“Yes. I’m sure you do, hon,” the pretty dental assistant said, squeezing my hand patronizingly. I found out later that this kind of babbling is very normal when one is coming out from under anesthesia.
“We’ve had thum tough timeth,” I continue, on and on and on. “But thingth are tho good now. I freally love him . . . an’ he freally loveth me, too.”
Sam showed up sometime into my speech about how, like an enormous elastic band, our relationship had stretched to the breaking point, only to snap back, bringing us closer together than ever. Our bond was so special that it was almost like we had known each other in a past life.
“Hi, chipmunk,” he said, smiling kindly into my swollen face. “Did everything go okay?”
I started to cry. This, too, is apparently very normal when coming out from under anesthesia.
“It went fine—Sam, is it?” The dental assistant had sprung to life. “She’s going to be a little sore and swollen for a while, but the wisdom teeth came out smoothly. If you have any questions about her condition . . . or whatever . . . feel free to call.” She handed him a card.
“Thanks,” Sam said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
I’m tho lucky.
As we drove home, I began to feel close to normal again. I stopped sniveling and babbling and sat vacantly watching the scenery go by, still a bit dopey from the painkillers.
Sam helped me out of the car and escorted me into our high-rise apartment building, holding my arm as we went up the elevator like I was his elderly grandmother. “Here we are,” he said when we were inside. He deposited me on the couch and covered me with a flannel blanket.
“Do I look like Marlon Brando?” I mumbled.
“A bit.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Do you want some tea?”
“Not right now. You don’t haff to go to work, do you?”
“No.”
“Thankth. Thit here with me.”
He did, stroking my hair absently as he stared out the plate glass window at the fifteenth-story view of the city and Mount Rainier in the distance. The sky was gray and dark; it was starting to rain. I began to doze off, comforted by his presence, the warmth of his hand on my hair. It was like when I was sick as a little girl and my mom would feed me ginger ale and stroke my hair. My eyes flickered open to give him a smile of gratitude. He was staring at me, a strange look on his face.
I fought my way through the drug-induced fog. “What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
“What’th wrong?”
Sam sighed heavily, very heavily. “Kerry . . .” He sat up, turning his body away from me. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, and well . . . it’s probably not the best time but . . . I can’t keep this to myself any longer.”
“What ith it?” All sorts of horrifying thoughts were flooding my brain: He’s got cancer, a brain tumor, only two months to live, HIV or syphilis—and he’s afraid he’s passed it on to me!
“It’s just not working anymore.”
“What!” I screeched, wads of bloody cotton flying out of my mouth.
“I’m moving out.”
This was worse than a brain tumor or syphilis! “When?”
“Tonight.”
“Why!”
“I’m sorry, hon,” he began. “It’s not you; it’s me. Well, actually it is you, in a way. I need to be concentrating on my career right now, and I can’t be with someone so . . .”
“So what?”
“Needy.”
“Needy!”
“I can’t be stuck in your idea of domestic bliss, Kerry. I need to be able to put in the time and effort required for me to succeed at Kazzerkoff.” [Blah blah blahblahblah blahblahblah.] “Look, if you want me to stay the night because of your teeth . . .”
“What is this really about, Sam?”
“I told you. I need to focus on work. . . .”
“You’re lying,” I said. My voice sounded surprisingly cool and detached, masking my inner turmoil. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
“No! This is about us, not someone else.”
“Who is she?” I said quietly. There was a long silence. “Who is she?”
“Her name’s Jasmine. She’s a consultant we’ve been working with on the Collingwood development. But this isn’t about her. We haven’t even slept together—”
“Get out, you bastard!” I shrieked, on the verge of hysteria—actually, well past the verge. “I hope you and Jasmine and your fucking career will be very happy together!”
The next morning, when he came back to collect his stuff, I was contrite. I wasn’t ready to throw away the years we’d spent together over some consultant he hadn’t even slept with. Surely by discussing the issues, we could work things out.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I think it was the medication making me act so psycho. Let’s talk about this.”
