Wave after wave of relief washes over me in soothing tides. But words elude me. After all, if I sound relieved, he’ll know I was jealous. But I can’t just say nothing.
“So she followed you, huh? That was pretty nervy.”
“She’s a pretty nervy woman. Aggressive.”
Hmm. How aggressive? I wonder.
Nice words. Be polite. Say nice words. Be polite. I’ve been giving myself this little pep talk for the twenty-minute drive from my house to Dr. Goldberg’s office. The last person I want to see today is Rick. Especially since the doctor plans to delve into our past relationship and has asked us to come without the children. Darcy, however, will be there as an observer.
I’m skeptical about the whole thing. I mean, how honest can Rick really be about his ex-wife when his current wife is in the room? But I agree to give it a shot. What harm can it do?
Darcy and Rick are already sitting in the waiting room when I arrive, a bit breathless, but relieved to be two minutes before our appointment.
Darcy’s smile is tentative at best. I never really thought about how difficult this must be for her. After all, she’s in love with Rick. I can understand if she is resentful. Much of his time has been taken up lately with counseling. Counseling where, for the most part, he is not cast in a very pleasant light. I try to feel sympathy for him, but if the truth hurts, don’t cheat. Still, Darcy also has to put up with the sessions, most of which she is excluded from.
For some reason, the doctor felt Darcy should be present for this particular session. My stomach has been tied in knots since last week after our family session when the good doctor dropped the bomb. “Just the parents. Including you, Mrs. Frank.” He was talking to Darcy, of course. But I was this close to responding to the comment as though I were the current. Too many memories are coming back. If Shawn weren’t benefiting from these sessions, I would have ended them after the first one, but how can I?
All this so-called counseling isn’t doing me a bit of good. As a matter of fact, I think it’s making me a lot crankier lately. And today I’m definitely feeling the resentment. I think I might have a bit of a chip on my shoulder.
“Are we ready to delve into the deep recesses of our failed marriage?” I make my eyes go wide. “Gee, I wonder how long it’ll take him to figure out why we broke up. Shouldn’t we just tell him up front and give him the rest of the hour off?”
“If you’re going to go in there and blame it all on me, there’s no point to this.”
I’m shocked into total silence. In all these years since our divorce, it never occurred to me that Rick thinks there’s any reason behind our breakup other than his inability to keep his zipper shut. Now he’s going to walk into that office and pretend that he’s the victim? And of course Dr. Goldberg, being a man, will fully sympathize with the toad-sucker.
“What do you mean?” I finally manage to eke out through my desert-dry throat.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped—like he has all day. “I know you firmly believe that I’m the only one to blame here, Claire. But it takes two to make or break a marriage.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, remind me again; how many of us cheated?” I press my finger studiously to the side of my chin and make like I’m calculating. “Gee, sorry, Rick, I’m still just coming up with one answer—you.”
“I don’t believe this.” Rick shoots to his feet and walks to one side of the room, gathers a breath, whips around and comes back. “Are you telling me you don’t think you bear any responsibility in our breakup?”
Anger boils my blood. I feel the steam rising. “You bet that’s what I mean, buddy boy, and furthermore—”
Dr. Goldberg’s door opens. I look up, dread slithering through me like a snake. I don’t want to do this. I can’t… My head is spinning. I feel the tingling and numbness beginning in my face and hands, feelings all too familiar lately. I hear the doctor’s voice through a tunnel. “Are you all right, Ms. Everett?”
Somehow I stumble to my feet. I hear myself vaguely apologizing. I make it to the van, with no clue about how I will drive it home. Warmth floods my shoulder.
“Give me the keys, Claire.” It’s Darcy. “I’ll take you home.”
Sweet, faithful Darcy. The kind of woman no man in his right mind would ever cheat on.
Somewhere in my angst-ridden mind, a horrifying thought rises to taunt me. If Darcy’s the kind of woman no man would cheat on, and I’m the kind of woman a man obviously would cheat on… then if I’d done something differently, maybe my husband wouldn’t have gone elsewhere for comfort.
