2. What the Hell is going on with its back leg.
3. How old it is.
4. What breed it is. Oh, and…
5. If it’s a bitch or a son of a bitch.
At the clinic we learn the answer to question five first: Congratulations! It’s a boy! Then we get our other answers:
1. No, he does not have a chip. Which means someone likely abandoned him. In an industrial area. At four in the morning. I hate people. This also means he doesn’t have a name. Or any record of any shots. Ka-ching for the doctor.
2. The limp might be from a coyote attack, they’re not sure. (Swell.) But it’s definitely not cancer. (We learn this after over a thousand dollars worth of tests.)
3. He is probably only a year old. Maybe less.
4. They don’t exactly know the breed. (They don’t know?!) Clearly he’s a mutt, but when I ask the vet what the pup is a mixture of, she tells me, “cute and adorable." Which was an answer that I find to be anything but.
About ten minutes later, the receptionist is running my credit card and preparing the paperwork to get him his license and dog tag.
“Name,” the receptionist asks us she hands me back my Visa card.
“Tunny/Jacques,” Connor and I answer simultaneously.
I turn to him. “I don’t even know what that means. But since I’m paying for the dog, I think I should get to name the dog.”
“Tunny is the guy who loses his leg in the Iraq war,” Connor tells me.
I blink a few times.
“American Idiot,” Connor clarifies.
Yes. Yes, he is. Really, how important is good sex at this stage in my life? I squint my eyes. “Help me to understand what you mean by that.”
“The Green Day musical,” he says, like I’m the American Idiot. “We saw it when it came to the Pantages a few years ago.”
I blink again. Turn to the lovely girl just trying to get through her overnight shift, and smile. “Tunny. Spelled…” I turn to Connor, shaking my head a little slower now and putting up my hands, palms up.
“T-u-n-n-y," he answers.
“T-u-n-n-y," I repeat. Then I turn to Connor. “And, by the way, that wasn’t me you saw it with at the Pantages.”
“Really? Aw, Babe, I’m sorry.”
Connor, Tunny and I get home more than two hours later, loaded up with specialty dog food, dog toys, dog dishes and a really ugly purple felt dog bed. By now, my adrenaline is pumping. What the fuck?! Seriously, no sane person puts this kind of energy into a relationship without at least getting…
Connor donuts his arm around my waist, flips me around to him, and gives me a deep kiss that scrambles my brain for the millionth time. I want to scream at him that I am fucking done. That this is bullshit. But within seconds, we are in my bedroom, peeling off each other’s clothes like we are teenagers with an hour before my Mom and Dad get home.
“You are so fucking sexy,” Connor growls hungrily as he unbuttons my shirt.
“So are you…”
Woof.
“Get rid of the dog," I tell Connor breathlessly.
Connor swoops up Tunny and carries him out of my room as I quickly shimmy out of my jeans and whip off my shirt. By the time he closes the door, I have jumped onto the bed to show off my new lingerie.
He quickly pulls off his clothes, and climbs on the bed to kiss me. We continue making out. Everything is as hot and heavy as it always is.
And yet…
Huh. Nothing.
Nada. My body has no interest. It’s like I’m watching this whole sex scene from a movie theater: I’m the girl pretending to be all hot and bothered but…
Nothing.
For the next twenty minutes, I go through the motions. Connor does all of the things he usually does – all of the things that usually make me so crazy it makes me put up with his crazy. And yet…
Nothing.
That can’t be good.
When I wake up Monday morning, Connor is gone. Again.
I wake up thinking about the guy who never quite got away: the one who hangs around just enough to keep me in a constant state of breakup depression. I stare up at the pot lights of my white ceiling and listen to the ocean waves outside. And I suddenly realize, in a wave of thoughts of my own, that I can be thin and beautiful and successful and rich, and that I could have given him beautiful babies and great sex and a loving home for years on end, and he still didn’t want me. And he will never want me. Not for real. Not for keeps. Not ever.
