A Conflicted Woman

by T. B. Markinson

  “When you decided to have twins.” I flattened the tip of her perky nose with my finger.

  “Why do I always get blamed for that?” She wrapped a towel around her body.

  “I don’t remember asking you if I could suck eggs out of your body. Pajamas or au naturel?”

  “You had the easy part. I gave birth to them. PJs—the flannels. It’s a bit chilly but not cold enough to flip on the heat.”

  I bobbed my head enthusiastically. “Perfect, we might as well go all the way, Grandma.”

  We dressed in our cozy pajamas, got under the covers, and snuggled in each other’s arms.

  “If anyone asks, we had wild and passionate sex on our free night after being apart all weekend,” Sarah said, her eyes already shut, and from the limpness in her body, she was on the express train to Sleepville.

  “Who’s going to ask that?” I nuzzled my nose in her hair. “I missed your scent. Sleeping with your pillow is not the same thing.”

  “Shush. It’s sleepy time.”

  While Sarah drifted off to sleep, I held her. Even though my body screamed for rest, my brain decided to switch into hyperdrive. There was one surefire way to short-circuit my thoughts, but Sarah was sound asleep and it seemed rude to masturbate with her in the bed.

  I waited until I was absolutely certain she wouldn’t wake even if a tornado ripped through the room. Then I got up and headed for my office. The second, albeit less satisfying, way to stifle my swirling thoughts was work.

  The library was shrouded in darkness, and I opted not to flip the lights on. It might sound a little too history nerdish, but I liked to write in the dark, like so many night owls in bygone eras. Although, they had used candles, while I got by with the glow of my laptop. Once, I lit a candle to help channel the ambiance, but I fell asleep at my desk, and the thought of burning the house down put an end to that.

  I had a stack of blue books that needed grading. If I chained myself to my desk for three hours, I could return the tests to my students on Tuesday instead of Thursday, beating my typical seven-day turnaround.

  “This is the life, Lizzie.” I grabbed the first exam and my bright blue markup pencil.

  Around nine the following morning, Rose arrived with the twins. “Did you two have a nice night?”

  The three of us sat at the kitchen table. Freddie sat on my lap, and with the way Ollie jiggled up and down in her bouncy chair, I wondered if she was attempting to launch herself into space.

  “The best,” Sarah practically purred, looking refreshed.

  I got up to make another cup of tea. Handing Fred to Rose, I asked, “More coffee?”

  Rose nodded, while Sarah indicated she was good.

  “Have you two made plans for Thanksgiving yet?” Rose asked.

  Since reconciling with my family and having twins, planning holidays had become drastically more difficult.

  “I’m thinking of having everyone here,” Sarah said.

  This was news to me. “Who’s everyone?”

  “Mom and Troy, of course. Maddie and Gabe. Your dad and Helen. Allen.” She tapped a fingernail against her front tooth. “Peter and Tie. Hopefully, they won’t bicker the entire time.” It was clear she was making everything up on the fly, which wasn’t her usual MO when it came to planning.

  I eyed our double oven, which hadn’t been used much unless you counted storing baking dishes.

  Before I could point out the obvious, Sarah had already started the text invites.

  “Maybe we can hire Miranda to cook,” I said more to myself.

  “You don’t think I can manage a turkey?” Sarah’s tone was playful with a pinch of a challenge. “Maddie and Gabe are in. So are Peter and Tie,” she continued reading her phone before asking, “Is Bailey going home?”

  I refilled Rose’s coffee, shrugging.

  “Maddie wants to invite Jorie.” Sarah looked at me. “Sounds like she has a difficult family situation.”

  “Okay.”

  Thanksgiving was quickly slipping into the family and friend quicksand I’d avoided for so many years.

  “What about Troy’s mom?” Sarah asked.

  Rose shook her head. “Still not talking to Troy or me.”

  Sarah retrieved a notepad from the desk drawer along the kitchen wall. “That’s twelve, not counting the twinks and Demi. What size turkey feeds a dozen adults?” Her phone vibrated. “Oh.” She looked at me, and then her eyes dropped to her empty coffee mug. “Actually, I’ll have another cup.” She got to her feet, sweeping her phone and mug into her hand.

