Marriage of Inconvenience

by Penny Reid

  “This was before or after he got Alzheimer’s?”

  “Before. When I was at boarding school.”

  Dan nodded, still distracted, like he was assembling a puzzle in his brain.

  Abruptly, he asked, “When did you start visiting her?”

  “Uh . . .” I watched the scenery pass beyond the windshield, trying to figure out where best to start. “So, honestly, my mother—seeing my mother—was one of the main reasons I decided to change my life.”

  I felt Dan’s gaze flicker to me. “What happened?”

  “I was exhausted. In Chicago, I was running all the time, never knowing where I was going to sleep, or if I was going to eat. I’d made it back here, to Boston, and was couch surfing, but I was tired—so tired—of everything. So one day, I decided I wanted to see her.”

  I tucked my hair behind my ears, the memory still vivid. “I showed up and used my old student ID. They let me see her, and it was like . . .” I turned to him. “I felt like she could hear me. Maybe she can, maybe she can’t. But I feel like she can. I told her everything, it all came out, and I felt so ashamed of who I’d become. She’d loved me so, so much. I remember that, when I was younger, and I was letting her down.”

  “Kat—”

  “As I was leaving, I was walking past the outpatient recreation room. There were a bunch of people there, playing board games. I didn’t want to go back to the place I was staying, so I sat down at a table and played checkers with this woman I’d never met. Her name was Delilah, she was forty-three, and she had schizophrenia.”

  “Like your mom?”

  I hesitated. “Yes and no. My mom was originally diagnosed with paranoid type schizophrenia. It has now become catatonic. Delilah has paranoid type, but she received treatment early.”

  “So, if you receive treatment early—like cancer—it can get better?”

  “Not necessarily. Every case of schizophrenia is as different as the person who has it. There are four main types and—similar to cancer—each has a spectrum of severity.”

  “Huh.” Dan thought about this briefly before saying, “My mother had cancer.”

  “What?” A spike of dread pierced my chest.

  “Yeah. Breast cancer. Stage two. It was before my parents divorced. I used to hold her hair while she puked, before it all fell out.”

  “I—I’m so sorry.”

  He waved away my concern. “Nah. Don’t be. She’s fine now, been in remission for—jeez—almost twenty years.”

  I released the tense breath I’d been holding, realizing this news had sent my heart racing with fear. I’d just met Eleanor, but I loved her already. I wasn’t ready to lose her. The reflexive nature of my reaction to this news also made me realize that all disorders and diseases could sound frightening when the details are unknown.

  Fear of the unknown, not a revolutionary or novel concept.

  “Anyway, I get what you mean about severity.” Dan’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “She had stage two and that wasn’t great. Some people have it worse, some people have it better. When it’s worse, it’s scary.”

  “It is scary,” I agreed. “Illness is a reminder that we don’t really have any control. And I understand why people find schizophrenia frightening, believe me, I get it. Hallucinations, delusions, it’s difficult to imagine having a mind that is not fully your own, just like it’s difficult to imagine having cancer, where your body isn’t fully your own. But people living with paranoid type often experience less dysfunction than people living with other subtypes. They’re often able to live, work, and care for themselves. And yet, almost every depiction you find in books or movies make people living with paranoid schizophrenia the villains. Can you imagine if books and movies did the same thing to people with cancer?”

  Dan made a surprised sound and he blinked, rubbing his jaw. “I’d never thought about it that way.”

  I continued, feeling impassioned by the subject, “It’s so frustrating to me, because when I visit my mom, I usually go to the rec room and play board games with the outpatient group. They’re not villains, or frightening. That’s not who they are.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re smart, interesting, funny, sweet, beautiful, creative, logical—so many things other than their diagnosis. But take a person on the street and ask them about schizophrenia, and it’s the bad guy in a slasher film. Or the crazy wife in the tower. I guess I’m frustrated because a mental illness diagnosis is a lazy scapegoat. And portraying all people living with mental disorders—all people living with schizophrenia—as one extreme, evil archetype is irresponsible.”