I have to be at work in a little over an hour. I really need to haul myself out of bed, throw on clothes, fill my travel mug with coffee and hit the PCH.
But I don’t move. Fuck it. I’m the boss, and they don’t really need me unless there’s a problem. Five more minutes.
I look out at the water, cold and gray this morning, and continue my thought process.
Connor keeps me around for his ego. To tell him how great he is every few weeks or months. To hear “I love you,” even though he never says it back. To know that, even at fifty, he has a woman who would drop everything to make out with him in a car during his lunch hour. A woman he can call on any random night to make him dinner, or give him a job recommendation, or bail him out of any situation, big or small.
He likes having a woman he knows he has such a hold on sexually. Which is demeaning for me, but not enough that I’m willing to give up the sex.
Until now.
I’m done feeling like this is all my fault. I’m done trying to read a man who hates confrontation so much, he never tells me what he wants from me or how he’s feeling. He just keeps me guessing. And apologizing. And then guessing where the roller coaster will take me next.
I pull my laptop off of my nightstand, get online, and click, one by one, onto every social media site. Then I unfriend, unfollow, and block him from following me.
Shit, this hurts. Am I even doing the right thing? A part of my brain is already racing to try to predict how he’ll react. Will he call and talk me out of it? Will I finally get the elusive “I love you?"
Then my mind races to a new question: would that even fix anything at this point? I have been “not enough” for so long, would I even want him around my house every day? Every time he checked his phone I would think he was talking to another woman.
I pick up my cell and text him a quick…
We need to take a break. I’ll call you.
Most men would go into a tizzy seeing that text. Connor won’t. He’ll see it as a great excuse to take a few weeks off guilt-free.
Yup. I’m done.
Good for me.
Then I hear a scratching of fingernails on my bedroom door.
No. Not fingernails. Paw nails.
Tunny.
Well, fuck.
Five
Michelle
I spent the rest of the evening in a daze, thoughts zinging around my head at a hundred miles per hour. On the one hand, I felt relieved Steve was gone. On the other hand, I had no idea what was next.
I couldn’t sleep. So I wandered the house, silently padding on the floors to check the kids’ rooms a bunch of times.
Cliché number one: they are so cute when they’re asleep. When no one needs anything, when no one is complaining, when you’re not worried about them. I swear, when she’s asleep, Megan still looks like she did when she was a baby. I just want to lie down next to her and cuddle her. And Roraigh is looking so grown up these days. Yet somehow, when he’s asleep, he’s still my three year old, holding his old stuffed purple dinosaur that he’s kept on his bed since we bought it at Build a Bear during a family vacation a million years ago.
And now for cliché number two: the one about people staying in bad marriages for their kids.
Because I can’t get a divorce. I just can’t do that to them. My parents were divorced, and it was expensive, and led to stepparents and half siblings and total chaos in my life for years. In some ways, I’m still scarred from my parents’ divorce. I’m still paying f
or it nearly forty years later. Roraigh and Megan already deserve so much more than we could ever give them. I can’t put them through the psychological trauma of learning that the first two people who claim to love them unconditionally have put conditions on their love for each other. To teach my kids that love can disappear because of something you did, or for no reason at all. To train them to instinctually prepare for a breakup every time they have a fight with their boyfriend or girlfriend. To have them spend the rest of their lives utterly convinced that they will one day be abandoned.
And is this even a bad marriage? I mean, sure, we have our problems, but doesn’t everybody? Zoe is married to the perfect guy, and she’s pining for the perks of an open marriage. Lauren is still totally in love her with her husband, Zach, but with him out of town so much, she’s practically a single parent to four boys. Alexis has Fuckface... I can’t even begin to understand that one. No, Steve is fine. Granted, he’s not particularly attentive anymore, but… I mean, I’m not really either. A disintegration of a marriage doesn’t happen overnight: I’m guilty of ignoring him, too. We just both need to put in more of an effort.
