So she was greatly relieved when she turned on the light and saw that not only was the switch plate firmly in place but that the kitchen was precisely as she’d left it. Her coffee cup from breakfast two days before sat in the sink, half-filled with murky water. The dish towel she’d dropped on me counter was still wadded up into a ball. The microwave and ail the other accoutrements of her well-stocked kitchen appeared to have spent the weekend unmolested.
Even so, Laura held her breath as she went into the dining room. There, she began to see subtle signs of her husband having moved out. One of the ceramic hurricane lamps was gone. Half the wineglasses, displayed in a wooden case with sliding-glass doors, had vanished. The only sign of the hand-painted pitcher from Mexico, a wedding present from Roger’s best friend from college, was a space on the shelf where it used to be.
Growing more and more uneasy, Laura stepped into the living room. Books were missing from shelves, leaving behind gaping holes. The swivel chair was gone. The TV and the VCR were still in place, but where the stereo had once been there was nothing but a bare rectangle outlined by dust.
She sank onto the couch, suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that Roger was gone. She felt his absence as strongly as she had once felt his presence. She was once again struck by the momentousness of what was happening. Everything in her life was changing. Elements that had once been stable were suddenly shifting, moving under her feet like the ground during an earthquake.
She told herself it was for the best. That it had to be this way.
As she leaned her head back, she hit the hard edge of the couch, instead of the pillows. She closed her eyes, partly to fight the tears that threatened to fall, but even more to concentrate on a vision that was pushing its way up from her unconscious. Suddenly it was clear, a memory that had been tucked away for more than three decades, a moment that had once meant so much to her that it had burned itself indelibly into her brain.
She was just a girl, no more than ten or twelve, walking home from a friend’s house. It was the beginning of December, just as it was now; early evening, probably not much later than five o’clock, but darkness had already fallen. Hurrying down the street where she lived, Laura peered into the windows of the brightly lit houses she passed.
Sneaking peeks into other people’s lives was a game she’d invented. She enjoyed imagining the scenes inside. That night she conjured up jovial fathers, just home from work, relieved to finally be home. She pictured safe, secure children, freshly bathed, well fed, swathed in contentment as comfortable as their soft flannel pajamas.
Most of all, she imagined the mothers. The women who were at the core of each household, the soul of the family. She remembered musing about how good it must feel to be in the center, surrounded by a loving family, a cozy house, the feeling that everything was just as it should be: fresh-smelling sheets and towels folded neatly in the linen closet, scented soap in the bathrooms, cookies still warm from the oven spread out on a plate.
How desperately she wished that one day she’d be a woman like that! Laura experienced a yearning so great it manifested itself in the form of a pain, a tightness near her heart. She could see herself in that role. She needed to believe that one day she would be that woman.
The way her life was turning out, the brightly lit house with the fragrant towels and the freshly baked cookies and the loving family united under one solid roof would never be hers.
Laura dragged herself off the couch, bracing for the trip upstairs. She could picture what lay ahead. The half-empty closet, the bare drawers that were usually weighed down by stacks of T-shirts and sweaters and white shorts ... and the bed, once theirs, now permanently hers. She dreaded it, but at the same time wanted to see for herself that it was real, that Roger really was gone.
She’d climbed only two steps when she heard the back door swing open.
“Mom?” Evan torpedoed into the house, zeroing in on her like a heat-seeking missile. His face lit up when he caught sight of her. His blue eyes were shining, his cheeks pink with cold. Triumphantly he held up a toy car.
“Look what Grandpa bought me! Here, Mom, watch. You turn it on here, and it moves like this.... Watch, Mom! Isn’t it cool?”
“Very cool.” Laura went over and gave him a big hug. “I missed you, monkey.”
Not sounding particularly convincing, he echoed, “I missed you, too.” His eyes still fixed on the four-wheel wonder jerking around on the carpet, he asked, “Where’s Dad?”
Laura’s mother chose that moment to poke her head in through the doorway. “Here’s Evan’s stuff. Nintendo, Crash Dummies, Key Force ... Oh, his pajamas and his toothbrush are here somewhere, too.”
“Thanks, Mom. Want to come in and—”
“No, no. Daddy’s waiting in the car. How was the ski trip?”
“Great.”
“That’s good.” She glanced around the living room. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” Laura feigned interest in Evan’s new toy, not wanting her mother to see the tears that chose that moment to well up in her eyes. “Thanks for baby-sitting.”
“I’m glad you had the chance to get away.” Her mother didn’t have to express the concern she was feeling. It was clearly reflected in her face.
After the two women had chatted briefly about the hazards of winter sports, the even more treacherous hazards of traffic, and Evan’s impressive junk-food consumption during the previous forty-eight hours, Laura was left alone with her son once again.
She sank onto the couch, watching him while he played with the latest miracle from Toys “R” Us. “Sounds like you had fun at Grandma and Grandpa’s.”
He didn’t glance up. “Where’s Dad?”
Laura hesitated. “Ev, this is the weekend your dad moved out, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” In an instant the new toy was forgotten. He was silent for a few minutes, staring at his shabby sneakers. “Hey, Mom? Whose idea was it to get a divorce?”