  “Here, here. Well said.”

  My gaze moved to Dan and I studied him. “Are you tired of my soapbox yet?”

  “No. But I am curious, what was it—about playing checkers with that woman—that changed your perspective on everything? What about playing checkers had you wanting to make a change?”

  “It wasn’t the checkers. It was her. I looked at Delilah and I realized that if one day I started exhibiting symptoms of schizophrenia, my life would not be over.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, like the puzzle pieces of me and my past had suddenly clicked into place.

  “I’d thought for so long that I would become a schizophrenic, and if I was a schizophrenic, that’s all I would ever be. But a person doesn’t become their diagnosis. Your mom isn’t breast cancer, you don’t become cancer. You live with cancer. So often, we think of a person living with mental illness as their mental illness, and that’s unfair. A person is never their diagnosis, not even my mom. Delilah showed me that. She lives—and has lived—a full life. She has a husband. They travel. She’s a photographer, an artist. She tells the funniest knock-knock jokes I’ve ever heard. She takes her meds every day, but still has hallucinations from time to time. She is not schizophrenic. She lives with schizophrenia.”

  “So,” I sighed, shrugging. “That’s my story. I came back a few times to visit my mom, and I was drawn to the others here. I made friends. Once I figured out that I’d been basing my decisions on misinformation and the fallacies of a fourteen-year-old brain, I decided I had to make a change. I was unhappy. So I went back to Chicago, turned myself into the police, and you know the rest.”

  “I guess I do.” His attention moved between me and the road. Dan opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Do you still worry? That you’ll start showing signs?”

  “Every day.” I smiled, though my eyes stung as I made the admission. “There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t question myself, a choice I made, something I saw out of the corner of my eye, something I heard. My father was so convinced that I would become my mother, I think he convinced me, too.”

  Dan sighed, shaking his head. “That’s beat.”

  “If it happens, it happens. And I’ll know what to do. And I’ll still live my life. And I’ll still try to make a difference.”

  He reached for my hand and placed a kiss on the back of my knuckles. “You’re tough. I love that about you.”

  “Sometimes I don’t feel tough.”

  “That’s why you have me.” He tightened his hold on my hand.

  “Why? So you can be tough for me?”

  “Who? Me? Nah. I’m just a big softie.” He made a surprised face, and then frowned his extreme disagreement. His expressions were theatrical and they made me smile.

  We drove in silence for several minutes, and it was another of those peaceful moments. Quiet car, quiet street, quiet neighborhood. But more than that, it was still. Instead of treading water next to each other in a tranquil lake beneath a starry sky, I imagined we were lying in a field, holding hands beneath puffy summer clouds, the rhythm of two beating hearts becoming one.

  “You have me so I will know you,” he said suddenly, kissing my hand again. His words spoken against my fingers were just above a whisper, and the quiet intimacy gave me the sense he was speaking to himself just as much as
he was speaking to me. “So I can remind you of how tough you are, how good, strong, and capable. Because, when you love someone, that’s what you do. Because you’ll do the same for me.”

  Epilogue

  **Dan**

  All I’m saying is, Catholics are basically already Jewish. I mean, we have the Old Testament, right? And you pay retail for some things, like commandments, I think you have something like six hundred, whereas we have ten. And we pay retail for other things, like penance.”

  Kat stared at my reflection in the mirror we were both using, the only one in the master bedroom. Since arriving in Chicago three days ago, we were staying in Janie and Quinn’s old penthouse apartment at the East Randolph Street property.

  There was another mirror in the bathroom, but I’d been meaning to bring this topic up for weeks and we never seemed to have time to talk about it. So I’d hijacked her while she was finishing up her makeup.

