She asks me about my husband’s job. Another potential source of embarrassment.
“He works, usually, six days a week. That’s retail. Sometimes he takes off a Saturday, if my father doesn’t mind too much. But if he’s off, he usually likes to…”
I really don’t want to tell her this, but she leans forward. Yes? she asks with her body language.
“He likes to go upstate and play war games,” I say with a deep sigh. “It’s with paint. Let’s say it’s not my favorite thing about him. Of course, it’s not as bad as hunting.”
“Not as bad as if he hunted, you mean?”
“Not as bad as when he hunts,” I correct her, and I can’t believe that after a dozen years of marriage Rio still hasn’t given it up, and I still haven’t gotten used to it. They always say that you shouldn’t marry a man with the idea of changing him, and I wouldn’t really change him—not completely—but hunting? Civilized men, as I’ve told Rio more than once, do not go kill animals. They become veterinarians, they work for animal rights, they stop their cars to bring wounded deer to animal hospitals….
“He really wasn’t cut out to be a furniture salesman six days a week,” I say by way of explanation. “I mean, my father could do it eight days a week and think that visiting furniture factories in Italy qualifies as a vacation.
“But Rio…” I say, and I’ve heard him say the same thing often enough “…was supposed to do something more exciting, something hotter, faster, sexier. And I suppose he would have, if he hadn’t married me.”
“What do you think he’d be doing today?” Dr. Benjamin asks me.
“Oh, maybe be a race driver in the Indy 500?”
The doctor says that sounds pretty dangerous. She’s obviously never been on the Seaford-Oyster Bay Expressway with Rio after midnight. The Indy would be a piece of cake.
“He likes danger. He likes to gamble. Maybe he’d be a professional con man. I don’t know. Or a spy. He loves all those James Bond sort of gadgets. He reads the Sharper Image catalog the way some men read Playboy.”
She asks me if I think that Rio resents me for the choices he’s made.
“Maybe not resents, but it’s there.”
“And you?” she asks me. “What might you have become? Where might you be?”
At my office in the D & D Building in New York City, decorating the apartments of the rich and famous? In my own design studio, planning color schemes and choosing fabrics with other people’s money?
When I don’t answer she says, “Becoming a wife and mother can be ambition enough,” but neither of us believe it. It’s a dead-end job, and we both know it. At some point the kids grow up, the marriage grows stale….
“Yes it is,” I say a little too adamantly. The fact is, I don’t want to talk to Ronnie Benjamin about my marriage. I want to talk about my mother and how she didn’t raise me. I want to talk about my father and how he betrayed me. I want to talk about my kids and how I can save them. I want to talk about the damn two thousand dollars in my wallet, but I do not want to talk about Rio.
So naturally her next question is: “Tell me about your relationship with your husband.”
I hate this leather chair. The air-conditioning turns it into an iceberg. “What do you want to know?”
She suggests I tell her what I think she ought to know. Whatever I’m comfortable with.
I tell her that I don’t know what’s important, and I reread the diplomas behind her as if I am making sure she is worthy of my secrets.
“Of course you do,” she says. “It’s your life, your marriage. No one knows better than you. You are the expert here.”
Oy. If I’m the expert, we’re in big trouble. “It’s a good marriage, I suppose. Rio is good to me. We have three terrific children, a nice house.”
It sounds lame. Was this all I wanted from life? Is it all I want now? “Okay, go with this,” she says. “My favorite thing about Rio is…?”
…his looks. I mean, the man is killer gorgeous. But how shallow would that sound? I try to come up with something else. Loyal makes him sound like a dog. Adventurous makes him sound like a bounder. Dangerous makes him sound like one of the Sopranos.
“Well,” I say. “He’s a good father. He works very hard at a job he hates just to support us.”
“He says that he hates his job? He’s told you this?” Dr. Benjamin asks.
I nod. “Pretty much. But he likes the money.”
“And Rio’s favorite thing about me…?” she prompts.
“The money,” I say with a do-I-have-to-answer? look.
