The therapist agreed it would be best if Caitlin could come home to her own familiar surroundings while she gets used to her new room at Daddy’s house.
The counselor also said it would be best to alert the school to the situation. So they’d understand the changes happening at home.
So you see, this new arrangement really is best for everyone. I can cook when I want to. I can read in bed as late as I want. It’s the whole one less door to answer, one less egg to fry yada-yada-yada. Though he never knocked on the door. So I guess that part doesn’t apply. So I’ll replace it with the line in the song that talks about one less jerk to pick up after. That rings very true. Living with him was like having another child around the house.
I have so much more time for me now. Time to just sit and think. You know what I realized the other day while I was thinking?
Corbin’s been gone a long time. I just wasn’t brave enough to admit it. You know how it is. The logical part of your brain warns, something’s wrong. But your heart clouds the obvious with opaque veiled excuses: He’s quiet because he’s tired; he’s moody because he’s preoccupied with a patient’s case; or any one of the multitude of reasons the heart concocts to blind you to the obvious.
I also realized that not only has he been gone a long time. So have I.
The real me, that is. The me I used to be before I lost myself striving to be the perfect wife.
And look where it got me.
It’s like this—you dock your boat in the harbor of the American Dream and go on about your business raising a family and making a life just as you thought you always wanted. Somewhere along your well-charted course the woman you used to be jumps ship because you’ve ignored her needs one too many times taking care of everyone else. You wake up one day and you have no idea who this stranger is staring back at you in the mirror.
Of course it took my marriage breaking up for me to see clearly. But I’m sitting here wondering if it was a gradual chipping away, or was there a decisive moment when the old me said forget this nonsense and this stranger stumbled in?
Maybe it happened in the supermarket bread aisle or during a PTA meeting? I know—the genuine me probably checked out when I was cleaning the bathroom. She always hated that chore, seeing how Corbin and Daniel seemed incapable of peeing in the toilet.
It’s made me take a very long, hard look at myself. Take my hair, for instance. I’m not a natural blonde—as evidenced by these roots that need serious attention.
I walk into the master bath and part my hair and see at least ten wiry grays standing at attention amidst the two-inch row of brown grow-out.
I grab the tweezers and start to yank them out, but I remember Rainey’s warning that if you yank out one gray hair, six of its friends will pop in to give it a going-away party.
I groan and toss the tweezers on the bathroom counter.
Maybe I’ll start wearing stylish but eccentric hats. I’ll become famous around Central Florida as the hat lady.
To fix these roots and the trophy-wife wannabe accessories that go with it—the makeup, the clothing, the toned body—means a lot of time at the salon getting foiled, highlighted, toned, cut and clipped or time working out at the gym or playing tennis.
Oh, and how could I forget the eyebrow, upper lip and bikini waxing?
I’m starting to rethink this whole time-consuming beauty routine. Where did it get me?
Plus, now that Corbin’s cut me off, I can’t justify slapping down $250 in the salon every six weeks.
I don’t have the time or the money.
So forget this beauty routine. I’m over it.
No more makeup. No more fussing over the hair.
It’s au naturel for me.
If I ever date again, the man’s going to have to like me for me. Obviously, I’m not cut out for this goddess routine. I can’t compete.
Legend says Hera’s beauty is renewed each spring and she magically washes away the wear and worry of her immortal lifestyle. I, on the other hand, am not so fortunate.
The stress lines are deeply etched in my face and bags that would accommodate a three-month stay in Europe have taken up permanent residence under my eyes. If most women finally “grow into themselves” at forty, why do I feel as if I’ve been put out to pasture before I’ve reached the starting gate?
I’m not even forty yet.
I’m too young to feel this old.
It’s raining when I pull into the Liberty School car line, but I still wear my sunglasses and hat. My naked face and shameless roots are securely incognito.
I think I can feel my roots growing as I speak. Will I wake up one day next week to discover they’ve taken over the metro Orlando area?
I glance in the rearview mirror to assess the fright factor. Not bad. It’s amazing the sins a good pair of sunglasses and a fun hat can hide. This makeup boycott will take some getting used to. Better to let everyone get used to the new, more natural me gradually. Too much at once is a shock to the system.
Not that I’m hung up on what others think—let me rephrase that. I’m learning not to be hung up on what others think of me.
When I make it to the head of the car line the rain has eased up. I pull the car alongside the covered walkway where the children wait. Jocelyn Morgan, PTA president, is at her usual post. She spies me, waves and walks over to the passenger-side door. I roll down the window, letting in a blast of rain-humid March air.
Jocelyn braces her forearms on the window frame of my car and leans in. “Hi, Kate. What, no limo today?”
“Nope, you know what they say about too much of a good thing.”
“Oh, right.” Jocelyn is one of those women who has an annoying habit that I call the bob and grin; she nods continuously and maintains an unwavering fake smile throughout your entire conversation, no matter who’s speaking. She reminds me of one of those vacant-eyed bobble-head dolls.