Nausea rises inside me, and I think I’m going to— “Darcy, pull over quick!” The wheels screech to a halt and I scramble out the door.
Isn’t that just the way it is? You’re going along, living your life—a semi-bestselling author with four semi-great kids, a semi-supportive mother, a semi-bearable ex-husband and his semi-sweet new wife, then suddenly, one day, you try to make things better and guess what? You end up losing your lunch right there at the side of the road with the whole world watching.
22
Turns out I had the flu. Three days of gut-wrenching queasiness—complete with necessary bowl-hugging that put all four of my first trimesters to shame. I then spent another three days trying to regain my strength. Day seven, I fell off the wagon and ordered pizza. Sometimes a girl just has to have pepperoni. Nothing else will do the trick. Well, except maybe egg rolls. Day eight, I had those.
Sad thing is that several days of Chinese takeout and pizza have put back on four of the twelve pounds I’ve lost. I resolve to stay off the scale. But I resolved to stop eating pizza and Chinese, too, and look what happened to that, so chances are, tomorrow will find me once again removing every stitch of clothing and hesitantly climbing onto the instrument of torture that just won’t lie.
Today is the tenth day since I ran away from counseling. I’m fine physically, except for those extra pounds, but I still can’t bring myself to leave the house. From the bed to the couch to the kitchen to the bathroom and back to bed. I’m in a rut. I think I’m depressed. Cheesy, pathetic, and weak of character, but I can’t help myself. Rick has once again ruined my life.
First he cheats and leaves, then he gets saved and goes all Husband of the Year-ish, and now, just when I’m on the verge of forgiving him, what does he do? Accuses me of being partly to blame for our breakup. How does he expect to help our son get through this pervy stage he’s entered if he refuses to accept responsibility for his own actions? (And for the record, I still think Ms. Clark is at least partially to blame for the poems. I mean, the cleavage—come on.)
The most disturbing thing about Rick finally having the guts to admit what he truly thinks is that for the first time, I’m starting to have my doubts. Visions of temper tantrums and sullen silent treatments and, yes, even “cutting him off” as punishment have sort of been threatening my memory. Despite my attempt to push them away, they keep coming.
Okay, so I admit I wasn’t the easiest person to live with, but hello, did he endure the hours of grueling labor to bring forth offspring bearing the name of Frank? Those hours alone should have elevated me to some kind of exempt mode whereby I am not responsible for anything I might say or do. And I endured the excruciating pain four times! I should have been treated like a goddess.
I mean, even if I wasn’t the greatest wife a man could hope for, there are never any good reasons to break a vow, right? Anyone can justify anything. Just because a person is hungry doesn’t give them the right to steal food. And just because a man is … Well, you get the point.
It’s all too much. Besides, I have a headache and I just want to stop thinking about it.
The alarm buzzes in my ear. My signal to get up and go pick up the kids. Darcy and/or Rick have been picking them up and taking them daily since my flu. But Rick has committed himself to nastiness and put his foot down, declaring me fit to do my own chauffeuring of the kids. Sheesh, I didn’t realize they wer
en’t his kids, too. Whatever. Who needs him to do me any favors anyway?
I haul myself out of bed, grab my slippers, take a second to run a brush through my hair, and head for the van. Ari attends the high school, but rides a transfer bus to the rural K-8 school the boys attend. So luckily I only have one stop to make.
In the pickup line, I hunker down while I wait, hoping that no one will notice me. I have a book, pretending to read. That usually helps people take the hint. Okay, so far so good. Kids of varying sizes, ages, and nationalities are beginning to stream from the school. I crane my neck trying to locate mine. I’m looking the other way when a knock at my window nearly sends me through the roof.
Horror of horrors. It’s Greg. I check out my reflection in the rearview mirror, knowing full well I won’t like what I see. Why can’t I just leave well enough alone? Now I know what he’s going to be looking at. Slowly, I turn back to the window. I really don’t want to roll it down. Why didn’t I even consider this scenario? I’m usually so good at thinking a step or two ahead. Well, maybe not. His brows go up and he points to the wall of glass between us.