  “What are you talking about?” She tilted her head to the side. “You want to convert?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m just saying, you all have Yom Kippur, one day for penance. We have Lent, forty days. Plus, Jesus was Jewish. If Judaism was good enough for Jesus . . .” I shrugged. The way I saw it, Jesus being Jewish made my entire case for me.

  Finishing up with her eye makeup, she turned away from the mirror and crossed her arms. “What is the point to this conversation? What is it you’re asking for?”

  Fuck a duck.

  I gave her a disgruntled look. She was forcing my hand. She wanted me to get to the point. I hated it when she did that. I had so many good points lined up before the point.

  Watching her reaction carefully, I said, “Getting married.”

  She blinked twice. “Getting married?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Dan, my love, we are married. We’ve been married for fifteen years.” She walked closer to me and lowered her voice like she was going to tell me a secret. “I don’t know if you know this, but we have three kids.”

  “Very funny.” I craned my neck to watch my fingers in the mirror as I tried to tie a Windsor knot at my neck. “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be nice to do it right?”

  “Right?”

  “Stomping on the glass, the canopy, getting carried around in chairs.” My eyes flickered over her body. “A white dress for you, a tuxedo for me.”

  At the suggestion of a tuxedo for me, her brow cleared and finally, finally, she looked interested.

  I should have led with the tuxedo.

  In retrospect, I should have known the idea of a tuxedo would get her going. Sometimes I thought the only reason Caravel hosted so many black-tie events was so she could get me in—and out of—a tuxedo. Not that I was complaining.

  As far as I was concerned, Kat earned as many black-tie events as she wanted. She’d taken a big risk when she exposed her cousin all those years ago, she’d opened her family’s company up to hostile takeovers, lawsuits, fraud claims, and she’d weathered the storm like a champ. Now Caravel was better than before, stronger, a leader in research and development rather than a bottom-feeder that chased profits, like some of her competitors.

  To say I was proud of her would be a big fucking understatement.

  “You want to have a traditional Jewish wedding?” She didn’t look surprised, more like curious.

  “Yeah. Why not? The kids would love it. They’re going to Jewish school, makes sense.”

  Her eyes narrowed, like she was suspicious. “Did Rebekah put you up to this?” Rebekah being our oldest by two minutes, just before her sister, Eleanor, had made her grand entrance.

  “What? No.” I scoffed. “Rebekah didn’t put me up to this.”

  Rebekah had put me up to this.

  To clarify, it had been her idea—at first—but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to make it happen. It had all started two months ago when Rebekah came home from a friend’s house and asked to see our wedding album. I told her we didn’t have one. This led to all kinds of questions, like:

  “Did you love mom when you married her? If so, why didn’t you want to take pictures to remember the day?”

  And,

  “What about your kids? Didn’t you ever think your children would want to see the photos?”

  In case you haven’t picked up on it yet, Rebekah was basically my mother come back to life.

  I thought about showing my daughter the video we had of the wedding, but decided against it after giving it another watch. Man, I never got tired of watching that video.

  Presently, Kat didn’t look convinced, doubt warred with a confused smile as she checked her watch. “Can we talk about it later? Jack’s concert is in an hour and DJ hasn’t taken his bath yet.”

  That was no surprise. Our youngest hated baths. He was basically Pig-Pen from Charlie Brown, just with a bigger dust cloud.

  “Fine. I’ll give Danny a bath, and you think about your husband’s genius idea.”

  “I can give him a bath.”

  “No. It’s fine. Plus, Eleanor needs you to do her hair again.”

  “What’s wrong with her hair?”

  “Do I know?” I shrugged, starting over again with the tie. “I braided it, but she said she likes the way you do it better.”

  Kat chuckled and so did I, because our daughter Eleanor was very particular. About everything. And judged people harshly based on their fandom associations.

  #Reylo4Ever

  Closing the distance between us, Kat leaned forward, giving me a kiss while her hand came right to the front of my pants. I straightened, my eyes swinging to her as she stroked me over my zipper.

