by Kim Cayer
I worked well into my seventh month of pregnancy, although Marilyn and Madonna were shelved at the five-month stage. I watched what I ate and after popping out an eight-pound girl, I was left with having only twenty pounds to lose. I played one of those heavyset Marilyns until I was back to my fighting weight of 120 pounds. Suddenly I found myself incredibly busy. Between work, nursing and breast-pumping, I was also searching for some kind of babysitter. Nobody seemed pleased with my paltry offerings.
“Well, say I have a show in Scarborough at two p.m.,” I said. “I would need you at one o’clock and I’d probably be back at three.”
“You need me to come from my house, to come to your your house, for two hours only?” I’d often be asked.
“Yes, but I’d pay you top dollar,” I enticed them. “The going rate is, what, five bucks an hour? I’ll give you $7.”
The smart ones would say, “Ooohhh, wow, $14 for me to bus it over here and take care of a crying, pooping baby. Are you crazy?”
Sometimes the mother-in-law would babysit, but that was asking for a huge headache. She was forever doing math of some kind. Take her last duty as nanny.
“You knew Ben for how long before you got engaged? I dated his father for six years before we got married,” Phyliss, the current Mrs. Sheaffer, said.
“Yeah, but weren’t you married to a Mr. Tomlinson for four of those years?” I asked.
“But I still waited two more years to marry Ben’s father,” she said in her defence.
“Oh, please,” I begged. “That’s because Tomlinson wouldn’t sign the divorce papers. You got married the day after the divorce.”
She changed the subject. “And Shannon is three months old now. Look how chubby she is! You said she was born two months early – how can she be this big?”
“Maybe it was more like six weeks early.” I lied, she was born full-term, but Phyliss had such contrary ideas, premarital sex being one of them, that Ben and I had to fib to her my entire pregnancy. “She’s not due for another eight weeks,” I’d say, though I was as big as a barn and my hospital bag was already waiting by the front door.
“Then she’s far too big to be a premature baby,” she decided. “I think it’s your breast milk. It may be too rich for her. I heard formula is much better for babies these days.”
She was easy to read. After having made this ludicrous statement, she backed up to a cupboard by the fridge. I gave her the eye and walked over.
“Don’t tell me, Phyliss,” I warned her. “I better not find any kind of formula in your cupboard…”
She meekly tried to block me. I stopped and picked up Shannon, who was still in her car seat. “Listen, no singing telegram is worth you messing around with my baby…”
“Don’t deny me access to my grandchild!” she cried dramatically. “Fine! I won’t feed her formula! But your stupid ice-cube trays of breastmilk are so time-consuming!”
I placed my child down, making it look like she’d won this battle. “Just please stick to the feeding schedule. Breastmilk only.” I wanted to do something right by my child. Heaven knows I failed at having a natural childbirth. I was barely into the first contraction before I was bellowing for drugs. “I promise you, Phyliss. Before you know it, she’ll be eating baby food. Then you can knock yourself out.”
That brightened her, and we managed to part on a happier note. But I didn’t feel happy; I felt stressed. Seems every time I had to interact with Ben’s mother, it took the wind out of my sails. I’d walk into an office, or stroll into a wedding reception, dressed as Marilyn Monroe with a big phoney smile plastered on her face. I know – I saw photos people would send to the agency. I could always tell when I’d seen Phyliss before a gig. It wasn’t a smile on Marilyn; rather, it looked more like a snarl.
There seemed to be only one solution – turn this new Magee family unit into a single-income operation. As it was, Ben only worked about five months a year. Blame it on his lack of seniority, rainy days, his knack of oversleeping. Being allowed to not work at all – just sleep in ‘til he wanted, play his online video games, surf the net – he agreed to the idea with more enthusiasm than he’d shown on our wedding night.