“There’s really nothing to talk about, Kerry.”
“But . . . things were going so well, Sam. We were like an elastic band, stretched to the breaking point but then snapping back together. We can work this out.”
“I don’t think so, Kerry.”
“You can spend more time at work, Sam. I don’t need to spend every weekend with you. You don’t have to come home for dinner . . . ever. I want this to work. We can make it work!” I was aware that I was begging but was powerless to stop. The fact that I looked like Winston Churchill did nothing to help my self-esteem.
“Sorry, Kerr . . . I just need some time. Maybe . . . with a little distance and perspective [blah blahblahblah blah.]“ He began to place his belongings in boxes.
“Stop,” I said quietly.
“Kerry, it’s no use.”
“You stay here,” I said. My voice was cold and emotionless. “I’ll leave.”
Chapter 3
That last entry was my therapist’s idea. (I managed to squeeze in an emergency session after rewriting the communications plan from memory.) After I confessed my weakness on the kitchen table the other night, she instructed me to jump ahead several mortifying moments and deal with this Sam issue head-on.
“I want you to move forward in your diary and write about Sam,” she said in her calming monotone.
“Okay,” I mumbled. Despite my intense chagrin, I couldn’t help but take in her appearance as she sat rigidly in her leather-upholstered chair. Her outfit, a gray-blue pantsuit, was so . . . I don’t know . . . cheap looking. I mean, where did she shop? Kmart? Surely with the money she made off me and the other crazies, she could buy some current and stylish clothes?
“Find a comfortable seat,” she continued. “Have a glass of wine. Burn a soothing candle, and write about the most painful moment you experienced in your relationship with him.”
“Do I have to?” I snuffled.
“Yes,” she commanded. “Perhaps then, when you see the words staring back at you in black-and-white, you’ll be able to gain some clarity on your relationship.”
I had followed her advice to the letter. With a glass of wine before me and a vanilla-scented candle burning at my side, I’d poured my angst onto the page.
So now here they are: the words staring back at me in black-and-white. Unfortunately, a crystal vase burgeoning with a dozen red roses is also staring back at me from the coffee table. The tiny card is just visible through the thick foliage: Sorry about cancelling dinner. Thinking of you. Sam. The bottom corner also features an adorable little teddy bear clutching a large red heart.
How am I supposed to get clarity on the situation when I am faced with two such opposing forces—the horrific entry in my journal and these beautiful, velvety red roses that say Sam really wishes we could have had dinner last Thursday and is currently thinking of me? And wouldn’t the teddy bear clutching the heart on the card indicate that he still loves me? You’d hardly choose a teddy-bear-clutching-a-heart card for a coworker or great aunt or someone, would you? Unless Sam didn’t choose the card at all .
. . Come to think of it, he could have phoned in that order and had nothing to do with selecting the teddy-bear-clutching-a-heart card. Or worse—he could have gotten his secretary to place the order!
With that, I jump up and carry the heavy vase to the kitchen. I shove the bouquet into a back corner on the counter, teddy-bear-with-heart card facing the wall. Returning to the living room, I pick up the journal. Maybe now I will be able to gain some clarity on this relationship? Maybe this entry will make me see that I deserve better, that Sam is just using me and no matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, I have always been second in his life and always will be.
Yes! Yes, I do see it. Who cheats on his live-in girlfriend with someone named Jasmine? I mean, what is she—a stripper or a Disney character? And what kind of guy breaks up with someone right after she’s had her wisdom teeth out? The same type of guy who would show up at your apartment, make love to you on the laptop housing your communications plan, and then leave without so much as a “See you for dinner on Thursday.”
I was gone only a month when he called and asked if we could talk. Things hadn’t worked out with Jasmine, he really missed me, and he felt he could probably squeeze me into his busy work schedule.
