Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis

by Robyn Harding

  I feel my face getting hot with anger and I’m disappointed by my physical response. Why do Trent’s actions still affect me so much? I just got an email from a TV star who says he can’t wait to see me. Why do I still care about that paunchy cliché of a man I was married to for so freaking long? And I realize I’ve just answered my own question. I was married to Trent for sixteen years. If I stop caring about him a few weeks after he walks out on me, it’s as though our time together was all a lie. It wasn’t. We’ve got Sam to prove that. And I’ve still got this dull ache in my heart.

  Trent

  WHEN I PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY, the first thing I notice is that Lucy’s car isn’t there. “That bitch,” I mutter under my breath, as I turn off the Lexus’s engine. A lone light shines in the living room, and I suddenly realize how alone my daughter must feel. A small wave of guilt washes over me, but I push it away. Lucy should be feeling guilty, not me. She wanted to stay in the house and play happy families. She should be the one to step up and take responsibility.

  I jog up the steps and try the door. It’s locked. The key is still on my ring, but I knock. I don’t want to barge in and scare the crap out of Sam. But when she hasn’t answered after several seconds, I fish for the key. I’m about to insert it in the lock when the door swings open.

  “Hey,” my daughter says, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  “Hi, my girl.” I step into the foyer and prepare to give her a kiss, but Sam is already digging in the closet for her coat. I survey the room. It’s basically unchanged since the day I left: still formal, pristine, professionally cleaned. Okay, so the house is showing no signs of neglect, but I look at my daughter. As she struggles into her hoodie, I notice the shadows under her eyes and a certain hollowness to her cheeks. Are these new, or did she always look like this? I feel bad that I can’t remember.

  “So,” I say casually. “Your mom here?”

  “No,” she mumbles, zipping into the ridiculous boots she insists on wearing.

  I check my watch. “Shouldn’t she be home by now? It’s almost seven.”

  Sam rights herself and looks at me. “You lived with her for, like, twenty years. You should know what time she gets home better than I do.”

  “Watch the tone,” I say, asserting some parental control. I get that this has been hard on her, but it doesn’t give her the right to be rude. “Show some respect.”

  Sam’s eyes narrow as she stares at me. I’m afraid she’s about to say something horrible, and frankly, I’m not sure what I’d do if she did. It’s a little hard to enforce punishment when your relationship consists of dinners at White Spot and the odd movie. But thankfully, she bites her tongue. “Let’s go,” she mumbles, brushing past me and out the door.

  Forty minutes later we’re slouched in our seats in the darkened movie theater. Sam munches on popcorn, and I worry that it constitutes dinner. But I don’t ask. She’s obviously in a bad mood and I don’t want to set her off again. She’s probably getting her period or something. Instead, I take a sip of Coke and turn my thoughts to Lucy.

  By now I’ve figured out that she’s trying to infuriate me. You don’t spend almost twenty years with a woman without getting into her psyche. Yeah, her avoidance is definitely a way of punishing me. It’s normal for her to be pissed, but it’s been nearly a month since I left. Lucy has to accept that I need some time to myself. If she thinks her childish behavior is going to make me come running home, she’s got another thing coming.

  I glance at my daughter, her face highlighted by the movie light. She’s going to be okay. She’s strong and resilient, like her old man. There haven’t been any more drinking incidents, and she hasn’t dyed her hair green or gotten a tattoo. She’s obviously throwing her teen angst into her art. As long as her mother’s petty avoidance act doesn’t segue into neglecting Sam, she’ll come through this all right.

  The movie was a stinker, but Sam seemed to like it. She is borderline animated on the drive home. Well, as animated as a premenstrual teen whose parents have just split up can be. “I’m looking forward to your art show on Saturday,” I say as we turn onto our street.

  Sam clams up suddenly, shrugs. “Yeah,” she mumbles, staring out the window.

  “Don’t be so modest,” I say, as we approach the house. “You’ve got real talent.”

  “Whatevs,” she mutters.

  I’m relieved to see the Forerunner in the driveway and a couple of lights burning in the house. The dashboard clock reads 9:18—pushing it, even for Lucy. As I put the car in park, Sam is already reaching for the door handle. She pauses, looks at me. “Are you coming in?”