“Really?” she presses.
Of course really. Am I hot? Am I cool? Am I a good sport about anything the man does? I get up and go to the window. “I hope not. But I can’t think of anything else.”
“Well, how about this, then,” she offers. “Rio should love me for…”
That’s a lot easier. “Well, first off, because I am a wonderful mother. I care about my kids more than anything, and I try to think about the long-term effects of everything I do with regard to them.
“Also, it would be nice if he appreciated my artistic abilities. He acts as if what I do, my decorating and the furniture painting I do with Bobbie, is some little hobby anyone could do if they wanted to. Which isn’t true. I’m good at it. Really good. But Rio acts as if it’s something to keep me busy and make dinner late. As if anything I do can’t really be worthwhile. Especially lately.”
“He’s changed?”
“I guess I’ve changed. No, I know I have. I’m so preoccupied and nervous, but he isn’t helping it any when he treats me like I’m some mental case. I mean, I am here, so maybe I am, but I think he’s making it all worse.”
I try to compose myself, but the more I say to Dr. Benjamin, the more things occur to me that I feel I ought to say aloud.
“And this is probably a terrible thing to say, but I think he likes me better this way than self-sufficient. I think it makes him feel more ‘the man’ to have me needing him to hold me together so I don’t come apart at the seams. And the more helpless I am the more Rio seems to love me.” I pause for a moment and realize that the more helpless I am, the more I can’t even stand, never mind like, myself. I ask if she can explain that.
Fortunately, she can. She tells me that I am the kind of woman who values self-reliance and that my perceived—and she is careful to stress that word—lack of control over the situation at hand is causing me to condemn myself. She explains that everyone holds certain character traits in especially high esteem, and that learning which traits those are and striving to possess them in abundance is a good way to build self-esteem and contentment.
“And maybe—” Dr. Benjamin says, tapping my folder “—that’s a good place for us to start next time.”
“Isn’t there anything I can do in the meantime?” I beg her. “On my own, beyond therapy?”
“In large measure, you’re doing it,” she reassures me, pulling out some handouts she thinks may help me to feel in control of my situation. She tells me that there is no magic pill, no secret formula.
“Damn,” I say. “I was really counting on a pair of ruby slippers.”
CHAPTER 20
Rio is, once again, in a bad mood from the moment he comes through the door. Maybe he misses the kids. I know I do. At any rate, he grumbles at me, muttering something about the goddamn bulldozers turning the backyard into some community litter box, as if this is my fault. Let’s remember whose idea this pool was, shall we?
Then he goes straight to our bathroom, where he showers, changes and comes down fresh and clean, asking me where I’d like to go out to dinner. As if I really care. Casually he mentions he’s out of shaving cream, which is simply impossible, and points out, tactfully, that I am wearing two different shoes. I explain how I tried on one of each to see which looked better and then had to answer the phone, and then got busy with I have no idea what else. By then he’s lost all interest in why I have on one sandal and one wedge.<
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He suggests we call in for pizza and I agree, despite the fact that I hate pizza. I’m not hungry, anyway. After he calls, he turns a MacGyver rerun on the TV and starts going over a stack of bills, mumbling and cursing under his breath, oblivious to me. I would feel slighted, but it is actually a joy to be free of his watchful eyes for a few minutes. It seems like a good time to practice the “neurobic exercises” from Dr. Benjamin’s handouts. First I study the den, trying to memorize every detail like the article suggests. Then, with my eyes closed, I get up and walk to the kitchen without stumbling into anything.
Keeping my eyes shut, I go to the pantry, pull out my casual Pottery Barn celadon-green dishes (they’re square so I know I’ve got the right ones) and the oversize glasses with the dragonflies on them and carry them to the table. Then back to the side-by-side refrigerator, which I open, feeling around inside for a liter of soda. I pull one out, realize it might be water, and for a moment stand there, stymied.
Taste, I think, fumbling to open it and sticking my finger in. Can I really set up for dinner without looking?
