Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis

by Robyn Harding

  “It’s a little late for that. Everyone knows we’re going through a rough patch, but they totally support us.”

  “Oh.”

  “Karen was just saying that she thinks we make a great couple and that what we have is worth working on. What do you think?”

  What the hell am I supposed to say? “Look, there’s a lot going on in my life right now and … I really have to pee.”

  “It’s a simple yes or no answer, Trent.” Her hands are on her hips and her voluptuous size suddenly seems downright menacing.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shifting my position to try to staunch the urgent need to take a whiz. “I guess so.”

  “Good. Because I think what we have is too precious to throw away. If I’m willing to do the work and you are too, then we’ll be fine.”

  “Fine,” I say, attempting to push past her. She stops me with a hand to the chest.

  “Take this.” She passes me a piece of paper. I look at it. It reads:

  Yasmine Wheeler

  Relationship Coach

  10:00 a.m., March 24th

  2300 West Georgia

  “This was not an easy appointment to get,” Annika continues. “But a friend of my cousin’s knows Coach Wheeler. We’re lucky she could squeeze us in.”

  A relationship coach? Why the hell do we need to see a relationship coach?

  “If we’re going to have a future together, we obviously need professional help,” Annika explains.

  “Professional help?” I’m about to say that Lucy and I were together for eighteen years without professional help, but then I realize that might just prove Annika’s point.

  “I’m not going to harass you about this, Trent. If you show up at the appointment on the twenty-fourth, I’ll know you’re serious about us. If you don’t, then I’ll consider it over.”

  “Okay.”

  “In which case, you’ll have to find a new job.”

  “What?”

  “It would be too awkward for us both to be working here, and I’ve already talked to Don about it. He agreed that I have more clients and am better for the corporate culture and staff spirit even though you have more seniority.”

  Oh my god. Is this fucking happening? I think the urgent need to urinate has caused renal failure leading to hallucinations. “Whatever,” I grumble, forcing my way past her.

  I charge down the hall, avoiding the sympathetic eyes of my female co-workers and the repressed smirks of the males. Bursting into the bathroom, I rush to the urinal. Ahhh … relief: physical relief at least. Mentally and emotionally, I’m still tortured. How the hell did this all happen to me? My wife hates me, my daughter has shut me out, and now Annika’s threatening my job if I don’t go to relationship counseling with her. We’ve been dating for a fucking month!

  I zip up my pants and turn to the sink. As I wash my hands I stare at my reflection. That eye cream I bought was a complete waste of money. I look older and more haggard than ever. It’s the stress—that and the physical toll of having marathon sex with a nymphomaniac four nights a week. I can’t keep this up. But what are my options? Unemployment? Welfare? Angrily, I rip a piece of paper towel from the dispenser, wipe my hands, and toss it in the garbage can. I miss, but I don’t pick it up.

  As I charge out into the hallway and back to my office, I resolve to put all this shit out of my mind. At least I can focus on work for another seven or eight hours. Returning my attention to a mutual fund spreadsheet, it seems to be working—except for one lingering, disturbing thought: the mess I’m in is all my own fucking fault.

  Lucy

  “YOU NEED TO UNDERSTAND MY POSITION,” I said, as I faced Bruce across his cluttered desk. “I’m a single parent now, and I need to be there for my daughter.”

  “You need to understand my position,” Bruce countered. “I’ve got a show to do, and that requires a full-time props buyer. And I hired a full-time props buyer two years ago when I hired you.”

  “What about bringing on a junior buyer?” I suggested. “I could train him in the mornings, and then he could take over in the afternoons?”

  “Good idea.” Bruce’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “So you’ll be half as productive in the mornings, and then you’ll swan off at three o’clock and leave some kid to do your job.”

  I struggled with an overwhelming desire to tell him to fuck off, but then remembered something about burning bridges and how it’s a small industry. Still, it seemed a better option than bursting into tears, which was also a tempting possibility. “It wouldn’t be like that,” I managed to mumble.

