“Erica,” he said, “What are you doing home so soon?”
“I didn’t go through with it,” I answered simply, feeling my cheeks turn to fire as I looked at him superciliously, forcing myself to not hurt. But who was I kidding? Inside I was dying, tearing myself to shreds smaller than his lover’s panties. Horny bitch. Horny bastard. How could he throw away twelve years of marriage and two children for an hour’s romp in the sack? Pardon me—eight minutes on a good night.
He frowned. “Didn’t go through with it? What the hell, Erica, we discussed—”
“I know about your affair,” I said calmly.
He sighed. “Are you at it again? I’m not having an affair.”
“You dropped your cell phone in my hospital bed. She sent you this message.”
He patted his breast pocket and I held the phone out for him to read when instead I wanted to ram it up his nostrils. Dirty, pathetic, cheating bastard.
Pale, he looked up at me in shock. I could see his mind churning, looking for another lie. He swallowed, his eyes wide. “Erica, we just—”
I exhaled and it hurt like hell, as if an eighteen-wheeler had fallen from the sky during a storm and landed smack dab onto my chest. “Don’t bother, Ira. I’m not interested. It’s done and I can never forgive you.”
Awkward silence. No I’ll do anything to make it up to yous, or Can’t we just start all over agains? Instead he nodded, as if he was all too eager to get out of there. How humiliating for me.
“What about the kids?” he asked. “How… do we break it to them?”
I inhaled—slowly. Exhaled again. How the hell do you tell your kids that Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore? How do you relieve them of the gut-twisting pain and ensure their lives will actually benefit from it?
I shrugged, feigning indifference. “We tell them in the New Year. No point in ruining their Christmas. Until then you stay here and act like a decent father for once.”
He thought about it at length, as if debating, and my evil eyebrow shot up.
“Surely your lover in stilettos and no panties understands you have children that will always be more important than her, no matter how many tricks she turns?”
He blinked at me and I now feigned surprise, slapping my forehead. “What am I saying? That goes for good fathers! But you don’t care about this family, Ira. All you care about is yourself. And I’m sick of it. The kids are not idiots. They can see what is happening here.”
“The kids have nothing to do with this,” he spat.
“They have everything to do with it!” I spat back, only louder. “You are upturning their entire world!” Which was only half true, really.
Sure, divorce was always painful. But in my heart I knew there was nothing keeping us together anymore as a family. All those years, slaving for him, to make his life comfortable, to compensate for his own shitty mother, working day in day out for years on end to finally be able to buy Quincy Shore Drive, to support him, raising our kids single-handedly, then going to his office on weekends to scrub his urinals and sort out his accounting books. And what the hell had I got out of it if not shattered confidence and a broken heart?
Maybe Maddy and Warren would actually benefit from this separation, seeing Mommy and Daddy unburdened by love woes? Then a thought. His lover would, if it lasted, eventually want to become part of the kids’ life. Or would she? Some people don’t want to know. Sooner or later, I’d find out who she was. There was no way I was exposing my kids to a homewrecker.
No. Divorce was the only solution now. Emotionally and financially. Because, at the rate he was going, given the time and trust, he’d wipe me out completely. We had a prenup, the house was in my name. I had Nonna’s inheritance. All I needed was to get my life back in gear. And my dream house in Tuscany.
Screw Ira. Somebody screw him, because I sure wouldn’t be doing it anymore. Not that there was any danger of that happening. And yet, although our marriage had been sinking for years, betrayal had come as a surprise. And it hurt big time.
Sure, I knew my weight had been an issue, but what about him, and the way he’d aged? Shouldn’t that have been a deal-breaker as well? Kind of like the What’s good for the goose is good for the gander thing?
I should have seen the signs. He liked that I cooked all the time, but whenever I put something in my mouth that wasn’t a leaf of lettuce or an apple, he’d go ballistic.