Okay, fine. Might as well get it over with. I fire up the engine and press the “down” button.
“Nice to see you out and about,” he says. Gotta give the guy credit. He doesn’t look a bit scared. Even his eyes are smiling.
“Thanks, Greg. How do you like the house?”
“Love it. So does Sadie.”
“Good.” And that’s where my ability to make nice ends. I’ve become rusty in my solitude. I’m not fit company for anyone right now.
Finally, he gives a nod. Like he gets that we have nothing more to say. “Hey, do you think Jake wants to come over and play with Sadie after school?”
I shrug. “He might. If he does, I’ll send him over when you get home.”
He nods and backs off. “Talk to you later.” He walks two steps then comes back just as I’m starting to roll the window back up. Leaning in ever so slightly, he sends me a wink and grins. “Cute slippers.”
I give in to my first instinct and take a walk down a little road called “cynicism.” “Sure they are. Just as cute as the proverbial bug in the proverbial rug.” I’m just not in the mood to be all giggly and flirtatious. Besides, giggly and flirtatious is what got me in this funk in the first place. I should never have looked twice at Rick. Never mind that he was a football player and I was the nerd who was supposed to get him through the season with a high enough grade to keep him from getting kicked off the team. Come to think of it, he’s always been a cheat. I did most of his work for him. Our entire relationship is just too cliché.
“Okay, then. You’re not in a good mood.”
“Yeah. Sorry to be rude.”
“It’s all right. I was married. I remember those days.”
Okay, now I’m really embarrassed. So do I let him chalk it up to PMS, or do I tell him it has nothing to do with that?
He smiles again and places his hand over mine. The kindness in his eyes almost breaks me, but Tough Chick emerges, and I steel my heart against him. I’ve decided to adopt a hands-off policy when it comes to men, which will begin just as soon as Greg’s lovely warm hand leaves mine. “We all have our days. If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”
He pats my hand as a farewell gesture and I watch him stride back to the school. Now that guy is definitely too good to be true.
I’m lying on the couch, watching my Nick at Nite, when I hear rustling on the stairs. I pretend I don’t hear it and keep my gaze on the black-and-white Dick Van Dyke rerun. From the corner of my eye, I see a head peep over the banister. Whispers follow.
I try to ignore it, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “What are you kids doing?”
Jakey’s giggle brings a smile to my lips.
“Come down here.” I sit up as he and Shawn file into the living room, followed by Tommy and Ari. “Now, what are you up to?”
I see Shawn is hiding something behind his back. “Cough it up,” I say, holding out my hand.
With a sheepish grin, he slowly produces our copy of Purpose-Driven Life. Okay, this is not what I expected. I feel myself tearing up. I had to practically force these kids to come downstairs for our nightly reading of this book. Now they’re bringing it to me?
“What’s this all about?”
“Come on, Mom.” Ari sits down at the end of the couch, forcing me to draw my knees up. “No one has the flu for two weeks. We want to know if you’re really sick.”
“Are you going to die, Mommy?” Jakey’s frown shoots straight into my heart.
They’re worried? Remorse is a mild word for what I’m feeling. I am such a slug. “You guys thought something was seriously wrong with me?”
“You don’t go for walks anymore.” Shawn shoves the coffee table out of the way and sits on the floor in front of me.
Tommy sits next to him. “You barely get out of bed. And you don’t try to cook anymore.”
Try to cook? Hey, now. Show a little appreciation.
Ari pulls her knees to her chest. “We want you to feel better. So we’re willing to sit and do the chapter in the book without complaining. If that’s what you want.”
I roll my eyes. “Your sacrifice truly touches me.”
She blushes. “No, we really want to do it, too.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, we sort of got used to having you around again since you’ve been off work. It’s nice to have a family devotion.”
I grab the book and open it to the bookmark.
Time to snap out of it. Time to face the truth. It’s time.