  She might as well have asked “Are you going to show up at my school tomorrow naked?” I realize she’s not in the mood for a scene between her mother and me, and frankly, neither am I. “No,” I say, letting the car idle. “I’ll see your mom at the art show.”

  There is no hiding her relief. “Okay, bye.” She hurries off to the house.

  As I watch my daughter fiddling with the front door, it suddenly swings open. I catch a glimpse of her mom as she ushers Sam inside, and I wave. It’s instinct, common courtesy, but Lucy ignores the gesture. The door slams and I feel the anger bubble up inside me.

  “Fine,” I mutter, banging the car into reverse. “You want to play it that way then we’ll play it that way.” As I gun the car down our quiet, tree-lined street, I growl into the darkness. “See you Saturday, Lucy.”

  Lucy

  I AM ONCE AGAIN BURIED IN THE PROPS ROOM, searching for microphones for the Central High talent show, when Camille bursts into the cataclysm. “You’ve got to come back to your desk.”

  “Why?” I ask, my stomach lurching with panic. If Crofton House has called to tell me my daughter’s plastered again, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  But Camille’s exuberance makes it evident that it’s not bad news. “Just come!”

  I see the bouquet of flowers before I’m even in the room. Since it’s about the size of Jupiter, it’s hard to miss. In fact, a small crowd of women has gathered to gush over the lily, peony, and hydrangea extravaganza.

  “That’s a two-hundred-dollar bouquet,” someone murmurs.

  “I’ve never seen one that big.”

  “I have on TV. I think it was at Anna Nicole Smith’s funeral.”

  “Who’s it from?” Camille asks as I reach for the card. It has to be from Wynn. The size and expense of the arrangement screams Hollywood. And he did email again to say he’d be home in a few days and was looking forward to seeing me.

  But there’s also a slim chance that the bouquet is from Trent. He’s stopped harassing me about the spare bed, and I wonder if this signals a change of heart. A floral arrangement this enormous might be saying: “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry I left you for that fat frizzy slut and now I’d really like to come home to you and our daughter.” Despite my anger toward my husband, I feel a small glimmer of hope that this is the case. I tear open the card.

  I’ll be back in Vancouver Sunday. Can’t wait to see you.

  Wynn

  The swell of disappointment takes me aback. I’d expected the note to be from him, so why am I so chagrined? Did I really think Trent would come around that easily? That he’d suddenly realize the error of his ways and come home to the family fold? No, I didn’t. But I’m surprised how much I wanted it.

  “Who’s it from?” Camille squeals.

  “It’s anonymous,” I say coyly, smiling at the gaggle of women encircling me. With a groan, they disperse back to their offices, but Camille gives me a wink. It’s obvious she’s knows they’re from Cody Summers.

  LATER THAT EVENING, I drive home with the flowers in the back of my SUV. They significantly lower my visibility and force me to rely on my side-view mirrors. Thankfully, I arrive without incident.

  “Oh my god,” Samantha says as I stagger through the doorway with the gigantic bouquet. “Where’d you get those?” She’s lounging on the couch, as usual, watching Entertainment Ton
ight. Obviously, I can’t tell her they’re from the teen heartthrob whose photos are wallpapering her bedroom. In fact, telling her they’re from any man could be upsetting. And if I say they’re from her father that would needlessly get her hopes up.

  “They’re for you,” I say, pasting on a bright smile. “Just to say break a leg for the art show tomorrow—or whatever you say in art show circles.”

  My daughter gets off the couch and approaches the floral monstrosity. She fingers a lily, sniffs a peony. My hand reaches to my back pocket, feels Wynn’s card safely tucked away. Sam looks at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. “It’s huge,” she finally says.

  “Well, tomorrow’s a big night for you,” I reply.

  “Right,” she mutters, heading back to the couch and her television program. “Hope called for you.”

  “So, that’s it?” I snap. “No thank you or anything?” Technically, I’m re-gifting this enormous bouquet to her, but she doesn’t know that. When did my only child become such a spoiled brat?