  Rose raised a quizzical brow but didn’t press.

  “Charles and Helen are coming,” Sarah hollered, although she was only ten feet away. “And Allen and guest, which I think is Bailey. That gives us an odd number. Now, I need to track down one more.” Sarah stood at the counter, furiously drafting her Thanksgiving battle plan on the notepad, looking more comfortable by the second. Sarah and her plans.

  “Do you ever miss living like an orphan?” Rose whispered, quickly followed with a sneeze.

  I stifled a laugh.

  Sarah glanced in our direction. “Neither of you think I can manage this?”

  “Not true.” I guzzled my tea. “I need to head to campus. Staff meeting.”

  “I’ll have you know our Christmas shindig last year was a big success. Huge. And everyone is still talking about the twins’ birthday.” Sarah placed a hand on her hip.

  “I’m still paying the bills. Please, no bouncy castle. The twins hated it.” She started to complain, but I swooped in with a timely kiss. “Love you, Martha.”

  “Martha Stewart will be jealous of my Thanksgiving!” Sarah shouted after me. “Maddie, I need to call Maddie.”

  I mouthed “Help me” to Rose on my way out, but she wore a look of defeat. When Sarah put her mind to these matters, it was either get in line or… I didn’t know what.

  The last thing I heard before the door shut was, “We need to go hiking for pinecones!”

  Because buying pinecones would ruin the authenticity. Heaven forbid. I hoped hiking for pinecones didn’t morph into hunting for turkey.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sarah slammed her laptop closed and tossed it to the side of the bed. “Where’s your laptop?”

  “In the library. Why?” I asked.

  “Mine isn’t cooperating.” She started to lift the bedcovers.

  I laid my book on top of the comforter. “I don’t think slamming it shut helps.” I flipped hers open to see if I could coax some life back into it.

  “Does that mean you don’t want me to use your laptop?” Her tone could slice through one-inch thick metal.

  “By all means, but I’m secretly pleased with my routine of backing everything up if you plan to destroy mine like this poor thing. Ah, the Blue Screen of Death.”

  “So funny.” Sarah gave me the hairy eyeball.

  She’d only started planning Thanksgiving this morning, and already, she was impossible to be around. Was it too much to ask to read a novel for twenty minutes before bed? At this rate, it’ll take me a year to read all four hundred plus pages.

  I tried keying in a few commands. “Maybe it’s time for a new one, after all,” I said to myself since Sarah had zipped downstairs. I closed it and picked my book back up.

  “What’s this?” Sarah stood in the doorway, holding a slip of paper in the air.

  “Where’s my laptop?”

  “Downstairs.” She marched to the foot of the bed, balled up the paper, and chucked it at my face. “Explain.”

  I flattened the paper and saw a note I’d jotted down. “It’s for something I’m working on,” I said, my eyes avoiding hers.

  “For a journal article?”

  “More like a book,” I hedged.

  “You’re writing a book that will include the line, ‘When I saw her across the field, I knew I wanted her, but giving in would be a grave mistake’? Tell me, Lizzie, what figure in World War Two said those words? Hitler?
Goring? Churchill?”

  “It’s not a direct quote.”

  “It has quote marks.” She tapped the paper. “Give it to me straight. Is this about Meg? You said that day she found you on the quad. Did you replace that with field to sound more historical?”

  I swallowed, not wanting to clear the air but also aghast she’d jumped straight to Meg.

  “Is our”—she waved her hand around the room and to the nursery—“family life too much for you?”

  “You have the wrong idea.” I tossed her laptop to the side so I could go to her, but Sarah stomped down the hallway on a rampage. The only thing I could do was follow her.

  We ended up in the library, the supposed scene of the crime, where Sarah envisioned I stayed up late pining for Meg.

  “Show me!” She jabbed a finger in the direction of my laptop. “Show me the book you’re working on.” She made quote marks.

