“Sure. After you decide if you want to troll for younger guys on myspace, go to a sex club, or get a Brazilian first.”
“A man or a wax?”
“Both together would be fabulous, but I was going to settle for the wax.”
“Charlotte, this ritual humiliation is going to make things interesting how, exactly?”
She laughed. “I’ve already told you the basic idea behind it. The rest is for you to figure out.” Then she threw me a bone. “Look, would you, if Rick hadn’t left, ever go get yourself a Brazilian? Don’t even bother answering—”
“But I want to: no. Well, not unless my choice was something even worse. Like hunting with Dick Cheney or skydiving.”
“Exactly, you’re not stepping outside your comfort zone without a serious shove.”
As a charter member of the need-a-soothing-cup-of-tea-and-an-Advil-for-a-bad-hangnail club, I was positive I did not want a Brazilian. I said, “OK.”
“So we floated names for the blog at the ed meeting. What do you think of DAZED 2B DATING?”
“Next.”
“CARPOOL CONFIDENTIAL.”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly, “it’s great but doesn’t have much to do with my life. We live in the city. We, you know, walk pretty much everywhere.”
“And when you do drive, what kind of car are we talking?”
“Volvo,” I said.
“What kind? I know it’s at least a wagon, so don’t lie.”
“SUV,” I admitted. “How many seats?”
“Seven.”
“So you’re saying that unlike your suburban sisters, you’ve risen above the plebian desperation of the carpool by the very fact of your urban-ness?”
Well, to be fair, I wouldn’t have put it like that because it sounded superior and snide, but, “Yes.”
“So. You’ve never loaded up that big old SUV with six kids for that school run? Or a soccer match? Birthday party? Nothing?”
OK, so the whole somewhat-hip-urban-mom thing was a delusion. I was June Cleaver in Sevens. “Am I not allowed any illusions about myself or my life?”
“No,” she said. “Sorry. If you can’t be honest with yourself, you can’t be honest with your readers.”
“Good name.” I knew when to retreat. “I like it.”
“Look,” her voice was gentler than usual. “I’d hate to see you let some man in the throes of a midlife crisis diminish you.”
For Charlotte this was practically gushing. Why did I feel like I didn’t deserve her words? I felt a lump in my throat at the niceness of them. “Thank you.”
“Listen, the editorial director of the website is going to give you a call in the next week or two. In the meantime, why don’t you start doing some research, read some blogs, take some notes?”
Even as I said I would, some far-back, deep-down part of my brain was finding the way out. I had to admit that this was all very nice and flattering and intriguing (except for the actual stuff she wanted me to do). But not intriguing enough to make me want to choose it over the option of putting my life and marriage back together. So when Rick called a few minutes later to let me know that he wouldn’t be able to call the boys for the next few nights and could I please kiss them goodnight for him, I resisted the impulse to rant about where could he possibly be that he couldn’t spare five minutes to call them, and we had the following conversation:
Me: By the way, Thanksgiving is coming up. (Which made me realize that six weeks had passed since he’d left. Six weeks!)
Him: Oh.
Me (resisting mightily the urge to revisit the you’ve-already-missed-Halloween point): What are your plans?
Him: Um. Don’t have any, actually. That’s the thing about being on my own. I can just spend the day the way I feel it at the moment. I don’t need the artificial construct of plans. You should give it a try sometime, Cassie.
It was funny, but this was already starting to lose some of its power to make me feel destroyed. Right now I was about fifty/ fifty split between What an unbelievable asshole and Please, please come home, Rick, I need you. Even just a week ago, it was definitely closer to forty/sixty, so did this count as progress?
Me: I meant, how about coming home? Then I added: For the day.
Him: Oh, for the day. Um—
Me: The boys are dying to see you, Rick. They haven’t clapped eyes on you in six weeks. Whatever’s going on with you, I think, assuming you’re not a POW [subtext: where the fuck are you?], you can spare a day to come give them a family holiday.
