I glanced around at all the couples of every color, shape, age and size having a great time, leaving their worries at home. Sure, they were always there when they got back, but at least an hour of dancing would have given them some happiness and fortified them for the rest of the week until it was once again time to tango! So when in the dance hall, I danced. I danced my heart out, thinking that if this was going to be the new and improved Erica, it wouldn’t be half as bad as I’d thought. I’d missed me, missed the person I once was. The one that used to be able to laugh at anything.
Paul twirled me and swirled me, guiding me through the complicated steps that after a while became easy. I relaxed in his arms, confident there was no way I could ever let him down, not even if I screwed up his steps. Paul was my lifeline.
Saturday lunchtime, while I was washing up after the kids’ lunch, I got a call from Paul. He was in the hospital with a broken leg and just wanted me to know in case I needed him. That was Paul for you. The one time he needed a friend he was worried about me. Knowing I couldn’t depend on my siblings or my aunts who were leaving for a holiday in Mexico for the week on a trip organized by the Italian community in Little Italy, I turned to my last resort and called Marcy to see if she could babysit for me. All I needed was an hour or so to run a few things over to him.
A sigh. “Erica, I’m getting ready to go out for dinner,” (at one p.m.?) “with some friends. I don’t have time to come babysit your kids.”
Why was I even surprised? Did I think she’d managed to change overnight? And did you notice she didn’t even ask me what was wrong with Paul?
Didn’t she remember when she made me drag my kids across town at night to the hospital for an ingrown toenail op? And now that I needed to rely on someone for a couple of hours tops, I was on my own.
“Never mind,” I snapped. “I’ll take them with me. As you so often remind me, children belong to their mothers and not their grandparents.” Before she could replicate, I hung up on her for the very first time in my life.
I called an emergency service babysitter and within twenty minutes I had a Mrs. Doubtfire lookalike at my door. Ever grateful, I shoved the list of emergency phone numbers (all mine) at her and in three minutes flat I was out of there. Which was unlucky for me because five minutes later I was squirming in my Kia van, dying for a pee. I pulled over into a plaza and charged into a nice-looking bistro restaurant.
Finally a relieved woman in every sense, I stepped out of the stall and lathered my hands with some rose-scented soap. Did I remember to get Paul’s slippers? I can’t rememb—what the hell? A tickling, multi-legged slimy sensation under my pants made me freeze as my mind knew there could only be one explanation. A spider!
A horrible convulsion shook my body at the realization of my worst phobia. Never mind heights, open spaces or closed spaces—the only thing in the world that scared me were those wretched beasts.
I remember screaming and beating my leg to kill said beast, but the thought of it crushed to a pulp against my flesh sent me into a mindless hysteria. I was beyond panicking. I remember throwing myself on the floor in a fit of terror for what seemed like days because darkness kept washing over me and I must’ve been near passing out several times until someone—a man—gripped my arms.
“What’s wrong?”
“Help! Take my pants off!” I shrieked.
“What?”
“A spider in my pants! Take them off!”
“Your pants?” he asked dubiously.
“Please!”
“Are you sure?”
What the hell was wrong with the guy? “Now!”
At that, the blessed man obliged and yanked on my zipper. “It’s stuck,” he informed me.
“Just rip them off!” I begged him and he easily tore my pants from my front zipper down and pulled them off my legs, checking every inch of wobbly thigh as I frantically kicked, repeating, “Kill it, kill it!” I didn’t give a shit if he saw my flesh flailing in the air—I’d never see him again. All I wanted was to be rid of the monster.
At some point I finally collapsed under him, exhausted, but still digging my nails into his flesh, still shaking and bawling and clawing at his shirt until he was half-naked next to me. He felt so safe, so solid, like a nice cozy cabin in the middle of a snowstorm. And he smelled fantastic, like a real man, without the nauseating mist of different colognes I have to fight through to get from the lobby to my office every morning.
But more than anything, I remember how he’d calmed me down with his deep, soothing voice and how it had enveloped me, warmed me, like a father’s should when you’re a scared child or a husband’s when you’re a woman down in the dumps. I had never had either source of comfort in my life from my dad or Ira, and it was like the other shoe had finally dropped. This voice, this presence, this kind of man, was what I’d lacked my entire life. If I’d had this kind of solid support and understanding all that time, and not for just a few terrifying seconds in the ladies’ room, my whole life would’ve been made. I’d be a different woman today. Sweeter. More self-assured. Less aggressive. More loved.
This was the kind of patience and loyalty that I needed. Someone who would believe me and act upon my fears as if they were as important to him as they were to me. This man had taken me seriously. This man had been my security. If Ira had been there with me, never in a thousand years would he have agreed to rip my pants off just like that.
The stranger put his lips against my ear and whispered, “It’s all right. It’s gone. Calm down now.”
“Are you sure?” I croaked, burying my head deeper into his chest, my arms and legs still wrapped around him like a real whack job.
