by Annette Fix
The natural wave of my hair would never last out in the damp weather. I'd look like a walking warning about the hazards of sticking a fork into a light socket. So, I called to cancel, again.
I was surprised when Kevin answered the phone. His voice sounded as crisp as that fall day. “No way. You're not canceling today. I've been looking forward to seeing you since last week,” he said.
“But the weather looks—”
“It's not really raining over here,” he said quickly.
After we hung up, I stepped into the bowels of my walk-in closet.
What do you wear to a golf lesson when the instructor is married and you wish he weren't?
God, I'm such an idiot.
I stared at the racks. The colors, organized in perfect tonal harmony, striped the length of the dowels: red, pink, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, white, brown, black. I flipped through each color category one at a time. The plastic tube hangers clicked like typewriter keys: strapless, spaghetti strap, tank style, sleeveless, short sleeve, three-quarter sleeve, long sleeve. I reached the end of the rainbow, and still didn't have anything to wear.
Why was I even going? Good question. Absurd answer: Because being near him, even to whack a stupid white ball with a metal stick, was better than never seeing him again.
I turned to the shelves. Since it was cold and rainy, I figured I'd pull a pair of sweats out of the stack. But that wouldn't work. At every country club, the women always wore tennis skirts or plaid pants. At least, that's what I remembered from watching Dynasty back in the '80s.
My wardrobe contained nothing remotely close to plaid pants and I had no idea where to buy a tennis skirt. I finally settled for one of my University of La Verne hoodies, an Anaheim Angels baseball cap with my ponytail pulled through, Avia cross-trainers, and a white mini skort.
Voila. Suburban country club chic.
Judging by how many times the maintenance guys circled the practice green in their little carts, I must've looked either very all right or definitely all wrong.
It was hard to concentrate on chipping the golf ball onto the green. Kevin was so damn beautiful. Whenever I looked at him, it was difficult to draw a full breath.
He was patient as he guided my hands to swing the club. Gentle and warm. I could feel the heat coming from his body when he leaned close to adjust my grip. I wanted so much to turn around, press up against him, and taste his lips. I knew it wasn't an option, but it was sweet torture just thinking about it. My heart hammered so hard that it felt like the only organ in my body.
When the golf lesson ended, I noticed the quick, thirty-minute lesson had become two languid hours.
Kevin returned my club to the bag on the back of the golf cart and climbed into the driver's seat. “Would you like a tour of the course?”
“Sure,” I said too quickly. Anything to spend more time with you.
He guided the cart along the winding path to the back nine. The grounds were immaculately manicured and framed on both sides by a densely wooded stand of trees.
It was a soundless, secret place created in a dream. The cart path led over a bridge spanning a small creek and curved along rolling hills. Moist grass filled the quiet valleys with the smell of sweet earth. As Kevin drove, the cool air brushed along my bare legs, but the shiver I felt came from deep inside and had nothing to do with the weather.
Kevin pulled the cart behind the pro shop and parked. “Would you like to grab something to eat? I cancelled my other lessons for the day.”
“Sure,” I answered instantly. It seemed like the only word I could manage.
We settled into a cozy booth at a sports grill a mile away from the course. After browsing the menu, I couldn't decide what to eat, so Kevin ordered a picnic of appetizers.
Growing up. College. Dreams. Life. We laughed and talked and gorged ourselves with fried finger foods. The hours passed like minutes.
“I want to tell you something,” Kevin said, “but I don't want you to take it wrong.”
“Okaay,” I said, not sure where he was going with his disclaimer.
“Remember I told you when we met three weeks ago that I was married?”
I swallowed hard around a jagged tortilla chip. “Yeah.”
It was so much easier just to block it out and enjoy his company—wishing life was somehow different.
“Well, I don't want you to think this has anything to do with you.” He lowered his voice, “I asked my wife for a divorce.”
My head swam and my eyes darted to his ring finger. The wedding ring was gone.
Kevin leaned forward, his forearms braced on the lacquered wood table. “You said something the day we met that stuck with me. And it made so much sense.”
I wracked my brain, trying to think of what I possibly could have said that was so profound. I replayed the pieces I could remember of our long conversation. The tavern noise receded to a soft hum. I must've been staring at him blankly.
“You said life is too short to be miserable.”
“I was talking about life in general. I didn't mean for you to divorce your wife!”
Somehow I felt sickly responsible and secretly happy all at once. If he wasn't happy with her—maybe he could be happy with me.
“Don't think I did it for you,” he said. “It's been on my mind for the last few years, but that night when I got home, I knew I finally had to do it.”
I felt like I was slowing down at a car accident on the freeway and craning to see if anyone was wounded.
“How did she react?” I couldn't stop myself from asking.
Kevin twisted a napkin in his hands. “It was really hard.” He stared at the table. “When I told her, she fell on the floor crying and threw up.”
The image of that day wet his face with tears. His voice cracked as the story tumbled out. Kevin seemed so lost, torn between feelings of obligation over the time invested in his marriage and his desire to leave.