  Sam’s eyes stay fixed on the TV. “Thanks,” she says, coolly.

  I go upstairs to change my clothes and fume about my daughter’s reception. She’s lucky I didn’t shell out two hundred dollars on those flowers, or I wouldn’t be letting her off the hook so easily. Is this what happens to children of broken homes? They’re given carte blanche to act like selfish little monsters because Mommy and Daddy feel too guilty to discipline them? I experience another surge of anger toward Trent. If only those flowers really had been from him, then I wouldn’t have had to lie in the first place. The logic around this train of thought is a little sketchy, but blaming Trent does make me feel slightly better.

  Going to the phone, I finally return Hope’s call.

  “How are you?” she asks, her tone pitying.

  “Fine,” I reply. “It’s getting easier.”

  “You don’t have to pretend with me, pal. I know how it is, remember?”

  “I’m not pretending,” I snipe. “I’m fine, really.” I suppose she means well, but I can’t help but feel Hope wants me to be a sniveling mess so that she can swoop in with her cookies and self-help books.

  Hope senses that it’s time to change the subject. “I just called to tell you that Sarah-Lou and I will be coming to the art show tomorrow night.”

  “Oh … okay.” I’m surprised and a little confused, but my friend elaborates.

  “We want to show Sam our support. Plus, I know Trent will be going and I thought you might like to have a friend there.”

  I suddenly feel guilty for doubting her motivation. She’s right. After the strained silence between my husband and me, our face-to-face meeting is bound to be tense. It will be nice to have Hope there for support.

  “Thanks Hope,” I say, my voice wobbling a bit.

  “I’m here for you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, we’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

  Trent

  ANNIKA AND I SPENT THE DAY TROLLING THROUGH IKEA. She insisted on lending me her “design eye” for my new place. Fifteen hundred dollars later, we returned to the small apartment and began the arduous task of assembling my furnishings. When we were done, I surveyed the room. I had the distinct feeling that I’d just graduated from college all over again. The one bedroom and den was a sparsely furnished sea of unfinished pine, brightly colored pillows, and flat couches with weird names.

  We had sex on the Karlstad three-seat sofa bed (Annika insisted we christen it) then grabbed some take-out sushi from the restaurant downstairs. And now we’re sitting in my car in the darkened school parking lot. I stare straight ahead at the building, peering into the few lit classrooms. A stream of parents heads in through the main doors. I haven’t spotted Lucy yet. She’s either already there, or running late.

  “Okay,” Annika says from the passenger seat, “I’m just a friend from work who’s really interested in art. There’s nothing romantic going on between us, but we are good friends.”

  “Right.”

  “I can’t wait to meet your daughter,” she says. “This was such a good idea—like, to have us bond over her art first.”

  I turn to her. “What about my wife? Can you wait to meet her?”

  Annika places a consoling hand on mine. “Don’t worry. If I’m just an art-loving friend, how can she get mad?”

  Oh, she can get mad, I think, but don’t say. In fact, the whole purpose in bringing Annika here is to make Lucy mad. And as I enjoy these last moments of peace, I can’t help but wonder: what the fuck I was thinking? Do I really want my wife and my girlfriend to collide at my kid’s art show? My relationship with Sam is strained enough. What the hell is wrong with me? Sure, Sam might buy the “art-loving co-worker” bit, but there’s no way Lucy will. Annika’s way too sexy to be just a friend.

  I ponder Lucy’s reaction. Will she assault Annika with a piece of art? I can’t see her embarrassing Sam that way. Besides, Annika’s got at least twenty pounds on Lucy. She could take her down in a second. I allow myself a quick visual. If I wasn’t so stressed out, I’d be turned on right now.

  Annika’s voice brings me back to the present. “Let’s go in, babe.” She leans over and licks my ear. Somehow, it’s simultaneously erotic and annoying. She sits back in her seat. “From this moment forward, you are nothing more than my good friend and co-worker who was kind enough to invite me to his daughter’s art show.”

  She’s trying for levity, but it falls flat. “Let’s go,” I mutter, getting out of the car.