  “It’s—”

  “Not in a book. Why in the world would you jot this down and then leave it out for me to find? Are you too chicken shit to admit it to me? Is that it? All this talk about drawing a line in the sand.” Her words came out quickly, and her nostrils flared. “Did Allen invite Meg over to our house? Or did you? Did you ask Allen to extend an invitation?”

  “Remember last night when you said couples’ therapy had really helped us? I think it’s safe to say that’s a crock of shit. You find one note, and now all of a sudden, I don’t want to be married or have kids. All so I can be with the one person I can’t stand being around. And, I’m using my brother to reach this goal.”

  “Allen says she’s helping you with a journal article.”

  “When she bumped into me at Starbucks, she offered to read it.”

  “And you accepted, in spite of the fact you can’t stand being around her?” She made quote marks. “Isn’t that what you just said?”

  “I’m not going to take her up on it!” My brain was spinning, trying to figure out how her mind pinballed from one scenario to the next. “I can’t do this now. There’s no talking sense into you—”

  “Oh, am I being a woman? Irrational?” Angry tears threatened to spill. “How long have you felt this way about Meg? Since she came back or the whole fucking time?”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this… crap!” I paced from the desk to the bay window and back again.

  “You’ll be happy to know Meg’s coming to Thanksgiving. She’s Allen’s plus one. Not Bailey.”

  I stopped in midstride and pivoted around. “What are you talking about?”

  “Allen asked if he could invite a friend. I said yes, assuming he meant Bailey. Turns out he invited Meg, and she jumped at the chance. Apparently, she’s pining after you as well.”

  “Disinvite her!” I sliced my right hand in a downward motion, slamming into my open palm, guillotine-like.

  “Why? You clearly still love her. Maybe she can move in. We can be lesbian Mormons.”

  “You’re not making any sense!” I covered my eyes with my palms. “Please, sit.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she said through clenched teeth.

  I took a deep breath and then released it slowly. I opened my laptop. “The line from the note isn’t in the book yet. I had the idea in the car on my way home from campus, and I haven’t had time to include it. But I plan to add it to this.” I opened the Word doc. “It’s a first draft, so… I’m not sold on the title.”

  Sarah didn’t budge, and from the fleeting looks of anger and guilt, I imagined she was already regretting her flip-out session.

  I turned the laptop around for her to see.

  “‘Torn, A Novel by Lizzie Petrie,’” she whispered.

  I hit the page down key until landing on the dedication: For my loving wife, Sarah.

  She spoke through the cracks of her fingers. “You’re writing a novel?”

  “Not sure I’d go that far. An idea struck me and…” I shrugged for her to fill in the blank. “It’s about two nurses in World War Two who fall in love, but the war and society, not to mention the fear of being killed, tear them apart. They meet up again by chance twenty years later.”

  “Oh,” Sarah said, her voice matching the shock on her face.

  “No one’s read it yet. If you must, have at it.” I went to leave the room, but Sarah reached for my hand. I shook her off. “I don’t think it’s wise for me to be around you right now.” I stared at her, breathing heavily. “How could you even think those things? Let alone fling them at me at first chance as if you’ve been waiting ever since you heard Meg was back in town? What do I need to do to prove to you I’m worthy of your love and trust?”

  Sarah collapsed on the arm of the couch. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “What are you sorry about?”

  “How can I forget your accusations?” I tapped the side of my head as a way of saying the words still rang loud and clear.

  “What do you mean?” Panic seized her eyes.

  “You accused me of not wanting to be here with you and the twinks.” I took a step back. “I don’t know what to say or think right now, but I can’t be here.” With that, I left the room and headed for the garage.

  She chased after me. “You’re in your pajamas and socks.”

  I stabbed my hand in the air, indicating she shouldn’t try to stop me.

  “At least put on a jacket.”

  I grabbed one from the hook by the door. “Better?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to someone who wants me in their life. Use your imagination.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I didn’t go to Meg’s as I’d insinuated, which I regretted as soon as the words flew out of my mouth. Actually, when I backed out of the garage, I had zero idea of where I was going. It wasn’t until I turned on the highway that I realized I was driving to Dad and Helen’s place.