“I don’t know . . .,” I said, enjoying my new position of power. “I don’t think our living together is such a good idea.”
“Oh, I don’t think we should live together either,” Sam pronounced. “But I thought maybe we could see each other casually? You know . . . while we explore our feelings as individuals?”
I know what I should have said—what I should still say. I should move on and find someone who puts me first, someone who is true and loving and kind. But Sam has some kind of power over me! When I hear his voice, or worse—see him—I’m done for. I had suggested my therapist employ hypnotherapy to make Sam look like . . . I don’t know . . . Keith Richards or Danny DeVito or someone. That would make things much easier. But my therapist says that hypnosis can’t actually do that. I think she might be wrong. I’ve been meaning to do some research on the Web.
So instead, we’ve come up with another plan: avoidance. I will not talk to or see Sam until I feel strong enough to cut all ties. Although common courtesy would dictate that I call and thank him for the roses, I am going to resist my natural civility. I am going to go down to the Verizon store and buy a caller-ID box. That way, if he calls, I will not answer, but won’t miss any calls from any true and loving and kind guys who might want to ask me out.
Anyway, I’m sure Sam won’t be calling this week, as he has clients in from out of town—or more likely, he has told me he has clients in from out of town so that he’s not obligated to spend an evening eating dinner with me. Either way, he won’t be calling.
Speaking of dinner, I’m meeting my mom and Darrel at The Living Room tonight. That should be an enjoyable and uplifting experience that will take my mind off my troubles. (Note sarcastic tone.)
I arrive at The Living Room forty minutes late. I waffled back and forth on whether I should take my car or a cab, and finally decided on the cab since my mother often drives me to drink and The Living Room makes wonderful martinis. So I called the cab company, and they said “That’ll be half an hour to forty-five minutes, ma’am.”
I scan the dim restaurant and spot a couple ensconced in a paisley booth at the back, necking furiously. That would be them. This is reinforcing my decision to take a cab. I flag the bartender as I walk by and ask him to send a Flaming Walter martini to the back table.
“Ahem.” I clear my throat. “Get a room, why don’t ya?” I am only half joking.
“Oh, hi, sweetie!” my mom says, pulling her lips from Darrel’s with a loud suction noise. Gawd! Despite the fact that my mom is in her mid-fifties, she never fails to tell me—or in this case, show me—that she is in her sexual prime. “I’m a late bloomer, I guess!” she always says. “All those years in a loveless marriage to your father must have set my clock back!”
“Hi, Kerry,” Darrel says.
“Hi, Darrel.” Darrel is forty-two but looks twenty (not in a good way—in a chubby, baby-faced-but-with-a-beard kind of way). Darrel and my mother have been living together for three years. He is always pleasant and friendly enough, but something about him gives me the heebie-jeebies. For one, why would he be living with a fifty-four-year-old woman unless there is something seriously wrong with him that prevents him from dating women his own age? My mother is an attractive woman in her aging hippie way, but come on! She’s practically sixty! For two, I just witnessed him necking with my mother . . . necking, not kissing or smooching or canoodling. I’m talking seriously going at it. In public! I’m not exaggerating.
I sit down, and my martini arrives just in the nick of time. I take a huge gulp as my mother looks on, her expression a combination of judgment and concern. “How are you dear?” she says. “You look like you could use some fresh air. Have you been cooped up in your office all summer?”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m sure the company wouldn’t fall apart if you took twenty minutes out for a brisk walk outside. You’re in a lovely part of town. You should take advantage of being so close to the waterfront.”
“You look good, Mom.” It is a wise change of subject. The only thing my mother would rather talk about than how bad I look is how good she does.
“Thanks, sweetie.” She smiles at me. “It’s the yoga. I’m doing Ashtanga twice a week—that’s the fast yoga that Madonna does. And I’m doing Bikram on Saturdays. That’s the yoga in the hot room. It’s amazing! Very cleansing. I read recently that yoga can actually stop the aging process!”