Him: I don’t know, Cassie. It’s not that simple.
Me: I won’t drug you and keep you here against your will, Rick. I promise.
Him: I’ll see if I can make it work. Don’t say anything to the boys, though, I’d hate for them to be disappointed.
Me: Frankly, I think they already are. I’ll expect you Thanksgiving Day.
Him (reluctantly): All right. See you then.
Me: Do you mean that?
Him: I’ll be there.
Not loving or flowery, to be sure, but his word he was going to be here. I’d have to accept that for now. As we hung up, I noticed that for once, instead of unavailable, or private or number withheld, all of which I’d become used to, the caller ID was showing an actual number. It was a 216 area code. I had no idea where that was. I grabbed a pen and scribbled the number down, then dialed it back. I let it ring about fifteen times before I accepted no one was going to answer and hung up. A quick google showed 216 was Ohio—Cleveland, to be precise. Cleveland! Not exactly what I’d expected.
I called Randy and she said, “Rock and roll hall of fame, baby.” Which made me laugh. Then I stashed the pad on my desk, figuring I’d try back later, then sat back down, curled my legs up under me, and looked out across the river. The realization that it had been six weeks and all I’d done was mope and lie to the boys was hitting me like a slap in the face. I’d kept us all going, talked to Charlotte about work, walked the dog, and that was it, the sum total of my accomplishments. I hadn’t sorted out my finances or hired a private detective or even told the kids. All things I needed to do. But then, there was Thanksgiving, hanging in front of me like a talisman of all we’d had and could have again. A family.
Confused didn’t even begin to describe how I felt. I stood up and, standing right in the window, peeled off Rick’s old sweatshirt—if anyone was looking across the river with binoculars, they were welcome to the sight of a seen-better-days LaPerla. After a moment of indecision, standing over the hamper, I balled up the sweatshirt and threw it in the garbage. Then I showered, blew my hair dry, and went to pick up the kids wearing a white T-shirt and cashmere sweater.
In the school lobby, Jared threw himself at me. “Is Daddy home?”
The naked hope in his eyes made me want to cry. I shook my head. I desperately wanted to tell him that he would be for Thanksgiving, but I bit my tongue.
“Hi, Cassie.” Sue appeared next to us. “You’re looking nice today.” She clearly hadn’t missed a thing, from the daily sweatshirt repetition to my unwashed hair. “So—is everything OK?”
Did she know something? I looked into her eyes, trying to read her, but got nothing except bland concern. I hated the fact that I was going to lie. Again. In front of my child. Again. But what else could I do? My insides felt twisted in about ten different directions.
“Of course!” I smiled. Hard. Jared looked alarmed by such uncustomary heartiness, so I lowered the wattage a tad. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s—well, you’ve looked like maybe you weren’t feeling well. And you’ve seemed so”—she frowned—“rushed lately.”
I hated my faux tinkly laugh. “Everything’s fine. Rick’s been traveling a ton, and life’s been kind of crazy.”
“Mom, can I go up to the cafeteria and get a snack?” Jared asked as he saw his friend Oliver going up the stairs to do just that.
“Sure.” I handed him the cafeteria punch card and he took off. “No junk,” I calle
d after him, more for appearances’ sake than out of any real belief it would stick.
“I hear you. I hate it when Tim travels. I have plenty of help, and it’s not like he actually does anything domestic”—Sue laughed—“but I find I miss having another adult around at the end of the day. Do you know what I mean?”
Did I ever. “Yeah,” I said. I was so busy thinking of all the ways in which I knew exactly what she meant that I was totally unprepared when she said, “So listen, I’ve assigned you to chair the Food Committee, cochair it with Ken, actually. Now that Grace is back, I know you’ve been at loose ends PTA-wise, and I wanted to make sure you aren’t underutilized.”
