Cicada Summer

by Maureen Leurck

  I remember when the wedding day started, it was as though an invisible force was turning the wheel, and I was just a bystander. Each event: hair, makeup, pictures, the ceremony, more pictures, the reception, seemed to happen on its own, with or without my presence. I made it through the vows without messing them up, but I remember the corners of my mouth trembled as I said the words, nerves making my chin wobble and my lips stick against my teeth. And Matt didn’t say the wrong words or drop the ring, although his hands were shaking so hard that I thought his worst nightmare was about to come true.

  I slowly sat up in bed, and waited for the crush of emotions—disappointment, anger, loss. They slowly washed over me, and I remained helpless in their pull. I put my head in my hands and sighed.

  It was the fifth wedding anniversary since the divorce, and it hadn’t gotten any easier. I thought with the passage of time, the date would become more and more of a footnote on my past and lose importance. It seemed to be the contrary; the more time that passed between then and now, the closer all the memories became, like time was moving in a circle and doubling back toward me instead of moving in a straight line forward.

  The first anniversary after our divorce, I didn’t leave my bed. My parents came and picked up Abby, and I slept the entire day. The second anniversary, Matt had her, so I met Traci and drank way too much wine and passed out on her couch. The third and fourth years, I spent at my houses, replaying nearly every moment of my marriage in my head. But this year, I was determined to do something other than wallow and obsess. Except, of course, that was always easier said than done.

  I pushed my feet into my slippers. Were there signs? Should I have known? Was I really that stupid?

  Yes, and no. Maybe. Probably. Not likely. I had never reached an answer, and I was so tired of asking the questions, but they never ceased.

  I stared in the mirror, toothbrush still raised, and studied my face. I was older, yes, but I didn’t think I looked that different. A few extra lines on my forehead and around my eyes were the biggest evidence of my age.

  Am I that different? What happened?

  Impossible questions to answer, at least on my own, likely because the answers didn’t exist, at least not in a way that could be expressed cleanly. The answers were in some alternate universe where two plus two didn’t equal four, it added up to the square root of purple.

  I set my toothbrush down and slowly walked into the basement, toward the box marked Misc., shoved against the back wall that sometimes leaked. I reached into it and pulled out our wedding DVD. I hadn’t watched it in at least four years, and I didn’t think Abby had ever seen it. She certainly wouldn’t have watched it at Matt’s house.

  It was the last memento from that day. After Matt told me about the affair, I threw all of our wedding photos into the garbage. Burned a couple of them in a very Waiting to Exhale moment. Tossed my wedding ring onto the lawn. But I didn’t remember the DVD existed until almost a year later, after the papers were already signed. I was alone when I remembered, so it seemed worthless and anticlimactic to destroy it then. Besides, it felt strangely gratifying to have one piece of evidence left that showed that what I thought happened, actually did.

  Or did it?

  “What do you know?” I said to the video as I narrowed my eyes. I was about to toss it back into the box—and to pray that the leaky basement would finally leak enough to destroy the damn thing—but stopped. I could watch it. I could watch it and see whether he loved me on our wedding day as much as I thought he did. Whether he loved me on the day when he was supposed to love me the most. It would all be downhill from there, of course, so if he started out lukewarm, if I saw it on his face with the benefit of time and divorce papers, maybe I would feel vindicated that the outcome was inevitable. There was nothing I could have done.

  I could watch it and make myself as miserable as possible on such a crappy day. After all, wasn’t I allowed at least one day of emotional-train-wreck behavior?

  “Mom?” Abby’s voice made me jump. She was on the basement steps, still in her nightgown. “I was looking for you.” She padded over to me and hugged me. “What is that?” she said as she pulled away and pointed to the video in my hand.

  “Nothing.” I quickly dropped the video back into the box and stepped forward, but she picked it up.

  “Is that you and Dad? At your wedding?” She pointed to the smiling bride and groom on the cover and I reluctantly nodded. “Can I see it?”