“Well, speaking of good things, we’re putting together the committees for next year.” Grin. Nod. Nod. Grin. Does the woman blink?
“We’re counting on you to chair the spring carnival again, Kate.”
“Why, because no one else is foolish enough to take on the task?”
Quit nodding. You’re making me dizzy.
“We didn’t ask anyone else because we want you, silly.”
At least someone does.
“You did such a good job, Kate. This was the best year yet.”
“I’ll have to think about it and let you know. I’m going back to work.”
“Oh right, I heard. I was sorry to hear about your situation. Do you need anything?”
She knows? How does she know? I realize I’m digging my nails into my upper arm.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“What is it you’re doing with yourself now? Limousine service?” She chortles.
I give her my own version of the bob-and-gritted-teeth grin.
I have no idea.
Thank God, Caitlin rolls her backpack to the car and preempts the conversation.
Saved by my darling daughter.
I smile and wave at her. Jocelyn steps back, opens the door and helps her in.
“We’re counting on you, Kate.” Grin. Nod. Nod. Grin.
Oh brother.
After I pull out, I check my rearview mirror. She’s already performing the same head-in-the-window routine at the next car.
I feel so special.
Well, good. Let someone else have a turn running the carnival.
“Hi, sweetie. Did you have a nice day?”
Caitlin looks up from buckling her seat belt.
“Jeffery Knight pulled my ponytail.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. Mrs. Collins gave him a time-out because he kept pulling it after I told him to stop.”
Oh, the strange ways men have of showing their affection begins so young. I consider sharing this with Caitlin but nix the idea. “It sounds like you handled it exactly as you should have. I’m proud of you.�
�
“Mommy, will you play the Shrek 2 music?”
I pop in the disk. The random play selects the song, “I Need a Hero.”
Caitlin squeals.
Personally, I like the Bonnie Tyler version better than the Fairy Godmother’s rendition, but it’s still a fun song, especially because it seems to have new meaning now. We sing along until we pull into the Orlando Ballet School parking lot.
I toss the sunglasses and hat in the front seat. Sunglasses outside on a rainy day are one thing, wearing them inside is another. If I’m going to wear this au naturel look, I might as well hold my chin up high.
We huddle close together under the big red-and-white golf umbrella as we race inside to get out of the rain.
“Sweetie, while you’re in class I’m going to run to the grocery store, okay?”
There are no viewing windows at this school, so parents have to wait in the lobby. I figure I might as well make good use of this time rather than sitting and talking to the other mothers.
“Okay, but you’ll be back before I get out of class, right?”
I pull her long hair on top of her head and fashion it into a ballerina bun.
“You can count on it.”
Since Corbin and I split, Caitlin’s been experiencing some mild separation anxiety. I’ve never been late picking her up or given her any reason to think I’d leave her stranded. The counselor encourages me to reassure her, says this is normal under these circumstances.
“In fact, you can always reach me on my cell phone. So if anything comes up you call me.”
I fasten her bun with extra hairpins and put my hand over her eyes to shield them from the generous dose of hairspray I use to tame her wispy tendrils.
“What might come up?” She scowls. She looks so much like her father when she makes that expression. The pang sneaks up on me.
“Nothing will come up, but I just want you to know you can reach me any time you need me.”
She’s quiet as I finish tucking under a few stray flyaways. I kneel down in front of her.
“Have fun?”
“Okay.” She hugs me, then runs her hands over my cheeks. “You look pretty today, Mommy.”
“Thank you.” I plant a kiss on her nose and whisper a silent prayer of thanks for this little angel.
I don’t bother to don the hat and glasses in Publix Supermarket.
I don’t need them.
I feel good about me.
No, I feel great.
I hold my head up high as I search for the things I need.
Grocery shopping is so much easier now. I’ve always enjoyed preparing nice meals. But now that it’s just Caitlin and me, I can make things that Corbin would turn his nose up at—like salads as a main course.
It’s actually less trouble to fix two different dinners for Caitlin and me than it was to fix the elaborate meals Corbin expected.
Dinner is much less stressed when all I have to do is heat a can of SpaghettiOs in the microwave and serve baby carrots with a side of ranch dressing.
The most gratifying part is Caitlin would choose Chef Boyardee over my beef Wellington any day.
I’m thrilled.
I may have changed the fare, but there are two things I will always insist upon: that Caitlin and I sit down at the table together for at least one meal a day; and I will grocery shop everyday. I’m a stickler for freshness, and I enjoy the process. It’s very European.
I grab some chicken—chicken tenders tonight for Caitlin; chicken salad for me—a bag of mixed baby greens, a couple of tomatoes and a fresh loaf of bread. That should hold us until tomorrow.
I pay for my purchases, check my watch as I walk to my car. I have enough time to grab a mocha at the Starbucks on the corner and make it back to retrieve my daughter.
Who needs complicated meals when you can appreciate the simple things in life?
I guess a ten-thousand-dollar bed isn’t exactly simple. I actually feel a little foolish having gone to such great lengths to get it. But I proved my point to Corbin.