Mind you, he still had a baby to look after. But how hard could that be when the working wife was often home most of the day, maybe stepping out at noon to do a quick telegram and returning at two p.m., just in time to wake Shannon up from her nap. Perhaps I may leave again at nine p.m., once Shannon was put down for the night. On the weekends, Ben had his work cut out for him. He actually had to warm up one of the many bottles I’d prepared earlier. And as the months wore on, he graduated to feeding Shannon baby food. I hope my poor baby carries no memories of having to wait for a dragon to be slain before she could get a mouthful of Pablum, and then having to wait some more while the warrior slew a gladiator before getting her next bite. Feedings could take a couple hours.
The deal was that Ben would stay home with the baby until one of two things happened – she reached full-time school age or the good times stopped rolling and Ben might have to go back to work. Yet even though we quickly found ourselves in a recession, it didn’t affect my business whatsoever. On the contrary, it seemed that the more miserable people got, the less they minded spending money on something that gave them a good laugh. Ben got to stay home and chill out to his heart’s content; we still dined on pizza and sushi nightly; and I worked hard those early years. While Ben had his heart set on a big-screen TV for the kitchen of the apartment we were renting, I was still managing to pinch pennies for a house. Could life get any better?
Fast forward about fifteen years. Things between Ben and I had come to a boil. Actually, we were on a steady simmer the entire marriage. Maybe we didn’t know each other long enough, maybe we rushed into marriage because I was pregnant, but truth be known, my husband and I were just not meant for each other. We created an amazing kid, but I prayed she inherited just my genes.
End-of-marriage stories are so twisted. How to capsulate in one paragraph? Remember the deal? I work, Ben plays at Mr. Mom, and we wait until Shannon reaches Grade One. By then, there was a multitude of options, including the one that I’d likely be home 80 per cent of the time school let out.
Shannon was six when I started dropping subtle hints that Ben think about going back to work. She was eight when I asked him to start looking for a job. By then we were in our new house and the bills were quite substantial. When Shannon had her tenth birthday and Ben dropped her fancy ice-cream cake, I saw the light. He was so nonchalant about it, and simply asked for another 40 bucks to go get another one. It was then that I fully realized he had no concept of money and what it cost just to get by. That night, I begged him to go back to work. I pointed out that we had a lot of new expenses, things like furnaces and air conditioners. When our baby was 12, even though I was still working often, it was nothing like the ‘old days’. I made it clear to Ben that I wasn’t getting any younger – Barbie telegrams were going to the performers who actually looked like they were in their early twenties. I hadn’t done a showgirl in over a year. Agents weren’t going to be so rude as to say, “Babe, you’re getting old. Can’t use you as a princess anymore. You’re more queenly now.” No, they just start to wean you off them. It’s kind of creepy anyways, when you’re 38 and you’re doing a showgirl for a 19-year-old. You hear the word ‘cougar’ more often than if you were on safari.
Back to tracking our landslide of a marriage through Shannon’s years. From 14 to 16, Ben and I did nothing but argue. It dawned on me that perhaps Ben didn’t want to go back to work, no matter how much I harped. In order to make ends meet, I was taking every job I could, even if it meant I had to drive across town in Friday rush-hour for a single show. Those turned ten-minute jobs into four-hour treks. And in 16 years of marriage, I know for a fact that Ben emptied the dishwasher twice and made me a meal five times and changed the bed sheets five times and never did a load of laundry. Some Mr. Mom. More like Mr. Stay At Home and Make Sure the
Kid Stays Alive Until the Mother Gets Back.
It came as blessed relief when Ben said he wanted out. I wanted out pretty much 15 years ago, but did I mention nobody could procrastinate like me? What I wasn’t prepared for was Ben’s ultimatum. He would leave, gladly, once I paid him his “due”. Say what?
“$100,000,” Ben decreed. “For the years I’ve been married to you. I think I should get that much.”
“Where am I going to get a hundred thou?” I blustered.
