned.
“That’s not what I meant,” Lacey said, waving a hand in the air, her red curls on top of her head. “I’m pregnant. I can’t think anymore. My husband knocked me up for the fourth time. I think I told you about that when I saw you last. What? He thinks we don’t have enough kids as it is? Is he trying to make me insane? I already am, clearly.”
“You seem sane to me,” Blake said, looking like he was about to laugh.
“Thank you. I fake it a lot.” Lacey waved her hand in the air again. “Not in that way, I don’t. I mean, I do now and then. We all do, right? I’m tired, I need sleep. Okay, I’m going to stop talking. Meggie can go and eat you—”
I had never seen Lacey so flustered.
“Not that she’s going to eat you,” Lacey went stumbling on. “That’s presumptuous at this point. I mean, eat lasagna or spaghetti on you. Something like that. Bread.”
Blake turned me upside down, too. I had sympathy for her.
“Oh, Lord God Jesus Mary the Apostle Paul, shut my mouth.” Lacey groaned. “It’s the pregnancy hormones.”
“I would eat you for dessert,” Tory said, her eyes moving up and down Blake’s body. “You look like you’re full of nutritional value. My husband, Scotty, is full of crap. He has no nutritional value at all. He won’t even take my calls. Hey, chief, it’s not stalking to call him now and then if he doesn’t say, ‘Don’t call me anymore, Tory,’ is it?”
“No. He should tell you to stop calling. However, perhaps you shouldn’t call him repeatedly.”
“I call him now and then.” She coughed. “Every day. Not on the hour, though. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon, once at night. Sometimes at teatime, to tell him what I think.”
I groaned. Tory doesn’t take teatime.
“What is your opinion, chief? Do you think I should move back into my home and cook dinner naked? I think that if I seduce him back into my bed I can fix things from there—”
“Okay, I think we’ve had enough conversation with Blake—” I interrupted.
“Why are you trying to embarrass Meggie?” Lacey tu
rned to Tory.
It was hypocritical, we both knew it. But why point it out to a pregnant lady?
“I’m not trying to embarrass her. You’re the one who started talking about Meggie eating Blake.” Tory pushed her black hair back with her hand.
“You’re the one who said you would eat him for dessert. Can you pretend you have some manners when we have the police chief standing here?”
Blake seemed perfectly calm, amused even. The man is so not thrown by anything. This is nothin’ for him.
“Blake, I don’t think I can go to dinner. . . .” I could see that he was disappointed, it was a flash, but I caught it.
“Yes you can!” both Lacey and Tory semi-shouted.
“Go!” Lacey said.
“Brush your hair, then go! Here, I’ll get you fixed.” Tory darted to her bag and grabbed a brush and two bulging handfuls of makeup.
“No, Tory, my hair is fine.”
“It is not. Look at it.” She stabbed her finger at my hair. “Look at it!” She was clearly appalled.
I ignored that one, but I felt so self-conscious, I wanted to cover my head with my hands. “Blake, I’m sorry, I’ll be working late—”
He rocked back on his heels, waiting this one out with a smile.
“No, you’re not,” Lacey said. “We’re done. Good-bye.”
“I will pull you out to his car by your messy hair if I have to,” Tory said, slamming the makeup down. “You are not saying no to this piece of meat. He’s better than my own husband, that piece of slimy meat. I would like to grill my husband on a barbeque—”
“He’s not a piece of meat,” Lacey said. “That’s rude.”
It was dinner or stand there and be humiliated. “I changed my mind. Let’s go to dinner.”
I grabbed my saggy brown purse from my desk, then his elbow, and turned him toward the door.
Lacey whispered, “Have a good time and call me no matter how late it is!”
Tory stood in front of me briefly, leaned in, and whispered, “Tell me your bra is not beige. If it is, call me from the restaurant and I’ll bring you a purple one.”