Underutilized wasn’t exactly the way I’d thought of myself. I realized I was still smiling. Maybe my face was stuck that way. “Um, thanks, Sue, but I’m not—”
“I know we can’t ask on-the-ball people like you to be on the executive committee and then not use you, Cassie! So when this opportunity came up to really dig in and review the cafeteria food—what it is, what it should be, and how it compares to what’s on offer in other schools—I knew it would be the right challenge for you. It’s a time commitment, but a chance to really effect some change. You’re such a doer and an integral part of our school community, and Ken’s a dream to work with. I think you’ll really enjoy spending time visiting other schools for lunch with him. Anyway, I’m really excited to have you both on board!”
I might have described myself more as half on the train while one leg dragged on the ground than on board. The part of me that knew I couldn’t do this warred with the part that was almost desperate to dive back into the life where I’d had nothing more to worry about organic versus non-organic.
“Initially I thought about Nancy Bosworth for your cochair, but between us”—she dropped her voice to confidential levels— “she’s been a little off the ropes since she and Dave split. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“You feel sorry for him?” I stared at her. “He has a five-year-old with her and a five-year-old she knew nothing about until last year. He’s a liar and a cheat. How can you feel sorry for him?”
“Something tells me she was hell to live with long before that. Talk about your high-maintenance wives. Anyway, I think she’s too busy trolling for a new man to want to undertake anything big right now I hope she goes outside the school community for Dave’s replacement.”
Every internal organ I had felt like it wanted to sink through the floor. Was this how they were going to talk about me? Would it be my fault Rick had left me? Would I be recast in whispers over their Starbucks as a bitch suddenly on the prowl for everyone else’s husbands? Or would I be protected by what I’d been: a tireless worker for the PTA and stalwart bake sale organizer who’d helped with many a school pickup. Someone who’d smilingly kept other people’s children for dinner or overnight when a sibling was sick, meeting postponed or a husband out of town; given lifts to and from soccer matches and birthday parties; sewed costumes for school plays; helped preschool classes bake snot-laced cookies and gone on every single field trip?
“She’s a beautiful woman,” I said stiffly. “I wouldn’t think she’d have too hard a time.”
Sue laughed again. “A beautiful woman helped along by all that Botox and those new boobs. Is it just me, or do they look fake a mile off?”
“I think they look fantastic.” Who was I kidding? I’d be just like Nancy, an instant outsider, and they’d be all over the reasons they couldn’t possibly end up like me—that I had somehow deserved my fate—faster than kids on a piñata at a birthday party (plus I didn’t even know if I’d be able to afford new boobs). And—I saw myself, suddenly, in clear-focus looking back— hadn’t I done that with Nancy? Wasn’t I just as guilty as the rest of them?
Guilty of smiling to her face but secretly believing there must be something wrong with her for ending up as unloved, and therefore, as unlovable as my mother. God, it was so easy, so self-deceptive to look down on someone from a position of smug security, safe in the arms of a marriage that seems like it will protect you forever. Well, whatever bad Karma I had coming over that was certainly coming home.
Sue said, “I’ll give you a call later to see if we can set up a dinner for when Rick gets back. Tim was just saying the other day that he hasn’t seen him in forever.”
“Me neither,” Jared said sadly, returning from the cafeteria holding a triple chocolate muffin and a container of chocolate milk, probably with extra BGH added.
Sue gave an aren’t-you-too-cute laugh as she looked at Jared’s food selections. “I think you can see how badly you’re needed on that Food Committee, Cassie!”
10
Weekend in New England
“I didn’t say I’d do it, I said I’d have coffee with Ken and talk about it,” I told Randy on the phone.
“Cassie”—I could practically hear her shaking her head— “you have way too much to deal with in your own life. You have to get yourself out of it.”
She was right, I knew it, but somehow I couldn’t seem to actually take steps to disentangle myself. So when Ken called to set up our first meeting, I agreed to meet with him after Thanksgiving. Agreeing to one meeting didn’t mean I couldn’t still disengage, I told myself. And by then maybe I’d have my life back. Because Thanksgiving, I told myself, would be the compass that would point my way forward.