“It looks beautiful on you, Claire.”
Linda is weepy, typical of a bride-to-be-again. And well within her right. She presses a tissue to her perky little red nose as she watches me with moisture-sparkling eyes. Clad in a little black dress that comes just to my knees, I’m standing in front of the three-way, full-length mirror at Tammy’s Bridal. And I have to say… not bad.
For the first time in the history of bridesmaids, the bride has allowed her matron of honor to wear a decent dress. Thankfully, there is no pink, yellow, or even burgundy in this wedding. The whole color scheme is black and white. I’m digging that.
“You’re so pretty in that little black number. And the great thing is that you can wear it again when you go out for a nice dinner sometime.” She gives me a look that says, “I just know there’s a guy out there for you, and that dress is going to reel him in.”
I shrug and concentrate on my hips. Which, although smaller than two months ago, are definitely not a size 4. Sigh. Or a 6. Barely even a 12, and that’s only if I’m wearing control-top panty hose. I’ll be okay. Unless I fall off the wagon again—then I’d have to go with a size 14. It’s been a week since I had pepperoni. I’m not doing too badly, but I have to prepare myself for the possibility of a few holiday pounds. Who in their right mind gets married between Thanksgiving and Christmas? I look at the little black number hugging my hips. I hope I don’t have to up-size. Control, Claire. Control.
“Looks like this is the one.” Linda’s optimism is a little infectious and I envision myself walking down the aisle carrying a bouquet of white carnations. Linda is carrying white roses.
“Yes, I think you’re right.”
“Great. Now that’s settled. Are you up for a latte at Churchill’s?”
“What time is it?”
Linda glances at the clock over my head. “Just after one o’clock.”
My pulse picks up at the thought of my one-thirty appointment. “Wish I had time.”
I slip into the dressing room and lean against the wall. Today is the day I have to pick up where I left off last time we tried to have a counseling session with Darcy and Rick and me. It’s been two weeks. Funny how in all that time I haven’t had one panic attack. But now just the mere realization that I’m twenty-five minutes from being forced to listen to Rick con the doc into believing it’s all my fault he cheated, and my hand
s are going numb.
Why is it that I can’t let this go? I know it’s a problem. I’ve prayed and cried and have forgiven until I’m blue in the face and still, it’s not taking. I just want to be over it. You know? I want to stop feeling the pain.
I say good-bye to Linda and leave the bridal shop behind. Ten minutes later, I’m on time and doing deep breathing exercises in the minivan before I subject myself to this blame game.
Wariness fills Rick’s eyes when I walk through the door and greet them with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Hi.”
Darcy comes to me, determination in her eyes, that familiar look that pretty much bodes for no argument. “Everything is going to be all right. You’ll get through this. We,” she says, with earnest appeal, “will get through this. Together.” Her smile is trembly, and I know this is hard for her, too.
I give her hand a little squeeze and the door opens.
“Everyone ready?”
I gulp in some air. Am I ready for this? Probably not. Is anyone ever really ready to face a painful past? But I know it must be done. So I forge ahead. I’m determined to be graceful, polite, and by taking the high road show this doctor just how much to blame Rick really is.
Dr. Goldberg bids us to sit. We do—Rick and Darcy in the burgundy love seat, me in the overstuffed chair across from them, separated by a large, square coffee table. I wonder how long it would take me to leap across that table and grab Rick around the throat. Because one word out of line . . .
“Thank you all for coming. I believe the final step in fully helping your son is going to come from your commitment to work things out between you.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here.” I give him the fake smile I’ve perfected from my years of doing book signings.
“You two were married for how many years?”
“Ten.” Rick pipes up, practically before I can process the question. He must have been anticipating what the doctor would ask.
“Wrong. Eleven.”
“No. Ten.”
I scowl and give the doctor my see-what-we’re-dealing-with-here look. “Our daughter is sixteen, we’ve been divorced five years. I got pregnant on our honeymoon.” I peer at Rick. “Ringing any bells?”
Leave It to Claire Page 20