  I tried to protest, but she began to beg. “Please? I want to see your pretty dress and veil. Please?” she said again until finally I obliged.

  She and I sat on the couch, her eyes transfixed on the screen as we watched the ceremony. I tried to look away, check my e-mail, close my eyes, but I couldn’t escape it. My eyes remained on the images of a young, pretty woman easily smiling at her new husband, who gazed at her with admiration and love.

  As we watched the first dance to “The Way You Look Tonight,” I wrapped my arms around my stomach, to try to plug the hole that grew larger and larger. I bit my lip as I saw Matt lean down and whisper something in my ear. On-screen, I threw my head back and laughed. Our eyes twinkled as we stared at each other, smiling.

  “What did he say, Mommy?” Abby asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. Although I very much did know. I had forgotten about it until just then. As we danced, he had glanced around the room at our guests.

  “Don’t look, but your cousin Melissa brought her damn dog in her purse,” he had said. Melissa, a second cousin who’d barely made the invite list, had RSVP’d her and a “plus one” and had asked that her guest’s meal be served on the floor. Which seemed . . . odd. So my mother called her and she confirmed that she couldn’t possibly leave her dog, Stella, at home for the whole evening, so she would be bringing her. We, of course, told her that wasn’t allowed, but on the wedding day, she didn’t listen. That damn dog ran around the dance floor all night, yapping and biting at people’s ankles, until my father unceremoniously locked it in the handicapped bathroom. Melissa had pounded on the door, screaming, “Stella! Stella!” in the most Marlon Brando–esque way.

  Everyone was worried that I would be upset, but I laughed it off, saying it would be good fodder for reminiscing. And it was, for years after. Matt and I would sometimes look at each other and just yell, “Stellllla!” before we dissolved into laughter.

  As the dance finished and the alien couple on-screen kissed, I grabbed the remote and turned off the television.

  “Why did you turn it off?” Abby said in protest.

  “Time for breakfast!” I said as cheerfully as I could muster.

  Later that night, I sat on my couch with a beer and thought, How did this all happen?

  The answers all came rushing in bits and pieces, like a scattered puzzle. The stress of having a colicky baby. His focus on work. Both of us being exhausted all the time. Intimacy feeling like another point on the never-ending checklist. The constant, weary bickering.

  All of those things were small. They could have been adjusted, improved. It wasn’t until his affair that the gauntlet was truly thrown down. I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if we had both turned to each other, maybe during one of those intense fights over something insignificant like emptying the dishwasher, took a deep breath, and allowed ourselves to come together.

  I pictured it, Matt and I, living together. Abby never having to pack her overnight bag; me never having to say good-bye to her. Never having to hug her when she returned and recognize the smell of Matt’s deodorant. Matt and I, laughing when she told us corny jokes. Slipping away for a date night, maybe taking a boat out to the middle of the lake, turning the radio on, and sharing drinks from a cooler.

  Sharing a bed, a house, a life together again, as though the divorce had never happened and I was able to forgive.

  I pressed my fists into my eyes as I realized that part of me still hoped that would happen. That some small part of my brain still
believed that our story wasn’t over. I was still clinging onto an impossible future.

  Before I could stop myself, I walked outside and threw the DVD into the trash can by the side of the house. I emptied the kitchen trash on top of it, leftover spaghetti sauce and all. I also dumped my beer on top of the mess, enjoying the way it glugged and fizzed down over the case, before I closed the lid with a bang.

  In my kitchen, I poured a glass of water and sipped it slowly, my hands still shaking. It seemed so unfair that Matt was still intruding on my life. I didn’t know when I would have any freedom from him, if ever. And if that didn’t happen, I couldn’t possibly move on with someone else. Even if that someone was wonderful, charming, and attractive like Gavin.

  I picked up my phone. It was time for reinforcements. I dialed Traci, and the day’s events came spilling out before I could censor them or consider how crazy I sounded.

  “Hello?” I said when there was a pause.