As I finally drift off to sleep on the couch between 4:30 and 5:00, I decide to do just that: put out more of an effort.
Although I think the furry suit needs to go to Goodwill.
The next thing I know, Steve is whispering, “Come on, wake up,” and gently nudging me on the couch.
My eyes take a second to unglue and pop open, “What time is it?” I ask, my voice sleepy.
“Almost six," he whispers. “The kids’ll be up in a few minutes.”
I sit up and pull him into a hug. We lie there, hugging, for a long time. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t respond. I wait, but he stays silent. So I continue. “I love you. I just think we need… I don’t know, maybe we should go back to therapy.”
Steve always liked therapy, so we’ve gone a few times over the years. Not my thing. I really don’t need to pay some woman two hundred dollars an hour just to hear her ask us in her dripping with Prozac tone of voice, “Can we agree not to use phrases like ‘over my dead body’ while we’re in our safe space? It’s not productive.”
But I can do this for my kids. I can do anything for my kids.
Once again, Steve doesn’t answer. I gently pull away from the hug to look him in the eyes. “So do you want me to call or do you want to do it?”
Steve sighs, loudly. “I think I want to go stay with my brother for awhile.”
My stomach suddenly clenches as if I’m about to throw up. “Please don’t do that. If you’re not here, that will freak out the kids.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry about that. I am, but… Right now I don’t know what else to do. We’re not happy. You’re certainly not happy. You’re angry all the time…”
“I’m not angry all the time…”
“Will you let me finish?” he snaps.
That was a big thing we learned in therapy: letting the other person finish their thought.
Steve takes another deep breath and continues, “If I stay with Jason, it won’t cost us anything, and I’ll be less than five minutes from you and the kids and both schools. I need a break. I need to quit feeling like an asshole all the time. I need to stop feeling like no matter what I do, it’s not enough.”
I think he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t. I wait a good minute and a half before gently asking. “Okay. I hear that. Can I talk now?”
He nods.
I try to phrase everything as carefully as possible. “I don’t want us living in separate houses, because that’s really just the first step to divorce, and I don’t want a divorce. I just want us to be like we used to. You know, back before we had cell phones we could stare at on the couch or an internet we could use to ignore each other.”
Steve waits for me to continue, but I’m done. He seems to consider my request, although he’s looking very pained. Finally, he says, “I just can’t right now. I love you, but I think we both need a break. Maybe if we took a little time apart, we’d start to miss each other, and appreciate the good things rather than always getting mad about the bad things.”
I sigh. Then Steve asks, “If we’re being honest: taking the kids out of the equation, isn’t there the tiniest part of you that would be relieved not to see me tonight?”
And there it is: thousands of dollars of therapy in one sentence. Because what he really means is... If we take the kids out of the equation, he’ll be relieved not to have to see me.
Though not nearly as relieved as I will be not to see him.
I realize that I have begun to nod almost imperceptibly. Steve continues, “I’ll only be five miles away. That’s around five minutes. And I promise if you call me, I will drop everything to be here.”
Another thing that bugs me about my husband: his brother lives in Hollywood, which is indeed five miles from us. But in Los Angeles, that’s at least fifteen minutes away, not five. Thirty in traffic. This is why Steve is perpetually late: he constantly underestimates the time it takes to get anywhere. I am instantly reminded of all of the times we’ve been late to parties, dinners, school plays…
And I’m angry all over again.
His miscalculation would normally be minor. A little blip in the marriage. Dirty dishes in the sink or forgetting to pick up milk on the way home. But today, it is the final straw. He’s right. We need a break. I nod. And there’s a catch in my voice, but I manage to say, “Okay.”
Steve’s face brightens with relief. “Okay. Good. We have a plan," he says, parroting our old therapist. “A very loving plan where no one is mad, and where we’re just going to take some time to figure everything out.”