She swallowed hard. “It’s really for the best—’
“But whose idea was it?”
“Mine.”
Evan jerked his head up. “Why?” he demanded, his voice edged with hysteria, his face tense. “Why did you do it? Why can’t we just keep everything the same?”
“Because, Evan.” It took every ounce of energy Laura possessed to remain calm. “Daddy and I weren’t getting along. We feel too differently about too many things—”
“Daddy told me he doesn’t want to get a divorce.”
Thank you, Roger, Laura thought grimly. And thanks, Evan, for setting me up, asking me a question you already knew the answer to.
“Honey, I know it’s hard for you to understand. And it’s not easy for me to explain. I know it’s not fair that grown ups’ mistakes end up affecting their kids....”
She could tell from the look on his face that her words, meant to be soothing, were having no effect. Her son looked angry. Confused. Most of all, hurt.
“Oh, Ev.” She reached over and took him in her arms. “What’s important is that Daddy and I both love you. We’ll always love you. If only you could understand that that’s something that’s never going to change.”
As she held him close against her, Laura’s eyes lighted upon the empty spots on the bookshelf in front of her. They were a glaring reminder of what had once been here, a part of this house, but was now gone. For Evan, these bare spots, these holes, were just the beginning. Overcome with sadness, she buried her face in her son’s neck, clinging to him as hard as he clung to her.
* * * *
Laura walked into her local CVS drugstore and was startled to see that Christmas was in full swing. An irritatingly “lite” version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” assaulted her the moment she pushed through the glass doors. Passing through the “Seasonal” aisle, she noted that the usual decorations were crammed onto the shelves, boxes of glittery tinsel and shiny glass ornaments and red velvet bows, their cheesiness magically elevated to someth
ing glorious. Candies that only weeks earlier had been packaged in orange and black for Halloween now sported foil wrappers in blue and green and red, with snowflakes on the Milky Ways and sprigs of holly on the Nestlé’s Crunch. Even the cologne bottles looked positively irresistible in their festive gift boxes.
It was a shock to realize that while she’d been changing her life, the rest of the world had been up to business as usual. Laura dreaded Christmas, certain that the joy and goodwill toward men that everyone else was apparently feeling would only make her feel more alone. As she waited in line, cradling a box of tampons, a package of minipads, and an industrial-size jar of Advil, she couldn’t envision experiencing the excitement that, in past years, had accompanied all the wonderful, corny traditions she’d grown up with: The first glimpse of a Christmas tree. The fragrance of pine. Bright colored lights, especially the blue ones. Stacks of presents in silver paper tied with red satin ribbons.
The salesclerk rang up Laura’s purchases, then flashed her a big smile as she handed over the bag of menstrual paraphernalia. “Have a nice day!”
Laura couldn’t get out of the store fast enough. So her first reaction was annoyance, when, as she stood by the door, fumbling in her purse for her car keys, the person behind her suddenly turned and tapped her on the arm.
“Laura? Hi!”
The woman was one of the mothers who routinely hung around school, dropping her kids off and picking them up with the dependability of a Buckingham Palace guard.
“Oh, uh, hello.” Laura never had been very good at remembering names. While the other mothers had apparently developed close friendships hanging out at the playground and hovering outside the school waiting for the final bell to ring, Laura had never quite edged her way into their society.
Still, this mother—Mary Ann or Mary Lou or maybe just plain Mary—had always been one of the friendlier ones, smiling and saying hello every time their paths crossed.
“Are you and Roger going to the PTA Family Dinner Friday night?” asked Mary. “I’ve still got some tickets left.”
Laura hesitated for only a moment. She’d been dreading this sort of situation, knowing that sooner or later she’d have to go public.
“I guess you haven’t heard. Roger and I are splitting up.”
Splitting up. She’d given a lot of thought to which phrase to adopt. What was required was a word that people would understand, but one that was not overly descriptive. One that skirted the issue, avoiding pinning a label on something that was too threatening for many people to feel comfortable around.
Still, none of her backup work had prepared her for Mary’s reaction. The woman’s face grew pale before Laura’s eyes. Her expression changed, her mouth turned down, her eyes looked at the floor. Laura felt as if she were watching high-tech morphing in a horror movie.
It was that word, the one for which splitting up was a euphemism. Divorce. Mary—happily married Mary, or at least Mary who wanted to believe she was happily married—was afraid divorce might he contagious.
“I’m sorry, I hadn’t ... No one ... Well, uh, I . . .” Frantically Mary glanced around the store. Relief crossed her face when she spotted a display of socks.
“Oh, look! Socks! I’ve been desperate to find socks! You know how they always get lost in the dryer. I swear mine must eat them. . . . See you, Laura!”
Later, waiting outside Evan’s school with all the other moms, Laura was still slightly dazed from the encounter. She was partly amused, partly astonished, and, she had to admit, hurt. When she caught sight of Mary halfway across the schoolyard, chatting happily with a woman in a jogging suit, she made a point of standing behind a tree.
She thought she was alone, but Grace, the mother of one of Evan’s best friends, sauntered over.