  “You wasted a whole beer?” she said. Her voice was muffled and hoarse, like she had been sleeping.

  “Yes. Listen, I’m sorry to bug you. I’m sure you were asleep. We can talk about this another time,” I said quickly.

  “No. No. I mean, yes, I was asleep, but you’re not bugging me.” I heard her yawn. “Chris has had a hard time sleeping the past few nights, and I’ve been up with him from about two to six a.m. for the last three nights.”

  “Oh, Traci.” I sank down on the couch. “I’m so sorry. Why is he awake?”

  She sighed. “Why does he do half the things he does? He wakes me up, asking questions about the year I was born and what color did we paint the living room in 2005. It’s like a computer database that keeps shorting out, and he won’t rest until I answer every single question. Until I make the database work again. I never imagined that I would be up all night with him at eighteen.”

  “So, not the best week for you, either, then,” I finally said. I knew Traci’s problems were completely different from mine, but it was hard not to think that she knew exactly what I was feeling: that the lives we were living should not have been.

  “Not exactly. But look, I’ve learned something that might help you, too. Don’t you think I have days when I see photos of Chris when he was a baby, and remember that feeling of hope? That I used to wonder what Ivy League school he would attend? And then I realize that we’re more likely to pick out which cartoon he will watch before work, and if he can learn to tie his shoes without tears. That all of those dreams come crashing down the second that I remember reality, or when he walks into a room and starts flapping?” She paused and sighed again. “But I can’t live my life in that space. I have to move on, and function. For everyone.”

  “I know. You’re right,” I said as I slowly nodded.

  “It’s time to move on, Alex. Live your life, and stop looking back to what you thought would happen. It is what it is, and you have to just deal with it. I do it with a hefty dose of denial mixed with a glass of wine and compartmentalization. You’re welcome to use my formula,” she said with a laugh.

  I took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Am I crazy?”

  “Yes,” she said immediately. “But it would be crazier if you didn’t still think about the two of you being together. He’s still around, and you guys were together forever. For starters, though, you need to take off that ring.”

  I looked down in surprise at the gold band that Matt had given me. I had worn it almost every day since Abby was born. When Matt and I got divorced, I had sold my engagement and wedding rings and used the money to pay for my used Ford Explorer. But I hadn’t taken off my gold band, figuring it was a present for having Abby, something I would never regret.

  “It’s from him,” she added. “It ties you to him.”

  I hung up with Traci and sat back against the couch, staring out at my backyard until the first rays of morning light began to peek through the trees. Finally, when the trees outside were fully lit, with tears in my eyes, I slid the band off and put it on the side table. I flexed my finger, my thumb immediately finding the soft indentation of where the ring used to be. I rubbed the joint, trying to make the indentation disappear, but it wouldn’t go away. I let the tears fall down my cheeks, but didn’t wipe them away. Instead, I went upstairs and grabbed an old costume jewelry ring and stuck it over the groove. It didn’t fit quite right, but it was enough. Enough to remind me to forget.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Now would be the time to start that prayer circle,” Eddie said as he sprayed down a section of the popcorn ceiling in the dining room with a garden mister. We silently waited five minutes before he climbed back up on the ladder and stuck a putty knife perpendicular to the texture. He gave me a look before he put his weight into the ceiling. Only the smallest flake of the texture came raining down on the plastic sheeting on the floor.

  “Well, we got lucky with the asbestos testing, so, of course, this popcorn ceiling stuff won’t be easily scraped away. Can’t win ’em all,” Eddie said with a sigh. The popcorn ceilings were practically the only possible surface in the house that was free of asbestos, but they were going to be a nightmare to remove.

  “So, now what?” I said as he climbed down the ladder.

  He craned his neck upward, and I could see the blue bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, thanks to Mia’s restless nights. “Well, since it looks like they used some kind of plaster to texture the ceilings, it’s going to be impossible to scrape off.” He looked pointedly at me, waiting for an answer.