  “It’s not going to work,” Bruce said, taking a sip from his coffee cup. “I’m not going to pay two salaries so you can have your afternoons free. You work here a full day or you don’t work here at all. I’m sorry.”

  “Fine,” I said, hanging onto my righteous anger. If I let it go for even a second, I’d dissolve into a puddle of emotion. “If you can’t respect my family, then I guess this isn’t the right place for me.”

  “I guess it isn’t.”

  I stood up. “All right then.”

  “All right.”

  Change your mind, I willed him. I’ll stand here for ten more seconds. But Bruce turned to his computer and I was effectively dismissed.

  That was forty-two hours ago. Now I find myself, once again, curled up on my sofa weeping for all that I have lost. You’d think there’d be a limit to the amount of saline the body can produce, but apparently not. I’ve easily cried seventeen times my body weight in tears over the past month. All this grief is probably aging me, the water loss turning me into a wrinkled prune. No amount of Botox can help me now! I have no husband, no job, and I look like I’m seventy years old. This must be what’s known as “rock bottom.”

  I’m on the verge of a fresh emotional breakdown when the phone rings. I’d leave it, but the way my life is going lately, it’s probably Crofton House calling to tell me Sam’s been caught having lesbian sex in the music room.

  “Hello?”

  “Lucy, it’s Hope.” It’s like she has some kind of homing device for misery. “What are you doing home?”

  I can’t tell her. Based on my run-in with Ava Watkins, Hope can’t be trusted not to blab my misfortune to the entire neighborhood. “Sore throat,” I say coldly.

  “Oh dear,” she says. “Do you want some soup? I’ve got homemade chicken stock in the freezer. I can whip up a soup and run it over to you for dinner?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I snap. I’m really angry with her, but I don’t have the emotional energy for a confrontation. “I’m going to have a nap now.”

  “Okay, I just wanted to find out how things went with Sam. I’ve been so worried.”

  “She’ll be okay.”

  “It’s so sad to see her crying out for help like that. I mean, divorce is devastating to kids. If there’s any way you and Trent can hold onto your marriage, at least for Samantha’s sake …”

  I jump in. “There’s not.”

  “I know it’s hard to forgive; I’ve been there, remember? But Mike and I have made a commitment to stay together to give our kids a stable, loving home. It’s really allowed them to blossom these past few years—especially Sarah-Louise. She was always shy and awkward, and now she’s in the national spelling bee and the junior band. They’ve just been invited to play at the pregame warm-up show for a professional soccer game in May. I don’t know if all that would have happened if she’d come from a broken home.”

  “Maybe,” I grumble.

  “All I know is that dating is not the answer, Lucy. As much as you feel the need for attention and affection, you can’t give up on the years you and Trent spent together.”

  “What are you talking about?” But I already know.

  “Ava said she saw you with Wynn Felker.”

  “That was a meeting!” I say shrilly. “And why do you and Ava Watkins feel compelled to discuss every detail of
my personal life, even when I specifically asked you to keep it quiet?”

  “It’s not like that,” Hope pleads. “Ava came to pick up Jessica at our house shortly after I left you and Trent. I was upset and she was concerned. We weren’t gossiping. We were talking about you as caring friends.”

  “Right, okay. So if I called Ava and told her I was concerned because I saw Mike out at a bar with some hot blond—that would be okay?”

  “What?” Her voice tells me I’ve hit a nerve.

  I shouldn’t do this now. I’m angry and overwrought and could say something cruel and hurtful. On the other hand, I’ve lost my husband and my job, and my relationship with my daughter is hanging by a thread. I may as well lose my best friend, too.

  “I saw Mike at the bar a couple of weeks ago. He was there with Trent and that chunky tart of his. And there was a blond woman with them too. Mike seemed to be enjoying her company quite a lot.”