On Fridays I always baked multiple recipes in my fantastic, multi-function oven. Once, I remember, I’d made a pizza, a roast with vegetables and an apple pie. Which, out of sheer frustration (or gluttony, call it whatever you want, I don’t care anymore), I’d polished off, one slice at a time, in the space of an afternoon. And then he’d pushed his empty plate away and said, “That was great, Erica. How about that pie I can smell?”
“Uhm, didn’t I tell you? It was an apple crumble. It didn’t turn out that good—I burned it, so I threw it away.”
Ira had turned in his seat and stared at me. I’d tried to keep an honest-looking face, but I was sweating. That’s why I never made the selections for the drama groups at school.
“You ate the whole thing,” he sentenced as if pronouncing someone—or something—dead.
My mouth screwed into a grimace and my eyes fell to my empty plate.
There we went: three, two, one…
Keep it light, Erica, I’d told myself. Keep it light. Don’t let him hurt your feelings. What I should have done was read the damn signs of our crumbling relationship. This was the life I’d lived up to that point.
Chapter 7:
The Final Countdown
The next morning—my first as an unburdened woman—I rose extra early, woke the kids up and drove them to school where we parked and ate muffins. We were the first to arrive, and would probably be the last to leave after school, because I couldn’t envisage going home as long as he was there.
Two more months to Christmas. I could do it. If I’d pretended everything was all right all these years, what were sixty measly days?
As if to speed up time, I worked like a madwoman all day, never stopping once, and at the stroke of three I hauled my betrayed ass out of the office and picked up my kids. Only instead of taking them home where Ira was bound to return sooner or later, or to a healthy alternative like my aunts’ restaurant, I took them to McDonald’s. I was going to turn them into blimps at this rate. They obliviously munched on their Happy Meals as I worked out my war strategy.
Was he going to be a decent man at least now and share the responsibilities? Notice how he didn’t ask for my forgiveness. Not that it was happening. Or would he go as far as claiming full custody? That wasn’t happening, for two reasons.
The first was obvious and the second was that it would never even occur to Ira. What the hell was he going to do with their continuous arguing, the constant questions (that’s the way kids learn, I’d told him) and the howling when he failed to pay attention to them? But maybe, just maybe, out of vengeance, I would reward him with every-other-weekend custody, that way he wouldn’t be able to flop onto the sofa and watch his Saturday games and Sunday reports. It would serve him right. But it would also kill me to think of them abandoned to their own devices while Ira acted as if they weren’t even there.
To hell with him. It was time for a change. Many changes, in fact. That was it. Time to go on a real, no-nonsense diet. It was settled. No more waiting until the involtini or the lasagne leftovers were finished. There would always be good food around me and I just had to learn to deal with it. Besides, I owed it to myself as well to keep fit and healthy for my children. I didn’t want to be clutching at my heart, collapsing and leaving them in Ira’s hands, did I? No, it was definitely time.
One week later, when I got home dripping with rain and groceries after a trip to the supermarket (I didn’t even
look at the snack-food shelves!), I hardly recognized our house. I can’t begin to describe it. Magazines, videogames, Chinese takeaway cartons strewn all over the floor, the coffee table and even the sofa. A baseball game was on full blast, and so were the kids, hyper to their limit, bouncing off the walls and running around and rolling over my pristine sofa with sticky fingers. The kitchen sink, a glance told me, was loaded to the ceiling with dirty dishes, and even some dirty clothes littered the hallway.
“Hi, Mom!” was Warren’s greeting as he sped by me on a skateboard. On my wooden floors. And that’s when I realized that smack dab in the middle of it all, sitting in his favorite armchair, was Ira, hidden by his usual paper. So much for his promise to be there for the kids. I preferred it when he wasn’t.
Keep it light, girl, went the voice inside my head, and I tried to erase the image of me going around to the local gun shop to buy a bazooka. Just until the New Year. Then Ira would be gone and my house would be a nicer one. In every sense.