“Positive—take a look for yourself—see?”
I stopped and lifted my face to scan the floor with trepidation. He was right. No sign of the thing. The coast was clear. And then I finally looked up at him. And almost fainted dead away again, but for another reason this time.
He was surreal. Handsome didn’t even begin to cut it. Wide shoulders. Muscles. Strong. Perhaps enough to lift me. Black hair that fell over his forehead. Big green eyes and the most awesome, longest lashes. Dark five o’clock shadow. Pure man. Pure, sinfully gorgeous man.
“Hands up!” twin voices echoed in the empty bathroom.
My savior turned toward them and raised his hands, his torso still stuck to mine so that he looked like he was doing sit ups against my breasts.
“It’s okay, lads. It’s only me,” he assured them.
One of the guards re-holstered his gun. “Sorry, sir.”
“It’s fine. A little accident with a big hairy monster,” he explained, tucking his shirt back into his jeans as the two guards looked at me.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shot them an evil glare. “He means the spider.”
One of the guards stifled a snort and I shakily crawled for my trousers, which were now in shreds, too humbled to look my savior’s way. It was a good thing that Paul always waxed the hell out of me, otherwise the guards would’ve thought the poor man was tackling a grizzly bear in the ladies’ room.
“Oh, okay,” agreed the other guard all too easily.
I hid my face in my torn trousers. “He was just helping out a hysterical lady,” I contributed, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “Go now, please. I’m in my underwear in case you hadn’t noticed.” And they weren’t my best pair, either.
At that my savior chuckled and wrapped his jacket around me like a kilt. I’m big, but this thing fit all the way around me. My face still hidden, I muttered a muffled, “Thank you,” and crawled back into the stall—a different one, though.
“Okay, let’s give the lady some breathing space,” I heard my hero say. Was he the manager of the restaurant? He sure had authority.
“I’ll be sitting outside if you care to join me for lunch,
madam?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Thanks anyway.”
A pause. “Okay, then. I hope to see you again soon.”
Yeah, like that was ever happening. “Me, too, sir. Thank you.”
“We’re at our desk if you need us, ma’am,” called one of the guards.
“All right. Thank you. And thank you, again,” I called to my hero from over the stall, too embarrassed to show my face.
“My pleasure, madam,” he said. At least that’s what I think. He had a crazy accent I couldn’t place.
I raced home wearing the guy’s jacket around my hips, up the stairs past the aghast babysitter who must’ve thought I was a freak, and hopped back down the stairs, one leg into a pair of jeans. By the time I got to the front door I was dressed. When you’re a working mom you learn to multitask very quickly.
“I’ll pay you the extra time!” I shouted over my shoulder as I catapulted myself out the door and into my Kia, flooring it. No wonder I always got speeding tickets.
Paul was sitting up brightly in bed as if he’d just had a groovy haircut instead of a broken leg.
“Hey, sunshine, what’s up?” he chirped as I kissed his cheek and sank down winded in the chair next to his bed, his overnight bag at my feet.
“Are you all right?” I asked in a ragged breath. “How did it happen?”
Paul shrugged. “It’s nothing. It’s not broken, just badly sprained. A sex accident. We slipped in his shower this morning.”
I raised my eyebrow at him. I had never had sex in the shower in my life. Just ordinary bed sex—while it lasted. I wondered if Paul could sense my envy.
He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and said, “No, Erica, you’ll never have sex in the shower until you find yourself a new man.”
I stared at him. He was right. Not only was I not having sex in the shower, I wasn’t having any sex at all.
“You look more frazzled than usual,” he observed. “What’s up?”
It took a minute to sink in as my mind was still focused on the steamy showers I’d never had, and then it dawned on me. “I’ve just met the man of my dreams.”
Paul nearly jumped out of bed but his elastic cast stopped him. He slapped his hands together, his eyes mischievous and excited. “You’re kidding me! What’s his name?”
I stared at him blankly. “I don’t know.”
“Well, what does he do?”
I thought about it, but could only remember the sensation of pure protector, like in the romance paperbacks I used to sneak behind my chemistry books. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Do you at least remember what he looks like?”
Before his overwhelming beauty, the sensation of manliness and kindness came to mind. “Tall. Dark. A deep, soothing voice. A funny accent. Big hands. Lean body, but strong.”
“Oh, great, that’ll help. You’ve just described half the male Boston population. The gay one, mostly!”
I shrugged helplessly.
“Well, how did you meet him? Tell!” Paul urged, getting as comfortable as he could, considering he was anchored to the bed.
But I was already back on earth, anchored and grounded to my own reality. Hell, I had kids and already one failed marriage. I couldn’t afford to fantasize about the first hunk who tore my clothes off. “It doesn’t matter. I met him. And I’ll never see him again. That’s why he’ll always be the man of my dreams.”
Paul’s eyes popped out of his face. “You didn’t get his number? Have I taught you absolutely nothing?”