  Hope’s voice is weak. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you shouldn’t go around spouting off about your great marriage! It’s not great. Mike’s a selfish asshole and he totally takes you for granted. You stay at home cooking and cleaning and sewing while he’s off gallivanting around the world with other women!”

  “That’s in the past.”

  “Right. You go on believing that so you can keep up the facade of your perfect little life. Well, it’s not perfect. Before you start judging me, you should take a long look in the mirror.”

  “I never said my marriage was perfect,” Hope says, her voice shaking with repressed emotion. “But I’ve made a choice to do what’s best for my family.”

  “Really? So I’m a selfish bitch because I don’t want to be treated like a doormat? So, it would be better for Sam if I let Trent walk all over me and have affairs while I wait patiently for him with a big stupid smile on my face?”

  There is a long pause. A line has been crossed, and neither of us knows what to say next.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she finally says.

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel the need to judge the way I’m living my life.”

  “I was trying to be supportive.”

  “By telling Ava Watkins that Sam’s been drinking? By whispering about my so-called date with Wynn Felker? By giving me a stupid book that tells me to let my husband treat me like shit because it’s better than being alone?”

  “Fine,” Hope says, and I can hear the tears in her voice. “I tried to be there for you, Lucy, but don’t worry. I won’t interfere in your life again.”

  The finality in her tone makes me panic. “Hope …” I say plaintively, but she’s not hearing it.

  “Good luck with … everything.” And she hangs up.

  As I replace the phone on the receiver I now know for sure: this is definitely what they mean by rock bottom.

  Trent

  “HELLO?”

  I hadn’t expected her to answer. Lucy’s never home at 4:30. “Oh, hey Lucy. It’s me. I didn’t uh … expect you to be home.”

  “Well, I am,” she retorts. “Did you want to speak to Sam?”

  “Yeah, but … could we talk for a sec?” Why do I sound so fucking nervous? It’s like I’m fourteen and calling a girl I have a crush on for the first time.

  “What have we got to talk about?”

  Is she kidding me? We’ve only got everything to talk about: our daughter, our marriage, our future. “We need to talk about Sam,” I say, containing my annoyance. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s fine,” Lucy snaps, “since you’re suddenly so concerned.”

  I stay cool. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought you might be too busy banging your fat slut to give your daughter much thought.”

  That’s it. “Can you grow up for five seconds and act like a parent?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Why don’t I follow your lead and be the mature, responsible one for a change?”

  Why does she always have to be so sarcastic? I was actually missing her ten minutes ago. “Look,” I say, “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I feel like shit if it makes you feel any better.”

  There is a pause. “A little.”

  I can’t help but laugh. To my relief, I hear Lucy laugh too. When we’ve stopped there’s a long pause. Finally I say, “How did everything get so fucked up?”

  “You left us, that’s how.” Any trace of humor is gone.

  “I was an idiot. I’m starting to see that now.”

  It’s quiet on the other end of the line, and I think I hear her crying. Finally she says, “I’ll get Sam.”

  “Lucy—” I begin, but she’s already put the phone down. As I wait for my daughter to come on the line, I think about what I could have said, what I should have said. At the very least, I should have asked if we could get together as a family. Maybe we could all go for dinner? Or to a movie? I should have told her that Annika and I broke up. At least I think we did. But maybe I should wait until I know for sure, before I mention it to Lucy. I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up.

  “Hello?” The voice is sullen and devoid of expression. It’s obviously Sam.

  “Hi honey. How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. I’ve been worried about you. I wish you would have called me.”

  She snaps back, “I’ve been busy, okay? Jeez.”

  Busy doing what? Having pot parties with thirty-year-old dope fiends? I want to say it, but I think again. “Is school going okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good … good.” A panicky sensation takes over me. Christ. I don’t even know how to talk to my own kid anymore. “I want you to come for a sleepover this weekend,” I add quickly. “I’ve got a sofa bed for you. We can order pizza, rent a bunch of movies …”

  “That sounds like a blast, Dad, but I’ve got other plans.”