Point-proving doesn’t make for a simple life, says Hera.
That’s one of the big differences between Corbin and me. With him everything has to be so…so convoluted and complicated.
Give me the simple pleasures in life any day. That’s what makes me happy. Things like the golden light that filters through my favorite oak tree in our neighbor’s backyard at twilight; the way the air smells in the fall; the sound of sharp scissors cutting paper; or even more than that—the sound of Caitlin’s belly laugh when she’s really tickled; old movies; hot baths; candlelight; the crispy cheese on the bottom of a piece of pizza; the way the blooms on my camellia bush remind me of ballerina tutus; the sound of a cat purring. Corbin hates cats.
Maybe Caitlin and I will go to the Humane Society and get a cat this weekend.
Perhaps we’ll get two.
We could name them Hera and Zeus.
If we love him enough, maybe this time, Zeus will learn to be faithful.
As I approach my car, I see a flat back tire.
And the rain comes down.
CHAPTER 10
Perfect.
Just perfect.
This is not on the list of things I love.
I wring my hands, then toe the listless, sagging rubber caught under the wheel like a piece of flabby skin.
I put my groceries in the car, then sit in the driver’s seat to look for my American Automobile Association card.
Found it.
I punch the toll-free number into my cell phone and sit there while it rings.
A perky voice greets me and takes my member number.
“I’m sorry, your Triple A membership expired six months ago.”
What is this, karmic payback for wrecking Corbin’s car?
I tap the useless red, white and blue card on the steering wheel and vaguely recall Corbin mentioning he wasn’t going to renew it because Beck’s, the garage where he takes the cars, offers roughly the same services at a substantial discount. That’s because Jon Beck is a friend of ours.
Sometimes Corbin can be so damned cheap it kills me.
So now what?
I don’t want to call Beck’s because it would mean talking to Jon and that would mean explaining why I was calling instead of Corbin—
Why did Corbin always call? asks Hera.
Because it’s a man’s job.
I did the girl jobs. He did the manly jobs.
Why are you always expecting someone to come running to your rescue? You’ve got to learn to help yourself before anyone else can help you. Dependency’s what got you into this mess in the first place.
Dependency? That’s ridiculous. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the one who takes care of everyone else.
Maybe so, but you’ve got to learn to take care of yourself, too, and this is a fine place to start.
Yeah, don’t start with me. I’m not in the mood.
Hera laughs.
“I’ll show you who’s taking care of whom….”
Well, you’d better get to it.
I glance at the dashboard clock. I have about forty-five minutes before I have to get Caitlin.
My stomach clenches.
There aren’t too many things that rattle me, but one of them is when something stands between me getting to my child. I was the same way with Daniel when he was little.
If I say I’m going to be somewhere at a certain time, I’m there.
The last thing Caitlin needs right now is to stand there, wondering if her mother left, too.
Calm down. Think logically. It’s not brain surgery… says Hera.
Or orthopedic surgery…like Corbin does every day.
Just change the tire. It can’t be that hard.
I open the glove compartment and pull out the owner’s manual, flip to the page that shows how step-by-step.
For a second I feel as if my head might implode. I rub my temples trying to get some relief.
I d
on’t have time for the indulgence of self-pity. I suck it up and get out and get ready to work, resisting the urge to give the mangled tire a swift kick. And oh, how I want to kick it—good and hard—but at this rate, if I do, I’d probably break my foot.
I use the remote on my key chain to pop the trunk latch, swipe the back of my hand across my damp forehead and contemplate the empty trunk.
Now what?
I glance at the owner’s manual for a hint.
Following a hunch, I pull up on a silver loop and the carpet lining the trunk lifts.
A car whizzed past, its tires spraying water.
“Here goes,” I mumble and lift the flooring that covers the wheel well and pull out the lug nut wrench.
As in the manual diagrams, I place the jack under the side of the car and pump the back left of the Lexus off the ground. Ha! Like I actually know what I’m doing.
My anxiety eases into a smug amazement.
“I can do this,” I murmur. “No sweat.”
Ha ha! Just goes to show you—I fit the wrench over one of the nuts—the more you stew over something— I nudge it, but nothing happens, so I lean on it harder—the bigger and uglier the job becomes— I grunt and lean my full weight into it—until it’s totally blown out of—
The wrench slips.
The tool bounces off the car, and I stumble and knock my head against the wheel well.
“Ouch! Oh, come on! Why is this so hard?”
I get right back in there, line up the wrench and give it another good, hard turn.
It slips again, but this time I’m smart enough to jump away from the car and escape the head blow, but I score another ding in the paint.
A man gets into the Jetta next to me. He cranks the engine and pulls out.
“No thanks! Don’t worry about it. I don’t need any help. Thanks for asking.”
Okay, this isn’t as easy as I’d hoped. But there’s got to be a way.
There’s always a way.
I squat next to the wheel and notice the deep scrapes rounding off the edges of the nut. If I keep this up, I’ll strip them.
Time for plan B.
If I had a plan B.
Out with the Old, In with the New Page 10