“Matthew’s been bugging me about when we can have Evan over,” she said congenially. “How about this weekend?”
“That’s probably okay. I’ll have to call you.” Laura hesitated. “I guess you’ve heard the news.”
“About you and Roger? Sure.”
Laura held her breath.
“You know,” said Grace, leaning forward and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone, “half the women in this town would kill to be in your position.”
Laura just stared at her. “What, without a date for New Year’s Eve?”
“Having the financial freedom to walk out the way you are. Oh, sure, a lot of them would never admit it. They’d do anything rather than face it.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed as she stared off into space at something too far away for Laura to see. “I know I’d do anything to be in your shoes.”
* * * *
Laura inhaled the fragrance of the steaming coffee before her, making a point of appreciating not only its taste but every one of its other sensual aspects as well. At ten dollars a pound, Kona coffee was worth savoring.
Whether Hawaii’s finest was actually worth the price, she couldn’t say. What she did know was that she’d been unable to resist splurging the day before. After finishing up her usual Friday-afternoon errands, she’d stopped in at the gourmet shop across the street from the supermarket. Food, Glorious Food was a delightful emporium where she’d done her share of drooling, but had never actually parted with any money. Before she had a chance to remember that a penny saved was a penny earned, she’d filled a basket with a pound of the coffee, a box of Scottish shortbread, and a hunk of cheese so foul smelling it was bound to be tasty.
Now, sitting in her kitchen, alone on a Saturday afternoon, she was about to sample the loot from her shopping spree. She closed her eyes and took a sip of coffee.
Yes, she decided, it was worth the price. I’m worth the price.
Laura realized she’d entered a brand-new phase. No longer feeling as if she’d been run over by a large vehicle with four-wheel drive, she’d begun looking at herself— and her life—differently.
Perhaps it was the fact that she had begun talking more openly about her decision to get divorced. Mary’s horrified reaction to her news had stuck with her, as had Grace’s contention that Laura Briggs was Clover Hollow’s newest idol. They were bizarre extremes. Still, she realized that while she was amused at having become Topic of the Week for the curbside gossips hanging around outside the schoolyard, her own conviction that she was doing what was best for her enabled her to let the opinions of others run off her like rain off a slicker. What was more likely was that her change in attitude was simply due to the passage of time.
Wanting to be nice to herself was only part of it. Suddenly she wanted to look good. Not only good; fantastic. Better than she’d ever looked before. That morning she’d put on mascara and blush, even though she had no plans to go anywhere more glamorous than 7-Eleven for milk. She’d studied her earring collection for a good five minutes, agonizing over which pair to wear. Finally she’d settled on porcelain flamingos, a gift from Claire that up until now she’d never had the courage to wear. She’d even tossed a scarf around her neck, a flamboyant touch that would have been much too Isadora Duncan for the old Laura.
She walked around humming, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. With Roger out of the house, she was free to do the things she’d yearned to do for years but had never dared try because of the conflicts she knew were bound to erupt.
Using her wedding china, for example. It was hard to believe that such pretty dishes, pure white trimmed with a thick border of cobalt blue and edged in gold, could have been the source of so much tension.
When they’d first gotten engaged, Laura had casually announced her intention of registering at Bloomingdale’s. Roger was outraged.
“Registering?” His voice was dripping with disdain. “I don’t believe in that.”
“Why not?” Laura’s bafflement was sincere. “It’s no secret that everyone we invite to the wedding is going to buy us a present. Why not help them get us things we want? Otherwise we’re going to end up with eleven woks and eighteen fondue pots.�
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“The people who know us and care about us should just know what we want,” Roger insisted.
In the end, Laura had gone ahead and registered. And while she never would have admitted it to Roger, it was one of the most pleasurable hour and a halfs she’d ever spent. Sauntering around Bloomingdale’s housewares department, making a list of everything she wanted, was tantamount to living out the fantasy of every woman who’d ever thumbed wistfully through a mail-order catalog. She felt like Lady Di when things between Chuck and her were still good.
“I’d like a dozen of those wineglasses No, make that two dozen. They break so easily. And a set of these place mats. Oh, look! Matching napkins! And napkin rings! I want them all. Now let’s see what you’ve got in frying pans....”
Choosing the china pattern had been the greatest challenge. So many lovely designs, so many factors to consider. In one set, she adored the plates but hated the cups. In another, the pattern looked wonderful on every piece except the serving platters. A third didn’t come with dessert dishes.
Not that it mattered. She had attempted to use the set only once, at a New Year’s Eve dinner for six she put together during their first year of marriage. Roger froze when he emerged from the shower and found her teetering on a kitchen chair, taking the good china out of the cabinet above the refrigerator.
“I can’t believe you registered,” he muttered. “Especially since you knew how I felt about it.”
Her holiday spirit drooped instantly. Still, when the doorbell rang a few minutes later and Claire and her husband stood in the doorway with three huge bottles of champagne, Laura did her best to play the role of the party girl. All evening she laughed too loudly and ate too much. She flirted with Jim Tiller and paid his wife, Lynn, too many compliments on her new haircut. She even made a few jokes about Roger’s angry silence, kidding him about the effects of too much champagne.
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