  As we enter the bustling studio, I decide not to search out my wife. Let her stumble upon us. It’ll be even more shocking that way. Christ, when did I become such a prick? But I remind myself that Lucy asked for this. She’s been a complete bitch since the day I walked out. She’s been cold and stubborn and shut off from me—except for that night when I fucked her on the couch. It seems like months ago, but I suddenly realize that, other than the brief glimpse in the doorway, that was the last time I saw her. I turn to Annika.

  “This was a bad idea.”

  “What?” she asks, peering at a pastel drawing of kids building a sand castle.

  “This,”I say, tugging at her arm. “This isn’t the right place for you to meet my family.”

  Annika turns on me, hands defiantly on hips. “We discussed this. You said it was the perfect place to meet your daughter.”

  “But it’s too hard on Lucy.” I reach in my pocket and hand her my keys. “Take the car home. I’ll catch a cab.”

  She lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “You think I’m going to leave, just like that?”

  Oh fuck. What have I done? I glance nervously around the room for Sam or Lucy. Oh Christ, what are they doing here? Hope and the chipper Sarah-Louise are already headed toward me.

  “Hi Trent,” Hope says, giving me a perfunctory hug. As usual, when I embrace Hope I can’t help but think of my rather large Aunt Marilyn.

  “Hi,” I say cheerfully. “Hi Sarah-Louise.”

  “Hi Mr. Vaughn.”

  “You must be very proud,” Hope says.

  “I just got here, actually. I haven’t seen Sam’s pieces.”

  “I haven’t either, but I’m sure they’re great.”

  Annika steps forward. Of course, it would have been too much to ask that she continue to unobtrusively stare at the sand castle picture. She holds out her hand.

  “I’m Trent’s friend and co-worker, Annika.”

  Hope takes her hand briefly, her eyes darting to my face. “Nice to meet you,” she says coolly.

  “I love art,” Annika continues, “especially young people’s art.” She reaches out and touches Sarah-Louise’s arm. Of course, being a robot programmed for only pleasant responses, Sarah-Lou smiles sweetly.

  “Trent, Lucy is just getting a glass of wine.” Hope points toward a table set up in a far corner. “I’m sure she’d like to admire your daughter’s artwork together.”

  “Great!” Annika smiles
. “We’ll be right over.”

  I feel like punching a hole in the wall. What the hell is wrong with me? Have I lost my fucking mind? Was I that enraged at my wife that I wanted to humiliate her like this? I’m a monster, a fucking monster. Lucy was right to shut me out. I’m subhuman.

  Hope and Sarah-Louise scurry back to Lucy, obviously trying to warn her. I turn to Annika. “We can’t do this.”

  Annika smiles sweetly. “Don’t worry, pal.” She slips her arm through mine; I fight off the urge to shudder.

  “It’s going to be a disaster,” I plead.

  “No,” Annika says, already pulling me toward the wine table, “it’s going to be fine.”

  Lucy

  I’VE JUST TAKEN A SIP OF RED WINE when Hope and Sarah-Louise rush up to me. “I just saw Trent,” Hope whispers, as Sarah-Louise continues to smile agreeably.

  “I’m glad he made it. He’s let Sam down too often over the past month.”

  “He’s got someone with him,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Who?”

  Hope turns to her daughter. “Honey, go find Sam’s artwork for us, would you?” When Sarah-Lou has obediently departed, she continues. “It’s a co-worker … some woman who ‘loves young people’s art.’”

  My stomach lurches and I know. Even before Trent materializes with that frizzy cow hanging off his arm, I know. Hope places a calming hand on my forearm. Or perhaps it’s just to keep me from chucking my glass of wine in his face.

  “Hi Lucy,” Trent says, his voice thin and reedy. “Nice to see you.”

  I am actually thankful now that I’d spotted the two of them at the bar last week. Instead of fainting or crying or throwing up, I am composed. Well, as composed as you can be when you realize the man you were married to for sixteen years is the biggest shithead on the face of the planet.

  “Hi Trent,” I say, with a forced cheerfulness bordering on the psychotic. “Who’s your friend?”

  Trent’s pallor goes from pale to ghostly. He clears his throat. “This is my co-worker Annika. She loves young people’s art, so she thought she’d tag along.”