“Right," I agree, hoping my voice doesn’t give away my disdain for that therapist and her let’s put a positive spin on every choice and use the word ‘love’ every chance we get take on life.
Then I ask, “Should we tell the kids now?”
“No. Let’s not ruin their first day of school. We’ll do the morning routine the way we always have. Family breakfast, then I’ll take Roraigh to the high school campus while you take Megan to middle school. We’ll tell them tonight, over dinner.”
The next hour and a half was a blur.
I remember years ago, spending an entire day with Steve, and desperately wanting to say, “I love you” out loud, but not quite getting up the nerve. It was an errand day, and while we picked out cheap lamps at Ikea, bought groceries at Costco, and swung by Macy’s to buy him a new shirt, I kept mouthing the words, “I love you," but nothing came out. Because it needed to be said, but I was afraid of the fallout that might happen once I said it.
Cut to this morning, when I made pancakes, talked to the kids about their classes, and listened to Megan monologue all the way to school about her friends and the boy she liked and some new emo band she wanted to download. I kept almost saying aloud, “Your father’s moving out.” Knowing it needed to be said.
And being terrified of the fallout that I knew would happen.
Rather than driving through the drop off lane, I park. As I pull into a spot at the curb half a block from her school, Megan protests, “What are you doing? Just drop me off.”
Why is it the minute kids get to middle school, they are suddenly embarrassed by their parents? As I turn off the car, I calmly assure her, “You can go ahead. I just need to stop into the office and make sure some paperwork’s turned in.”
“Awesome. I love you," Megan says quickly, already lugging her backpack out of the car. “Are you picking me up right after school or can I go to aftercare?”
Echolake Charter School has an aftercare program Megan has loved since kindergarten. It’s filled with after school classes teaching everything from cooking to filmmaking to French, plus homework help if the kids want it. “Sure. Just be ready to go right at six. Your father and I have something important to talk to you and Roraigh about.”
“Oh God, what did I do?” Megan asks.
<
br /> “Nothing.”
“Oh. What did Roraigh do?”
“Will you stop worrying? It’s just a family meeting," I lie to her, continuing to avoid the fallout.
She doesn’t hear the strain in my voice at all. Just gives me a quick, “Okay. Bye.” before shutting her door.
I open my door to get out, yelling, “I love you,” over the car roof as Megan speed walks toward some friends.
The truth is I’m not going to the office to check on paperwork: I am going in to tell them that Steve is moving out for awhile, and to make sure her teachers know and can watch for blowback. And also to maybe get her an appointment with the school psychologist.
As I walk onto the campus and across the playground, I see my friend Olivia scurry past me. “Hey there," I say. “How was your summer?”
Olivia looks startled. “Oh. Hi, Michelle,” she says, pulling me into and out of a quick hug and then asking in a voice dripping with concern, “How are you holding up?”
“Fine," I say, not knowing how to take the question. I mean, I’m totally not fine, but there’s no way she could know that. I immediately change the subject. “How was Maui? It looked amazing on your Instagram photos.”
“It was good," she says awkwardly. “The kids spent a week with me, then flew to Oahu to be with Gerry and his new wife.”
“Wow. Two weeks in Hawaii. In my next life, I want to come back as one of your kids," I joke.
Olivia forces a tight smile. “Thanks.” Then she rubs my shoulder rather clumsily and announces, “I should go. I’m going to be late for work.”
And she races away.
Okay, that was weird. Or maybe it’s not: maybe I’m so in my own world, I can’t read anyone’s behavior these days.
I wave to a few Moms I’ve known forever, forcing a smile, then continue toward the office.
My phone pings. I pull it from my pocket to see it’s a text from Olivia.
I just saw Michelle. Yikes! How’d she take it?
I look at the text quizzically. How did I take…
And instantaneously, a bunch of unrelated puzzle pieces fall into place to give me the big picture. And Steve’s recent behavior makes perfect sense.
Hangovers & Hot Flashes Page 5