I put down my bag and he looked up.
“Hey… here’s dinner,” he said, nudging a carton of leftover Chinese takeaway (which he knows I absolutely hate and can’t eat anyway) with his foot. Now, I’m sure you think I’m exaggerating just a little. I can assure you I’m not.
Just two more months, I told myself. And then I’m really free. “Why are the kids still up? It’s ten o’clock.”
He shrugged. “They didn’t want to go to bed just yet,” he answered, still camouflaged in his sports section.
“Ira, they never want to go. They’re kids. It’s up to us to set the rules. Just how much chocolate did you let them have? And look at this place!”
Ira glared at me and stalked into the guest room, slamming the door. And to think I’d once been prepared to stick a rubber duckie in my mouth all night for him.
* * *
“I heard,” Marcy said as I was chopping parsley and garlic with my brand new half-moon cutter. She was pretending to visit her grandchildren; i.e., downing a martini. She and this conversation were the last things I needed after the day I’d had.
“He told you?” I asked through tight lips, as if she was trying to pull all my teeth out and keeping my mouth firmly shut would actually stop her. I put my half-moon cutter down and speared her with my hairy eyeball.
She took a sip from her martini and said coolly, “Ira’s not very good at keeping secrets.”
I kept my evil—and suspicious—eye trained on her until she buckled and waved her half-empty glass, the liquid sloshing around dangerously near the rim, and sighed.
My hands found my half-moon again, squeezing the handles tight. “What did he say?”
“Oh, lots of things.”
Christ, if Marcy had suddenly become Ira’s confidante, he must’ve been desperate. Or very crafty. She’s the only one in the family who would gang up against me. Even Judy and Vince would support me. “Like what?”
“That you grind your teeth at night. Go see Dr. Jacobs, no?” she said simply.
Obviously he wasn’t telling her everything. How dare he talk to my mother about my faults when all I seemed to do was put up with his?
“He also says you’re still going on about Tuscany after all these years. What an absurd idea, Erica. What are you going to do in Tuscany?”
I didn’t even need to think about it as I chopped away. “Be happy.”
“But you’d be all on your own. We have very few relatives left there.”
“Suits me,” I sentenced as I began to dice some onions to a pulp. After all, I wouldn’t be on my own. Paul spent six months a year in Europe.
“Is it because of your bedroom problems?”
“Wha-at? I’m not talking about that to you.”
“Oh, get over yourself. You need to learn the secrets of keeping your man. Good sex.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “Marcy, get real.”
“I am real,” she assured me. “You think I kept your dad on a leash all these years because I was a good cook?”
Highly unlikely, I thought to myself, and seeing the look on my face, she nodded. “Exactly. It was the sex.”
Today, singledom didn’t scare me. And I definitely wouldn’t go back on the shelves again because I wouldn’t be interested in being picked. Not that there was any danger of that happening. I’d probably end up with some deluded, divorced guy and we’d end up pouring our hearts out to each other on Date One. Pathetic.
Besides, I didn’t need a man. I had everything I needed. Great kids. A fantastic job. A good house. And Paul. If I could afford to take the kids to Tuscany right now, I’d go in a heartbeat.
“If you’d only listened to me and gone ahead with the operation instead of running like a mouse. Really, you’d have solved all of your problems. I told you how important sex is; why can’t you understand?”
Obviously Ira hadn’t confided in her completely, the slimy bastard.
“He was cheating on me,” I said as I chopped away, pretending it was Ira’s neck over and over. Chop! Goes the dick’s head.
“What?” Marcy said.
“He’s sleeping with someone else,” I repeated, big tears plopping onto my ingredients for tonight’s special—Miserable Minestrone.
“You see?” she said simply. “Sex. It’s all men want, and if you can’t give it to them then they look somewhere else. Now take my advice—go reschedule the op and see if he’ll give you a few months to change.”