“You have savings,” he stated. And that was true, I did have some money saved up. Isn’t that what all sensible women do? But there was nothing close to $100,000!
However, I was so eager to be rid of him that I agreed to the deal. “Fine, I’ll give you $100,000. Of course, not all at once, but maybe over ten years or something.”
And that’s when any love remaining between us completely flew out the window. “I want all of it, at once, and I’ll be gone for good.”
“How am I going to manage that?” I cried.
“You cash in your RRSPs, your investments, your savings…”
“That still won’t amount to what you want!” I retorted. “And you want to leave me penniless? Don’t forget, we have a kid in high school, going to university soon. You’re going to do that to us?”
“I don’t care how you get me the money, just get it. I want out as much as you want me out,” Ben said with a sneer.
And then came four, five months of utter hell. All Ben did was nag at me for his money. I set up a separate bank account, labelling it Ben’s Escape Fund. I cashed in my savings and dumped the money into that account. I found two banks willing to give me lines of credit and with a sick stomach, I threw another thirty grand into the secret stash. I cashed in every coin jar and piggy bank we had in the house, coming up with another $250. But I still had fifty thousand to come up with, and I felt I was out of options.
Ben would wake up. “Good morning, Shannon,” he’d say to the kid. To me, “Madeline, did you get me my money yet?”
Ben would lose at his World of Warcraft game. “Goddam stupid game! If you gave me my money, I’d be playing this in my own place.”
Ben would take a shower while I had the dishwasher and the laundry machine running. “No hot water! If you gave me my money, I’d be in a place with all the hot water I wanted!”
Money, money, money. He didn’t let up. And it was getting to me. All I would have to do is find myself in the same room as him and he’d start the same old litany. I began to take the back roads on the way home from gigs. I just wanted the peace and quiet, the lonely roads, the time spent to myself. Going to work was like getting a day-pass out of Hell. Going home just put me in the worst kind of funk.
I was in such a bad state of mind that – and I don’t want to sound strange – suicide would flit across my mind. It wasn’t like I was EVER a fan of suicide before all this trouble started. It was just that lately, the idea of committing suicide didn’t seem scary, or even crazy. It felt more like a welcome escape from the life I was living.
There was one strong reason why I knew I would never go through with it, and that was obviously my child. Shannon was turning out way better than I could have imagined, and having the stigma of a mom who hung herself (or whatever method I would use) would surely haunt her. Plus she needed me; I was her mother.
And then one day, while driving all the way to Windsor (six-hour round-trip) to do a ten-minute French maid, the answer just slid into place. I knew where I would live! And it would be cheap, and it was a place I knew very well…
I discussed the idea with Shannon, who was completely against it. “That’s crazy!” she exclaimed. “Just stay home.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I admitted. “Your dad is making me mental. All I do is cry in this house. I’m tired of feeling like this. I need to get that last bit of money together and I need to be away from him.”
“Tell me about it,” she noted. “I wish you would just go to a women’s shelter.”
After a particularly loud shouting match once, I barricaded myself in Shannon’s room and had my fifth big cry of the day. Shannon pulled out her laptop. “I’m afraid things might get worse, Mom,” she said, looking concerned. “Let’s see if we can find you a place where you can go and Dad can’t find you.”
We did find a few and I held onto that list for a couple months. One day, again after a fight that had my new neighbours all agog, I ran to my car and peeled out of the driveway. I was going to one of those shelters, I decided. A moment later, I assessed the situation. Did they accept people who would be coming and going at all hours, obviously earning enough money that they could be staying in a hotel nightly if they wanted? I just didn’t feel that I would belong, that I would somehow be discriminated against. No, I couldn’t live at a shelter.
“I don’t like the idea of you living like that,” Shannon pouted.
“Really, Shannon, don’t worry about me,” I soothed her. “I want to live there! I’m actually looking forward to it!”