“I tried. For so many years, I tried, but I can't do it anymore,” he said.
I moved beside Kevin and wrapped him in a hug that was both close and fierce. I wanted to take away his pain. My heart ached for Kevin and I dared to let it beat a quiet, hopeful rhythm for the possibilities of a future with him.
When Kevin came to me that day, I benefited from what had resulted in Joanne's sorrow. I took her place in his life.
Two years later, I finally felt her raw, bleeding loss. Now, it was my turn to spend my days crippled and vomiting emotion.
And somehow I thought I deserved it.
guilt stew
1 tender woman
16 oz. good intentions
1 rebounding man
2 lbs. desire
Simmer good intentions over flames of gentle affection.
Add man, woman, and desire.
Scald woman with false hopes of a future.
Remove man, let all love drain.
Garnish woman with grated nerves.
Serve over self-loathing biscuits.
Yield: Complete regret.
Unlimited servings.
Nutritional Value: None.
Guaranteed 3 lb. weight loss.
makeover madness
Thursday, October 25
“Sorry, Mom. See you later. Love you.” Josh shot a quick peck onto my cheek then jumped out of the passenger seat and ran up the sidewalk to the schoolyard. Getting caught up in morning cartoons had made him miss the bus.
I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse, scanned the internal phonebook, and punched the call button. The ringing echoed from somewhere on the dark side of Saturn.
Each morning after Kevin left, I moved in a haze. Barely functional. I couldn't focus on my writing. And I certainly couldn't go to work at the club.
“Maggie, can you squeeze me in t-today?” My voice tripped over the hard, permanent lump in my throat.
On the drive to the salon, I confronted my new reality. So much for my Happily-Ever-After story. Kevin was supposed to be my Pri
nce Charming. We were supposed to ride off into the sunset together the way every fairytale ends.
Disney can kiss my ass.
Along the street, every stoplight turned red. The cars were going too slow. People weren't even bothering to signal lane changes.
And screw Uncle Walt for making me believe in princes. I don't think he ever considered the kind of heartbreak he crafted into his stupid fairytales. There would always be that one day in every girl's life when she'd finally discover it was all a lie. A sick, twisted, fucking lie.
Buildings and cars streamed past my window, the car on autopilot. Kevin. His smile. The feel of his hands on my skin. The way he kissed the worry creases from my forehead. I loved his robust laugh—it was sunshine, breaking through my emotional clouds.
So many memories. So many moments I would never forget.
Kevin stepped out of the master bathroom completely naked. I lounged across the bed, admiring his perfect symmetry while he stood at the sink. He turned and posed with mock drama, standing with his body on full display.
When I dragged my eyes back up to his face, I noticed Kevin wearing my pink cotton headband, and there was mischief in his smile.
He ran across the room and stood in front of me, twirling and dancing in place like Jennifer Beals from the movie Flashdance. He screeched the “Maniac” song in falsetto, his bare feet pounded faster and faster to the tempo. Kevin's nakedness, in frantic motion, swung wildly, smacking against his thighs.
On that blue day, I rolled off the bed and we collapsed onto the carpet together, laughing so hard I almost peed in my pajamas.
God, how can I go on living without him?
Tears pinpricked my eyes. I'm not going to cry. I refuse to cry. I twisted the rearview mirror to check the mascara around my blurry eyes. A look of glassy desperation stared back.
I pushed through the doors of the salon and saw Maggie applying hair gel to her wilting, gothic spikes. I walked past the receptionist, straight to Maggie's station and she turned the chair to meet me.
“Just a trim today?” Maggie snapped the drape around my neck and our eyes caught in the mirror.
“Cut it off,” I said.
“Oh m'god, he's gone.” It was almost a question, but not quite.
That's when the carefully controlled tears finally spilled down my cheeks.
She set down her scissors and looked squarely into my face. “I won't cut a single hair unless you promise you're not cutting it off to spite that rat bastard.”
“I just need a change.”
That was all Maggie needed to hear. She clipped while I choked out as much of the story as I could. My eyes ached from the brightness of the harsh flourescent lights and the force of my tears.
When she finished, I slipped on my sunglasses and stared at the caramel-colored halo of hair on the floor. Twelve inches. Gone. It had been over a decade since my hair was this short.
Kevin loved my long hair. But that was when he loved me.
kiss my A.D.H.D.
Friday, October 26
I rolled my mouse to the taskbar and clicked the green, lowercase, script f icon shaped like a filmstrip. The Final Draft software opened to my working document: a family feature spec script intended for Disney.
The cursor blinked, a nagging throb on the page. I re-read what I had written the week before and tried to get back into the story.
It was all so fucking happy. I could almost hear chipmunks singing campfire songs.
Tears blurred my carefully formatted words into waves of alphabet soup. I closed the document and opened my LifeJournal software. I began writing what sounded more like a plea directly to Kevin than a diary entry.
The phone rang, disturbing my pseudoliterary flow of sorrow. “Mrs. Fix—” a woman's voice began.