Which, depending on how you look at it, is a lot of pressure to put on a day that revolves around a dead, tasteless bird.
Thanksgiving with my family is, well…Let’s just say the fake one photographed for the spread in Gourmet after which my father threw the (property of the magazine) carving knife into the wall and left for good doesn’t automatically receive top billing as the worst. Over the years I’ve come to think of it like a raw hot dog—something best left unexamined and untasted unless there are no earthly alternatives.
“It’ll be fun,” my mother said when she called. She did not sound sincere. “Katya’s still away, but Luke’s coming and bringing his new girlfriend. I’m even taking the day off.”
So taking that into account, it’s hard to say whether choosing to ignore my niggling doubts about Rick was the stupidest recorded thing anyone has ever done. I mean, people go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. On purpose. Which hardly seems comparable to spending a day or two (or four) brining, marinating, and pureeing for an admittedly somewhat unreliable husband, does it?
OK, don’t answer that.
“Are you sure you guys don’t want to spend the day with us tomorrow?” Randy asked about fifty times on Wednesday. “I’d feel so much better if you would.”
“It’ll be fine.” I tucked the phone against my shoulder as I slid the half pumpkin into the oven to soften for pureeing. “He may not think he wants the marriage, but he’ll never voluntarily miss my pumpkin pie.” I neglected to tell her that I was calling the 216 number I’d gotten off the caller ID about ten times a day (OK, more like thirty) and no one ever answered.
“Josh is deep frying the turkey again,” she wheedled, as though it would be an incentive, like I didn’t know about last year’s two-alarm incident. “He says he has the kinks worked out. Why don’t you all come? Bring Rick and the pumpkin pie.”
“Thanks, Ran, but I have to do this, you know?” It almost felt like a test, to see if the faith I still had in him and us, despite everything, would pull us through and out the other side of this disaster. Ignoring the squicky feeling in my stomach about the unanswered phone in pursuit of this larger, more noble goal was the right thing to do.
“Remember that you can call me up any time at all and we’ll put more plates out, all right?” She really did not sound optimistic.
“Thanks, Ran.”
“Anytime. Listen, Cass, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know I love Rick, but, honestly, are you sure you want him back? I mean, if it was me, I’d be fantasizing about ways to lure him to his death, not baking pies for him.
Not literal pies because, of course, I don’t bake, but figurative pies. And even the figurative ones would have arsenic in them.”
“But you just said you wouldn’t be baking them at all,” I pointed out.
“I might if I had arsenic. Aren’t you angry, Cass?”
She wasn’t asking me anything I didn’t ask myself nightly as I lay staring at the ceiling for hours on end. “Of course I’m angry. I have moments when I worry my internal fury will singe the ends of my hair off, but more than that I’m miserable and lost without him. I miss our life together, and I miss him. I honestly believe our life together, our relationship, is so much more than this one…thing that, yes, if he pulls it together, I would still like to put my family back together.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Yes.” I was trying not to cry now. “Shamefully. I don’t understand it any better than you do.”
So for the time being, or until proved otherwise, I was treating this as a mental health issue. His, that is, not mine. Under ordinary circumstances (and I realize you didn’t meet me under those, so I have no way of proving this—you’ll just have to take my word for it), except for the worrying about everything, I am a very rational person. I don’t believe in ghosts or ESP or fairies or angels. I think that things that go bump in the night are things that have been left too close to the edge of the counter. And I don’t believe that formerly sane people just suddenly go insane with no warning and no road back.
“OK, Cass.” Randy sounded resigned but worried. “I hope you get what you want.”
I was certainly making every effort. On Wednesday I got a facial, had my hair highlighted, and threw in a not-that-he-was-going-to-see-my-feet-
but-just-in-case pedicure. And for once in my life, I was effortlessly thin, thin, thin, due to the very under-hyped but effective Dumped And Deserted Diet (if Dr. Atkins had tried it, he might have avoided those humiliating posthumous tabloid articles).
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