Ben knew I couldn’t take much more. Perhaps the packed suitcase gave him a clue. “Oh, you think you can leave, do you?” he jeered. “And you’re leaving Shannon with me? You know that’s called child abandonment, huh?”
I wasn’t too concerned. In a couple years, Shannon would be an adult and could do what she wanted, even if that included living with me. “Just keep pushing me, Ben. Keep running your mouth about money. I sure could save up a lot quicker if you got a job. You know, dual income? I wouldn’t even care if you didn’t give me any of your paycheque, as long as I’m not paying for your games and your coffees and your lottery tickets—”
“I’m not getting a job, I told you! Just get me my money! Get me my money! GET ME MY MONEY!” And he kept shouting it at me, not six inches away from my face, spittle flying into the corner of my eye and into my mouth. He was acting like he might suffer a breakdown, which only further angered me. Yes, I know he wanted out, but how bad did he have it?
“Leave me alone!” I shouted, running from the bedroom and down the stairs. Ben followed me into the living room. It wasn’t the Ben I knew though. This was some demented guy who had grown tired of using his words and was considering using some other kind of tool. “How long do I have to wait for my money?!” he screamed.
“Just go away!” I cried, running into the kitchen. He followed me, and it would have seemed childish if he didn’t have the beet-red face and clenched jaw. He repeated his money-grubbing line again. I flew back up the stairs and into the bedroom. I was going to lock the door on him.
I had just clicked the lock into place when BAM! he forced the door open. I don’t even think he bothered to see if it was locked; he just threw his weight against the door. “You get me my money!!!” he roared, right up in my grill again.
I backed up in fear, bumping into my suitcase. Or maybe the suitcase reached out for me, just a reminder to say, “Hey, I’m here if you need me.” I placed my hand on the handle of the case and suddenly a thought came into my mind that felt as right as rain. IT WAS TIME TO GO. I didn’t want to be in the house if things were going to get worse than this. As it was, I felt fearful. Maybe not that I would be killed, but afraid that I would get the shit kicked out of me.
Grabbing the suitcase, I shoved past him. “I’m leaving!” I screamed. “I’ll get your stupid money, but I can’t be around you anymore!”
“Go ahead and leave,” he yelled. “Just get me my money!”
I ran out of the house with my purse and my suitcase. Knowing he wouldn’t hear the garage door opening, I quickly grabbed the supplies I’d left there and threw them into my car. Boy, I didn’t think I was taking much, but in no time at all, my car was completely full.
I walked back to the front of my house and snapped a photograph of it with my cellphone. I was ready to go. Yes, I was crying, sobbing actually, but this had to happen. I turned my back on my lovely house and walked over to my next place of residence – my 2004 Suzuki Swift.
Chapter Two
When did the idea of living in my car really start feeling like a good idea? I believe it was the day I had three gigs, all in the Richmond Hill area. A morning, late-afternoon and evening show. Instead of wasting gas going to and fro, instead of subjecting myself to more haranguing at home, I decided to while away the downtime in my car. I caught up on bookwork. I ate a delicious lunch that was far too large, and it turned into a sufficient dinner as well. I had a much-needed two-hour nap, woken only by my pre-set Blackberry alarm. I caught up with a couple girlfriends via old-fashioned telephone conversation. All while in my vehicle.
And you know, it wasn’t too bad. I realized I could probably be quite comfortable residing in my car. At least it would be a respite from my exhausting, negative-energy husband. I began thinking about it on a level that probably wasn’t healthy. Obsessing on it until I finally brought the subject up with Shannon. Of course the plan didn’t sit well with her, even though I stressed I was surprisingly excited about the idea.
“It’s just not done, Mom!” she said. “It’s kind of creepy actually.”
“Well, you have to admit my life at home sucks, Shannon.” I stated the obvious. “And it’s not like it’ll be for a long time. It’s just until I can get that last bit of money together for your dad. Then I’ll move back in, he’ll move out and life will be beautiful.”