“It's Ms. I'm not married now and never have been.” My curtness covered the catch in my voice.
“MS. Fix, I'm calling about Josh. We'd like you to come to the school.”
My stomach clenched. “Is he okay? Did something happen?”
“We'd like to discuss your son's academic performance. How about after school? Today. At three o'clock?”
I glanced at the clock. That would give me forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and drive to the school.
“That's fine. I'll be there.”
In the shower, I let the water run over my face to rinse off the sticky tears.
When I pulled into the school parking lot, a rainbow of students poured out of the classrooms and jostled toward the buses. I saw Josh sitting slumped on a low block wall near the office. His head bowed, he bounced the toe of one skate shoe against the cement.
I stepped in front of him and he didn't even look up. “Hey Wonderboy, what's going on?”
“Do we have to go in there? They're just going to tell you how stupid I am.” His voice dragged like his shoe.
“Then I'll have to tell them how wrong they are.”
I had my arm around his shoulder when the secretary led us into the conference room. They had taken their positions on one side of a long table. Principal. Guidance Counselor. And four of Josh's seventh grade teachers, the absurdly cartoon personifications of Math, English, Science, and Social Studies. With their fake smiles and shuffling papers, they looked like a wall of human constipation.
I felt a slight tremor straight to my core. How could I possibly make it through the meeting without completely falling apart? Us versus Them. My parents attended meetings like this with me, but back then, I was invincible.
Principal started by clearing his throat. What a cliché. If I didn't feel so much like throwing up, I would've laughed.
He introduced everyone on the Them team, all of whom I'd already met at Back-to-School Night. Principal formed a steeple with his fingers and studied me across the table.
“Josh seems to be having problems,” he said.
The room erupted in a machine gun of charges.
“He's failing his class work and his tests.” Social Studies patted her stack of worksheets, the top page crisscrossed with red ink.
Science managed a weak smile that faded before he spoke. “Josh is always polite and helpful, but rarely wants to participate in class.”
“He disturbs my class by constantly being out of his seat and telling jokes,” English said.
“He is completely unable to concentrate,” Math said.
I lifted my hand to stop the barrage and turned to Josh. “Why don't you take a walk while we finish talking.”
The change in focus gave me a minute to settle my composure. I was almost visibly quaking and wanted to cover it quickly. I let out a long sigh, hoping it sounded like impatience with the situation instead of the release of anxiety that it was.
Josh flashed me his typical look: an innocent, wrongly accused and facing execution. I nodded toward the door and he left without comment.
It was his first semester and clearly, they hadn't had time to figure out how to deal with Josh yet. When the door closed behind him, I directed my attention to English.
“Josh has always been very strong-minded. I'm a single mother, so he's had to grow up without a father…”
A slight expression crossed her face, but she didn't say anything.
I'd seen the look before. Raw judgment. I brushed it off and continued, “And he's more independent than most boys his age. I taught him to cook and do his own laundry when he was in third grade.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an eyebrow rise on the stoic Principal— his only physical movement since the meeting began.
I took a deep breath. “So, obviously, he requires strong direction. If Josh is out of his chair, you need to tell him you'll nail his butt to the seat if he even moves before class ends.”
English recoiled like she'd received an invisible slap. “I don't speak to my students that way,” she said.
“Well, then I don't know what to tell you. Because I don't have any problems with him at home.”
“Perhaps he
needs medication,” Counselor said. “We've found that students who have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder really benefit from Ritalin.”
A flat, humorless smile pressed my lips together. Don't even go there, lady. “There's nothing wrong with Josh. If you check his file, you'll see that his elementary school already tried to label him.”
It was a battle at his last school, constantly defending my position against cognitive testing. I finally gave in, just to prove what I already knew—my son didn't need medication. “If you care to look, you'll see Josh doesn't have A.D.D. or A.D.H.D. No dyslexia. No learning disability. And no processing problems.”
Counselor opened Josh's file, shuffled through the stack, and paused to scan the report. I recognized the cover of the document I'd signed last year allowing the school district to test him. She turned to Principal with a slight shake of her head. “Josh doesn't qualify for any special education programs.”
I leveled a solid gaze across the table, encompassing the judge and jury. “So, what are you going to do to teach my son?”
They looked at one another blankly as if I'd asked them to prove the world was round.
“We can put him on Friday letters…” Math looked to each of the other teachers.
Counselor went into further detail for my benefit, somehow managing to sound condescending at the same time. “That is a note, signed by each teacher at the end of the week, notifying you of discipline problems, missed assignments, failed tests, detention, et cetera.”
And that helps…how? The logic wasn't there.
“Why don't you send home a Monday letter, telling me what Josh needs to do for the week and I'll make sure it gets done?” My quaking feeling had stopped completely.
“It doesn't work that way,” English said. A smug curve turned the corners of her lips.
I leaned forward in the chair and locked eyes with her. “And why not?”
Principal stepped in like a referee. “The teachers are too busy to print up their lesson plans for individual students. It takes away from the learning time of the other students.”