  She’s quickly turning into a mini version of her mother. “Sam, you’re my daughter. It’s important that we spend time together.”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you moved out of the house. I’ve got my own stuff going on. I don’t have time to go on sleepovers.”

  Unsure of how to respond, I grumble, “Put your mother back on the phone.”

  Without a word, the line goes quiet. I wait … ten seconds … twenty … thirty … Finally: “She’s in the bath. She’ll call you tomorrow.”

  It’s a lie; I know it is. But what can I do? Insist Lucy get on the phone? My family seems to consider me a blustering bully at the moment, and making demands is not going to help. “Okay. Well, I hope to see you this weekend. At least for dinner?”

  “I told you I’m busy, Dad.”

  “But you have to eat!” Before I’ve finished speaking, there’s a click and the line goes dead.

  I hang up. If I had the energy, I’d punch the wall in frustration. Instead, I go to the fridge for a beer. When I return to the couch, I flick on the TV. I stare at the programs blindly: a rerun of Friends, a hockey game, a reality show where two adults are standing idly by watching a nine-year-old have a temper tantrum … I turn the set off and let the silence envelop me. But it’s not silent. As I nurse my beer, I hear the sounds of my neighbors going about their lives. A soft bang signals a cupboard door closing. Somewhere a faucet turns on. There’s the dull thud of the bass on someone’s stereo.

  This is what I wanted: time to be alone, to sort out the rest of my life. So why does it feel so strange and sort of lonely? I’m not used to it, that’s all. I went from spending all my time with Sam and Lucy to spending all my time with Annika. And now the solitude stretches out before me, days, months, even years of isolation. If this is what I wanted, I must have been out of my fucking mind.

  But I may as well use this time productively. I need to develop a strategy for getting my life back on track. In the span of a month I’ve lost everything: my wife, my home, and my daughter. Yeah, I wanted a change, but it wasn’t supposed to
be like this. I need to treat this as a business scenario: identify my objectives and develop a plan to achieve them. What’s so hard about that? Nothing—except that what I really want is to rewind my life back to the night before I walked out.

  Lucy

  SAM FOUND ME CURLED UP UNDER A BLANKET watching a home renovation show. She was holding the phone, her other hand over the receiver. “Dad wants to talk to you again.”

  My shoulders sagged with exhaustion. “I don’t have the energy to deal with him.”

  “So … What? Am I supposed to tell him that?”

  “Tell him … I’m in the bath. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  My daughter stalked out of the room, her retreating form speaking into the phone. “She’s in the bath. She’ll call you tomorrow.”

  As stupid as it was, I felt almost guilty lying to Trent. He just sounded so alone, so genuinely remorseful. But I had to remember all that he’d done to Sam and me. He’d lied and he’d cheated and he’d deserted us. He’d driven my daughter out of the art show and into pot-smoking Randy’s apartment. To feel anything resembling pity for him was ludicrous! To feel bad for rejecting his phone call was insanity!

  By no means spurred on by my misplaced guilt, a bath did seem like a good idea. I called to Sam. “I’ll be in the tub!” Not surprisingly, she didn’t respond. She was probably hoping I was off to slit my wrists. If I were a less responsible parent, I’d be considering it about now.

  But immersing myself in warm, lavender-scented water was an excellent idea. I’m able to savor this moment, this small luxury that reminds me that life really is worth living. There will be other jobs, and maybe there will be other men. I allow myself to think about Wynn Felker for a moment. While the intensity of my reminiscences is starting to fade, I still feel a little thrill when I recall the feeling of his mouth and his hands roaming my back. Obviously, a repeat performance with “Cody Summers” is out of the question, but it’s comforting to know that I’m not completely dead inside. Despite the hurt and betrayal I’ve suffered, I can still derive some pleasure from a warm bath and a remembered kiss.