“Is it Stevie Wonder Night or something?” I hear Rio ask, and I open my eyes before he’s finished getting the words out. He’s standing with his eyes closed, groping in front of him and wagging his head back and forth.
“I was just practicing.” I am embarrassed at being caught in the act of looking foolish.
“For what?” he asks, his head cocked awkwardly and his tongue hanging out of his mouth like an idiot. “A brain tumor?”
“It’s an exercise,” I say defensively. “I thought you were busy and wouldn’t mind.”
“An exercise in what?” He leans up against the doorjamb, his arms crossed easily across his chest, looking mildly amused. “That whaddyacallit? Futility?”
“I’m trying to strengthen my memory.” It makes sense on paper. Taking away one of the senses makes you concentrate harder, and that makes the brain work.
“You think you’re gonna forget how to set the table? Things get that bad, Ted, I’m checking you into your mother’s hotel. I don’t think I can take two loonies at the same time.”
That’s true enough, but after my session with Dr. Benjamin I came up with a plan. “I was thinking it would be a good weekend for you to go up to that cabin your friend has and do some paintballing or something.”
He looks at me as if my marbles are coming out my ears. “Go away and leave you alone here with Looney Tunes? What are you, brain damaged? You must think I’m as crazy as the two of you!” His voice actually squeaks with horror as he says it. “Outta the question. No way I’m gonna leave you two here. Not now, with you like this.”
There is no nice way to tell him that his hovering is making matters worse. That my self-esteem, along with my mental health, is now in jeopardy. I tell him it will be better if he isn’t home, if he is out paintballing in upstate New York. “Oh, we’ll be fine,” I say lightly. “I’ll take her shopping and—”
“Oh, sure. This is a flash—you’re not fine. What if you have another accident or something? Hit an elephant this time? Or what if you get lost again? No way am I gonna leave you and your mother to go driving all around and spending more money.”
“Is this about money?”
“No, it’s not about money,” he says, holding one hand to his chest as if I’ve mortally wounded him with the accusation. “Even though you gotta admit you’ve been going a little overboard in the spending department lately. I mean, I didn’t want to say nothing, but three hundred dollars in the lingerie department at Bloomingdale’s? How could a few lousy nightshirts cost so much?”
“I didn’t buy—” I start to say, but Rio’s eyebrow rises skeptically. I was in Bloomingdale’s and I did pick up a couple of things for my mother. And a bra. Three hundred dollars? I really don’t think so. But then I didn’t think I made those withdrawals, either, so what good is my recollection?
Rio is staring hard at me. His gaze shifts down from my face to my body, making me feel self-conscious. “So you at least bought something lacy, maybe?” he asks as if he is hoping I have.
“I don’t think so,” I say honestly, not wanting to go down that road. “I think I bought a bra and some stuff for my mother.”
“For three hundred dollars?” He is leaning against the wall, looking lanky, looking interested in me for the first time in a long time. For some reason I can’t explain, it makes me uncomfortable. I busy myself with putting out the cups and saucers for some coffee.
“Are you sure you’re not forgetting something else you bought?” he asks, sidling up behind me, his warm breath tickling the back of my neck. Usually that drives me crazy, gets me “hot to trot,” as Rio puts it. Tonight it’s so much hot air.
When I tell him I don’t think I’ve forgotten any purchases, he twirls me around and unbuttons the top button of my blouse, taking a peek inside.
“New?”
“No.”
He backs me up against the counter and his leg presses against me, inserting itself between my own. I’m not fighting him, but I’m sure not encouraging him, either. He has to struggle, but he finally pulls my shirt free of my jeans and plays with the waistband until he finds the edge of my panties.
“New?” he asks again.
Actually, they are. In an attempt to make myself irresistible I have broken down and bought a pair of those thongs that make me feel as if I’m being violated by a crazed periodontist with a floss fetish.
His fingers splay across my lower back, working their way inside my jeans until they are snug against my naked behind. “Oh, yeah,” he says, his breath now hot against my ear. “These are new. And definitely worth their weight in sex toys!”