I whirled around to look at her. I was the one that had to change? What friggin’ planet did she live on? In that moment, more than ever, I realized that Marcy and I would never ever be able to speak the same language, and that I was never going back upon any of my decisions. Life changes included.
Somewhere deep inside me, there was an amazing Erica waiting to burst out of my heavy life.
Chapter 8:
Dieting Disasters?
It was like there was this big pink elephant in the room all these years and everyone saw it but me. I was the pink elephant that needed to go on a diet pronto.
It was never going to be fun but I started on Monday. And religiously broke it by the time Wednesday rolled around despite the fact I spent most of my free time with Paul, who was lighter than me, ate properly, and in small quantities—not like me, the garbage incinerator. I could eat anyone under the table. Figured I’d run into someone like him.
“You need to do it for yourself, not for Marcy’s approval or for a man. Think of a sexy dress,” Paul urged. “Think of Elaine Richman’s dress.”
I snorted. “That was thirteen years and four dress sizes ago.”
“But remember how beautiful you were? Remember how it made you feel?”
I thought about it. “Pinchy? Pricked?” He’d borrowed the dress from the Wilbur Theater and put a couple of pins in it so my boobs wouldn’t spill out just in time for my end-of-date-one kiss with Ira. And I had to admit the dress had been my pass. I sighed. If I ever wanted to be a size fourteen again, and I was going to do this properly, it would have to be for a better quality of life in general. To finally look in the mirror and say to myself, My, aren’t you pretty? Where have you been all these years? But how did people manage to do it?
Resigned to learn more about skinny people, like fascinated ufologists studying the possibility of extraterrestrial life out there, I subscribed to an online dieting service. Now, I’d heard of online dating services, but online dieting?
There was so much information on the Net—most of it discordant—and cartloads of (again) contrasting rules: don’t drink (water) anywhere near your meals; drink lots of water during your meals; drink only before your meals; drink only after your meals; and finally, don’t drink at all. The same went for fruit: eat fruit only two hours after your meal as it will otherwise ferment in your stomach; stock up on vitamins
before your meal so your body won’t need much more; eat mostly fruit.
Get out on your skateboard (huh?) the minute you finish your meal and burn those calories right off!
Rest for twenty minutes after your meal so your blood will go straight to your digestive system and perform better.
Chill out with your family before a meal so you don’t pounce on your plate the minute it’s set before you!
First of all, nobody has ever set my plate before me. And by the time I’ve fed everybody else (they do the pouncing) mine’s frozen solid again. So don’t tell me to chill out.
Who was a gal to turn to?
And then one day, to make things clear, I received an email with The Golden Decalogue to Being Slim:
Always plan meals. That was easy. I always planned very rich meals worth living for.
Cut quantities by 50%. Yeah, and because you’re still starving, have a chocolate bar to fill the void and eat 200% more at dinner.
Drink water a half hour before, not with your meal. Glad someone’s made up their mind.
Drink water in the mornings and before going to bed (I can’t; I’ve got a bladder like a sieve and I can’t keep getting up in the middle of the night—I need my beauty sleep).
Sit at a laid table. Haven’t you been listening to me?
Chew everything 30-50 times. This actually works, because once you’ve managed that, you don’t want to swallow it anymore.
Wine only with meals. No problem—I’ll have pizza along with my glass of Chianti between lunch and dinner.
No eating between meals. Scratch out above.
Eat everything in moderation. That simple, huh?
Put knife and fork down between mouthfuls. That’ll be interesting to watch when you have two kids at the same table playing tennis with their food. It’s a question of when I can pick up knife and fork.
So there they were—the ten things I had never, ever thought of and neither had any other woman on earth. Really, if I cut my intake by 50% I’d swallow fewer calories? The asshole that wrote this Decalogue was full of it, and certainly had never had to starve himself (a woman, even a thin one, would never have written such bullshit). What was he on, la-la drugs? Where did he live, down the rabbit hole?
The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) Page 6