  “No. We can’t just leave them like this. It looks awful, and prospective buyers will think it’s the apartment building from the 1980s style of acoustical ceiling. It won’t matter if we tell them it looks like shit but it’s okay because it’s not cheap material.”

  He sighed wearily. “We can skim-coat the entire surface with joint compound, I guess. We’ll end up with a smooth surface, and then we can paint it. It’s going to be—”

  “A lot of work,” I finished. “I got it. Can we just agree to stop saying that phrase? I—” I stopped and peered out the window. A silver Toyota Camry was slowly driving past the house, and at the wheel an older man with sunglasses was leaning forward, scanning the property. I remembered what Elsie had told me about prospective buyers driving by, but the memory of the county assessor paying us a visit was also fresh on my mind.

  I had driven to the county office the day before and swallowed hard as I forked over a check for ten thousand dollars. My hand shook as I wrote all the zeros out, trying not to think of how long it had taken me to save that amount, and how many things I could buy with it. Clothes for Abby, a new microwave. A dishwasher. A new pair of jeans for me. A night in a hotel with Abby and me. All of the above, and I would still have had thousands left over.

  The clerk accepted the check without so much as a smile. It was just normal, everyday business for him, not someone handing over what represented the last of their savings. Their last safety net. He gave me a receipt, and I walked away. A small square of paper was the only proof that I had once had that money in my account.

  At least when I had spent that kind of cash on a house before—hello, new windows in the bungalow—I had something tangible. I could open and close the windows, clean them. With this, it was merely paperwork, an administrative problem that I had to pay to make go away.

  So when I saw another car slowly drive past the house, I immediately began to wonder, What else?

  “Hang on,” I said to Eddie as the car slowed to a stop.

  I jogged down the still-cracked front steps, careful to sidestep the broken concrete, and approached the car with a smile and a nervous wave. I thought maybe if I looked pleasant, the reason for his visit might be pleasant, as well. The man in the car glanced at the road, like he was considering driving away, but slowed the car to a stop instead. He didn’t return my smile, and my pulse quickened.

  “Hey there!” I leaned down and placed my dirty hands on my thighs. “Can I help you?”

&nb
sp; When he didn’t answer, I added, “Are you interested in the house?” I jerked a thumb back in its direction. “It’s not for sale yet, but hopefully in a few weeks it will be.” I smiled again, but he frowned.

  “I gathered as much, based on your sign.” He pointed to the Coming Soon sign waving in the lake breeze. “Do you have an asking price in mind?” He didn’t take his sunglasses off, but placed his arms casually on the steering wheel, his shoulders rigid.

  Warning bells began to go off in my head. My smile faded, and I pressed my hands into my legs. “I have something in mind.” I glanced back at the house again, and Eddie appeared on the porch, wiping his hands with a drop cloth, as he watched. I could see his expression probably mirrored mine: Not again.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard that there is a developer interested in expanding this area, yes?” he said. “And this house is in a prime location for a hotel or commercial development.”

  My stomach dropped, and I stood, quickly taking a step back from the car. I raised my eyebrows at him. “Who are you?”

  “Look, I’m from Waterview Developers. We’re expanding our commercial interests on this block, and we would potentially be interested in this property.” Only then did he remove his sunglasses and stare at the house for a brief moment. He frowned again at Eddie, before quickly putting them back on.

  “To tear down,” I said.

  There was a pause before he answered, “Of course.”

  The heat started to rise in my face, and my scalp prickled with anger. “Well, that will never happen. I’m not restoring this house just so you can tear it down. I’m sorry, you’ll have to find some other poor house to rip apart.”

  His face didn’t flinch. “Thanks for the information. I’m sorry to hear you feel that way.” His tone was measured. Placating in the most disturbing way. He had heard all this before, and it hadn’t mattered. They had always gotten what they wanted. “If we are interested, we would be prepared to offer you the market value on the property plus an incentive bonus.” He glanced at the house, grimacing at it before smiling.