  I needed a parent.

  And the one I sought was Helen.

  Outside their home, I texted Helen, not really expecting a reply considering the late hour. It was well after eleven. When my phone lit up, my gut said it was an urgent text from Sarah, but it was a reply from Helen. Soon after, the entryway light switched on.

  In the door was my father.

  I climbed out of the SUV.

  “Helen’s getting dressed.”

  My father had on a bathrobe and sunshine yellow slippers with two googly eyeballs on each. His gaze followed mine, “Oh, these are Helen’s.” His tone gave me the impression he was lying. Was this how my father dealt with stress? Silly slippers?

  “They’re colorful.”

  “Where are your shoes?” He pointed a chubby finger at my feet.

  “I left in a hurry. Is it illegal to drive in socks?” Talking about my feet made me realize how cold the cement was. Snow hadn’t arrived yet, but it still wasn’t thin sock sans shoes temperature.

  My father pondered the question as if it were perfectly natural to show up in the middle of the night to discuss the legality of driving without shoes. “I’ll have to ask Matthew.”

  Yes, his chauffeur would know. That was the perfect Petrie response.

  “You must be half frozen.” Helen stepped off the staircase and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, steering us to the kitchen. “Let’s get some hot chocolate going.”

  It was the first time a motherly figure had offered to make me hot chocolate in the middle of a crisis.

  Much to my surprise, Dad followed. I hadn’t expected this turn of events.

  The two busied themselves heating the milk and locating the cocoa powder. Soon, the three of us sat at the small table in the nook.

  No one seemed anxious to prod me to speak.

  “We’re looking forward to Thanksgiving,” Dad said, clearly doing his best to come up with small talk.

  “Does Sarah need any help?” Helen offered a helpless smile.

  “It’s almost your first wedding anniversary,” I blurted.

/>   “Cap, why don’t you get the fire going in the family room?” Helen tightened her robe.

  Dad shuffled out, still wearing the ridiculous slippers.

  “Did you and Sarah have a fight?”

  “She picked a fight with me.” I took a sip, not caring that it was rip several layers off temperature.

  “What happened?”

  Flickering light from the fireplace in the next room beckoned, and we sought the warmth.

  I filled them in on the events that had transpired.

  “I never liked Meg,” Dad tossed out.

  This was the first time he’d said anything of the sort.

  “I don’t trust her,” Helen said.

  Even they were focusing on the Meg aspect.

  “But, that doesn’t excuse Sarah leaping to conclusions,” Helen added, looking thoughtfully at her husband.

  “No, it doesn’t,” he said gruffly, but there was a trace of humor in his eyes. “Although, I seem to remember you saying some harsh words to me in the past.”

  “And you tossing back ugly ones yourself.”

  They smiled fondly at each other. I didn’t get it. How could memories of fights elicit this closeness?

  “I know you’re angry, Lizzie, and you have every right to be. But ask yourself something. Were Sarah’s words so hurtful you’re willing to chuck everything you two have built up?” Helen asked.

  “I’m not asking her for a divorce or anything. I-I… just needed space,” I said a little defensively.

  “But you’re here. Not there. I imagine Sarah is worried sick. Did you let her know you’re here with us?”

  I shook my head.

  Helen slipped her phone out of the pocket of her bathrobe, making me laugh. She was more connected to the outside world than I was. That, though, wasn’t saying much.

  “Take it from a couple of old geezers who made things a lot harder on themselves than they needed to but still found a way to make everything work. Running doesn’t help. Relationships are tough. I’m willing to bet this isn’t the first time you two have exchanged harsh words. And it won’t be the last.” Helen let that sink in before continuing, “Love is complicated, and it can drive even the most rational to say and do things that are out of character. Add in the stress of parenthood and Sarah may feel isolated staying at home. I can see why she saw Meg, who just finished her PhD, as a threat.”