“Well, it certainly has in your case.” Darrel brings my mother’s fingers to his lips in the manner of an Italian lothario. Their eyes meet, and I’m afraid they’re going to start French-kissing again.
“Waiter!” I shriek somewhat hysterically. He comes. “I’ll have another Flaming Walter, please.”
“I’ll have a Perrier,” my mother orders, but pronounces it: Peh—I’ve got a ball of phlegm in my throat that I must expel—ee-ay. I recall that she has been taking French lessons.
“I’ll have a Heineken,” Darrel says.
“You naughty boy!” My mom leans over and nibbles his ear. “Are you going to make me drive home?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just a beer, Gwen.”
“I don’t want you all silly, now,” she giggles. “Don’t forget you have to work tomorrow!”
“Honey, it’s one beer. You act as if I’m doing tequila shots!”
“Don’t give me any ideas! I’ve done a few tequila shots in my day.”
I consider lighting my hair on fire to get some attention.
The banter between them continues throughout the evening, interspersed with updates on my aunts and uncles and cousins. “Have you heard from your brother lately?” she asks me.
“Yeah, we e-mail every now and then.”
“Then you know that he’s having a fabulous time in Sydney? Oh, if I could do it all over again, I’d never have gotten married and tied down with responsibilities so young.”
“Sorry,” I say, shoveling risotto into my mouth. Since I am one of the responsibilities of which she speaks, I feel I should apologize.
“What? Oh, please! I loved being a mother. I just think Greg is wise to go out into the world and really live life!”
Somehow my brother, who flunked out of university after one semester, slept on my mom’s couch for a year and a half, and then borrowed money to fly to Australia, where he now works at a bar, is the golden child. I guess absence makes the heart grow fonder.
“Hmmm . . . What else do I know?” She muses over bites of poached salmon (sans sauce avec une petite sprinkle of lemon juice). “Well, your cousin Julie just got a very high-level job with the Bank of America in New York,” my mom says, beaming like Julie is her own daughter and not her sister’s. “We could not be more proud of her. She’s always been a bright light, that one.”
“Great,” I mumble, my lips immersed in my martini. I am convinced that my mother doesn’t know what I do for a living. She sort of asked once, but when I started to explain, she lost interest and began sucking on Darrel’s neck.
“Oh! And Mandy and Kevin are expecting their fourth baby,” she says gleefully. “It’s so wonderful to see! No one has big families anymore.”
“That’s because everyone knows it’s crazy to have more than two kids.”
Darrel sniggers, but my mom looks like I just threw my drink in her face. “Why do you say that? Children are a joy!”
Easy for her to say, now that Greg and I are in our thirties. I don’t remember her being so full of joy when she was chasing us with the wooden spoon for drawing on the walls or stuffing raisins up our noses.
“I know . . .,” I agree, trying to placate her. “I just think kids are a lot of work . . . and expensive. I think two’s enough. Just my opinion.”
“Well . . .” She is obviously still annoyed. “Perhaps such judgments should be reserved for those who know something about raising a family?”
“Fine. Sorry for making a joke.” Why do I feel like I’m thirteen again? I order a third martini.
“Speaking of having families . . .,” my mom says, grabbing the saltshaker and preparing to sprinkle it in my open wound. “What’s going on with you and Sam? Have you sorted things out yet?”
My mom is the unofficial president of Sam’s fan club, which has never been very helpful, given the volatile nature of my relationship with him. I suspect she realizes, much as I do, that he is way out of my league and I will never find anyone even remotely as successful and attractive as he is. (Of course, she doesn’t know about the Jasmine incident. I thought it best to keep that to myself in case we do work things out.)
I take a deep breath. “Actually . . .” I clear my throat. I can say this now, bolstered by the vodka. “Actually, I’ve decided not to see him anymore.”
My mom snorts. “You’ve decided?”
The Journal of Mortifying Moments Page 3