  “Well, hello Mrs. O’Malley.” I let the knot sit unfinished at my neck and put my hands on her body, sliding them down to her waist.

  I missed her.

  Before the family trip to Chicago, she’d been gone on a two-week business thing to China. And before that, she’d been gone for five days to Dubai. When the kids didn’t have school over the summer, we all went with her. Just like, if I had a trip, everyone went with me.

  But Kat and I agreed, we wanted the kids at a good school during the year, where they could make friends and live in a house that felt like a home. That meant one of us was at home every day. We never took trips at the same time. This wasn’t always easy, but when something is important to you, you prioritize it. We could, so we did.

  “I want you. Tonight,” she said, her gaze dropping to my lips.

  “You shall have me. Tonight. Several times, if you wish.”

  Her grin widened and she sighed wistfully, moving like she was going to leave. I held her in place.

  We weren’t running late yet, and that was a miracle. I knew I shouldn’t mess up her makeup, or pull her hair, or stick my hand up her dress, especially since we actually had a chance to make it to the venue on time. But I’d never been very good at doing what I should.

  So I hitched up her skirt.

  Her eyes widened and she caught my hands. “Dan.”

  “Why wait ’til tonight?” I bent my lips to her jaw, gave her a little bite.

  She sighed again, angling her head back. “We’ll be late.”

  “No we won’t.” I kissed her neck. “We’ll be quick.”

  “You’re never quick.” She laughed, then another sigh as I palmed her still exquisite tits over the thin, silky fabric of her dress.

  “But you can be quick.” Trailing my fingers down her sides, I lifted the hem of her dress.

  Her breath caught. “Don’t you dare wrinkle this dress,” she said, her hands gripping my shoulders, making no move to stop me.

  “I need to taste you.” I pressed my tongue flat against the sensitive inch beneath her ear, slowly licking, my fingers rubbing her over her little cotton underwear.

  Let me stop right here, because I know what you’re thinking, Cotton underwear? But you don’t understand. This underwear was so fucking soft and comfortable, it was like wearing a cloud. I’d had some boxers made
of the same material after I’d felt it. Janie had bought Kat a ton of pairs after she’d had the twins. I couldn’t sing its praises highly enough. And so breathable!

  That said, I wanted it off of her body right fucking now.

  I hooked my thumb in the waistband and tugged. “One taste.”

  She breathed out, like she was feverish, but managed to say, “Fine, if I can have one taste of you.”

  My hand stalled and I thought about that. She meant what she said, I’d get one taste of her, and then she’d take me into her mouth like a popsicle for one, hot, wet, slow suck.

  My wife is a sadist.

  And I’m still okay with that.

  Before I could answer, a little voice somewhere down the hall asked, “Can I use superglue to put an eyelash back on my eye?” and we both stiffened, our eyes wide and panicked.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “You get it.”

  We said in unison, and we were off.

  Sadism and sexy times would have to wait until later.

  Jack’s concert was incredible. He was only in town for one performance, on his way to Italy, and we felt lucky we got to see him play.

  Greg and Fiona’s oldest kid had more musical talent in his pinky finger than all three hundred members of my entire extended family combined, even though my sister Colleen considered herself a singer.

  She was not a singer. Getting drunk at a pub in Ireland and singing “Danny Boy” a cappella to a rousing round of applause does not make you a singer. You sing “Danny Boy” anywhere in Ireland, they applaud you. It’s a thing. Look it up.

  Anyway, we weren’t late to the concert, despite DJ’s best efforts. But he was impossible to stay mad at; the kid was five and his favorite joke was, beware of atoms, they make up everything, followed by a ten-minute lecture on the nature of matter and a disclaimer about whether atoms made up antimatter. And then he’d fart.

  The day after the concert, since it was Sunday, we all made the trek to Greg and Fiona’s home in South Shore. Their place was great. A huge, triple-decker brick house built in 1915 with a workshop out back, and a nice big yard for the kids.