He is playful, not pushy, and I don’t know if he expects me to melt in his arms or swat away his hands. “If you want to, I guess tonight we could…”
Could I sound less enthusiastic? Sure, if I were dead.
“Gee, thanks,” he says sarcastically, backing away from me, leaving cold air to rush against the skin above my jeans. “I guess it was a lousy idea, what with how you’re not feeling so great.” Every day he has a new euphemism for his assessment of my mental health.
“I’m perfectly fine.” Slowly, seductively, to prove it, I run my hand down his chest and then halfheartedly struggle to get his shirt out of his pants. When he pulls away, I’m not sorry.
“So you really want me to go?” he asks. “You’re not scared to be here on your own?”
I assure him I really, really want him to go. Far.
“What about those mice?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.
“I thought you said they’d eat the bait you put out and take it back to their nest or whatever it’s called that mice live in.”
He shrugs, as if maybe they will and maybe they won’t. I figure they’ll see the poison and yell “Raid” or “Brand X,” and pack their itsy-bitsy suitcases and leave my home, and I tell him that mice or no mice, I’ll be fine.
“I should really go?” he asks, framing my face with his hands and looking into my eyes as if he can find a truth to hold on to there.
“My mother and I will be fine. We’ll bond!”
“Yeah, like Krazy Glue,” he says, obviously amused at the pun.
“We’ll be great, Rio,” I assure him again. We will be, I repeat to myself.
Just what I needed, a new mantra that includes my mother.
We’ll be great. Mom and I will be just great.
CHAPTER 21
Rio is packing his own bag and heading for the hills. Frankly, it is a relief to see him go. Having him and my mother pick at me at the same time would be more than I could take.
So fine. Let him go. My mother will no doubt be happy to step right into his shoes and tell me I am heading to hell in a handcart, or to the sanitarium in a Subaru.
“I called a service,” Rio says when he comes back into the bedroom with the duffel bag he always takes away with him. “Write it down in your Palm thingy. They’ll pick
you up at eleven and take you to South Winds, wait for you, and take you and the fruitcake back here. “
“I could have called,” I say. “In fact, I’m capable of driving—”
He harrumphs and warns me, “Don’t even say it, Teddi. Don’t make me take the keys, or the distributor cap or something. I get agita just thinking about it. “
“It was a tiny dent,” I tell him, referring to hitting the stop sign at the end of our block on my way home from the doctor’s office. “It’s not like I wrecked the car. People must hit stop signs all the time—”
“Yeah, well, screw other people,” he says. “This is about you. Didn’t you tell me that you were on some other planet?”
I’d said I was distracted. What else could I have said? It wasn’t like I was driving down the street and thought I think I’ll ram that stop sign.
“You got lost going to the funny farm last week, you hit a stop sign this week. What’s next, Ted? A kid on Rollerblades? It’s summer, the kids are all over the place. It’s safer for you to take a limo. Think of yourself as so spoiled you don’t even gotta drive yourself around. How’s that?”
“I feel like a prisoner,” I say.
“Great,” Rio says sarcastically, shoving clean underwear into the duffel as if he wants to kill it. “Well, you know what, Teddi? I don’t give two shits what it feels like, so long as you’re safe. If I had my way, you’d spend the weekend at South Winds, where somebody’d be watching you all the time to make sure you’re safe.”
“Don’t say that,” I warn him. “What do you think is going to happen to me here? Think I’ll burn down the house or drive the car through the den?”
Rio raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you’ll leave the kettle on the stove?” he says, knowing that I nearly burned the bottom off the kettle only a few nights ago when I was on the phone with the kids.
“I got an electric kettle,” I say, while he continues to throw things into his bag. “People must do it all the time, Rio. That’s why they make electric kettles with automatic shutoffs.” Not that I believe it myself for a minute, but if I stop finding explanations for my behavior—and excuses—I’ll be lost.
Who Makes Up These Rules, Anyway? Page 15