I shrugged again. All I knew was that he’d enveloped me in such a way, making me feel protected and not silly for my fears. He had taken control of the situation, but not so I’d feel like an idiot, which I should’ve, actually. But he’d been understanding, not judgmental. If I’d been single and searching, I would’ve found a way to meet him again even if I had to canvass every door in Massachusetts.
Maybe somewhere in this city at that very moment a woman was opening her front door to him, arms wide, and I envied her. I’d never know his name. But I did have his jacket to remember him by. Or, if I were my sister Judy, I’d track him down and bump into him “by chance.” He’d be charming, protective, kind, passionate—a real Alpha male like you see in romance books. He’d be practically perfect. And then he’d get sick of me and break my heart.
My newfound confidence kept me bouncing joyfully out of bed in the mornings, wondering what wonderful things would happen to me that day, the interesting people I’d meet—maybe even The One? And there he was—gone in a flash, before I could even talk to him properly, let alone muster the guts to ask him out for a cup of coffee.
For years I’d longed for the dates, the first kiss, the first time, the, “Oh-my-God-my-period-is-late.” The works. But of course there was no danger I’d ever get pregnant unless someone up there took pity on me and sent me the Archangel Gabriel on a mission.
Some of us are not destined to find love. I’d missed my love boat. But at least I had two children I loved to pieces, Paul, a great job and a lovely house. The rest, well, maybe in my next life.
Chapter 10:
Home Truths
The first thing I did when I woke up the next morning was sneeze. My throat itched and my nose was dripping. Shit. I couldn’t afford to get sick. I dragged my butt out of bed and took a hot shower to chase away the microbes, and I was fine—until I stepped out of the shower. I don’t know how I managed to get dressed because my head was so heavy and my bones screamed in pain at every movement.
Shivering, I opened my wardrobe and winced. I’d forgotten to pick up my work suits at the dry cleaners. All I had in the house were some sundresses I hadn’t worn since before I’d got pregnant with Maddy and some jeans from before I met Ira. None of these fitted, so it was either one of my old track suits or a brown suit that consisted of a wool dress and matching coat that never fit me. And even if it did, it would made me look like a sack of turnips. Marcy had brought it back from France and I’d hated it on sight but never had the courage to throw it away. Why, you may ask?
Because Marcy (who has the key to our place) systematically goes through my closet to throw out things she says are absolutely horrid and that I shouldn’t be caught dead in. Can you imagine that? Needless to say, that got rid of more than two-thirds of my wardrobe in one visit. At first I was shocked. Then I was angry. Then I was resigned. My mother would never do that, you may be saying out loud while shaking your head, but come on, don’t you know Marcy yet? Don’t you know that couture is more important than nurturing your very own children?
We’re practically specular. Where she was hopeless, like cooking and nurturing, I shone. Where she was polished, like social events, couture and beauty, I was grubby and careless.
Anyway, back to the sack-of-potatoes suit I swore I’d never ever wear even if I did lose weight. One lesson I’d learned was never say never. I took a step closer. It was my only solution right now. Did I smell mothballs? Yep, another contribution from Marcy. But I had no choice but to see if it fit. If it did, I was home free. If it didn’t, it was my track suit. Maybe if I kept to my office all day no one would notice?
I begrudgingly bunched it up and slowly—slowly—pulled it over my head. Shoulders clear—that was a first! Oh, God, was it coming to a halt around my waist? No, it was just the lining scrunching, thank goodness. I tugged on it as delicately but firmly as I could, as if this dress was made of paper and the very last one on earth. After this it was the proverbial fig leaf. How Marcy hadn’t foreseen that this suit wouldn’t fit me had been a mystery to me for many years, until one day while scoffing at it, resenting its mere presence in my home, it dawned on me that she’d done it on purpose. To give me a goal (as if wearing this dead ringer for a burlap sack was going to inspire me to lose weight) in my life.
At my hi
ps there was a definite stalemate situation. It wasn’t going down any further! Panicking, I eyed my track suit and then my flowery summer dresses, and with a grunt coaxed the suit (the wool stretched easily enough, but it was the damn lining that seemed made for a five-year-old) over my curves. All the while holding my breath.
And yes! Mission accomplished! Here we were as one, this horrid piece of couture and me. And I’d never been this elated before, not even in my wedding dress. I’d finally proved Marcy wrong.
Admiring the way it didn’t cling, squeeze or underline anything but my newfound curves, I added a shiny burnt-copper-beigey-green silk scarf that changed colors under the light. I had to make up somehow for the lack of make-up. There was no way I could wear mascara with these watery eyes today and not look like Brandon Lee in The Crow. Besides, I could hardly keep them open. All I wanted to do was crawl back into my nice warm comfy bed and sleep until Christmas. Or even better, next summer.
If you’re a working mom, you know how difficult it is to balance things. If you’re a single working mom, I know exactly how you feel, doing everything on your own without a man at your side. My assistant Jackie poked her head through my office door. The look on her face wasn’t good.
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