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Realizing once again there’s nothing earth-shattering on the Internet, I close my phone’s server, slip off the bar stool, and enter the great room where we have a matching cream-colored couch and loveseat surrounded by glass tables and situated on a rug with tan and sage-green designs. The wide wood shelf in our bay window houses seven prized orchids that I’ve collected and babied for years. You watch me aimlessly check each plant, removing any dead leaves and sticking my finger in the pots to evaluate the moisture. Two of the plants are huge and in bloom with pure-white flowers; they’re currently looking healthy and gorgeous. Do you like them, or are you the type who doesn’t want to deal with the upkeep of indoor plants?
And, if you are curious, yes, I am still ignoring my husband. He deserves my inattention. This is how we play our marital volley when we disagree—we avoid each other at all costs until we cool down.
I retreat to the kitchen again, passing the double-sided fireplace wall separating the great room from our dining area. I pull out a water pitcher from a bottom cupboard and rest it in the sink opposite the side with the soaking lasagna pan. As the container fills with water, I notice the girls are still on the swings, going back and forth, back and forth, not a care in the world. At least they no longer have to wear face masks outside or at school. It’s been cathartic for everyone since the CDC eased the mask-wearing mandate.
How I wish I were like these cute girls; I’m jealous of their innocence, ignorance, and lightheartedness. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be a kid again?
When the pitcher is full, I head back to the bay window, carefully pouring water on my treasured plants, making sure no moisture gets on the Alexa unit or security camera that faces outward to our front door entry walkway and semi-enclosed patio. The patio is enclosed by a low-profile privacy fence with a matching gate that is usually kept open. The area is furnished with a wrought-iron table and two matching chairs where Denny and I often have coffee on weekends.
As I explained earlier, Rochelle was on the journalism team with me at UCLA where all our articles were submitted online. We roomed together one semester, but it was sometimes trying in our relationship to be in each other’s face day and night, especially on top of the many venues we covered on campus. We tended to stay up most nights discussing each day’s ins and outs that didn’t matter. Talk about lack of sleep, rooming with Rochelle was detrimental to our well-being. We had a special friendship back then.
Rochelle started dating Dave during the middle of our first year, and their relationship quickly escalated. She was obsessed and so in love with him that she practically stopped going to class. He wasn’t in journalism but was a pre-med major who was a neat freak (it was obvious that Rochelle and I were not, but, trust me, I’ve gotten better after being married to Denny). Dave, a few years older and no doubt wiser, swept Rochelle off her feet, making her crave the whole happily-ever-after concept, complete with a house with a white picket fence and a cute calico cat perched in the window. I used to tease her by saying she’d be chained to being barefoot and pregnant, washing dishes and clothes all day long with her hair up in those huge, old-fashioned curlers. She’d banter that she truly, beyond any doubt, wanted her life in that perfect, rosy way. That’s the American way of the 1960s, our parents’ Baby-Boomer era. That’s true contentment, or so she thought.
Um, no thank you, I say. The idea sounds ultra-dated these days. Would you want to go back and live in that time?
Then came the day Rochelle found out she was pregnant.
Boy, that changed everything.
Dave left her, giving the excuse that he had to fly back East because his grandmother had Alzheimer’s and needed him. So, he was out of the picture. Out of her fantasy-filled life.
Rochelle dropped out of the campus newsgroup, giving me the entire intramural sports section to handle.
Rochelle dropped out of school.
Rochelle dropped out of life.
Reality hit her like a concrete boulder.
She had the baby. Joshua David Good. Used her last name, not Dave’s.
She tried to move on, grow up, and adjust.
Although we met a couple of times after the baby was born, we don’t keep in contact now; all of that changed her too much. She’s not even one of my social media friends. No clue how to contact her.
Have you experienced a fallen-apart friendship? There’s nothing you can do about it, no way of returning to how it once was. I miss her and our fun times. To this day, the loss makes me sad.
Rochelle’s bundle of joy wasn’t the key to the demise of our relationship; her religion destroyed it. She was, by genealogy, a Jew, but never promoted it; it had never been an issue between us. She was more apologetic than practicing when it came to her beliefs. It was as though she had curly black hair and I had straight blonde, no big deal between us.
I think when Dave realized she was Jewish, he couldn’t handle it since he had come from a strictly Catholic background, so he broke up with her. Never know, maybe his family pressured him to dump her. That’s my bet. As far as I knew, after the break-up, Rochelle never talked about Dave, never asked him for support, and never considered him again. I'm not sure if he knows she gave birth to a son; that would be wrong on so many levels.
All because of religious beliefs? Anyone should be able to be married to someone of a different race or religion—what does “all men are created equal” mean? It worked for Denny and me; he was raised Baptist via Amy’s insistence, and I had no religious upbringing except to believe in myself. That’s a form of religion, don’t you think? We’re happily married; we have no major problems.
After her baby was born, Rochelle became a Messianic Jew and started pushing her religion on me as Amy does. I don’t need any salvation or help in my life. I can do it alone. Rochelle’s newfound Christianity may have supported her in her time of need, but I don’t need any help.
Yet.
I know down inside and do admit that I’m like anyone else. Right now, I don’t want help. What I need is affirmation; I need approval.
Will you be one to give it to me, or are you the judgmental type?
Would you change your mind about me if I decide to terminate the baby?
Back to self-absorption—which I’m sure you’re tired of, but this is my way of processing problems. This is how my brain functions, although yours may be wired differently. I work the angles until there’s nothing left to consider. Leave if you want—you don’t have to be here; for all I know, you can leave me and get inside someone else’s head if you want. Maybe that one will be more interesting.
Having the baby won’t work out the way I want my life to go. It would make a mess of things. I’m not qualified to take care of a newborn and don’t want to be a parent right now. I need to know I’m making the right decision for me—not for Denny, you, or anyone else but me. I need approval and assurance. I need to be sure of what I’m doing.
Sure?
No, not really. I’m unsure about the path I’ll take. Isn’t everyone? We think we will like a job or a person we marry, but we’re unsure initially whether we made the right selection. When we make a crucial decision, do we have “buyer’s remorse” afterward, wondering if it’s truly the right path to take? Isn’t that what divorce is, finding out later that you made the wrong choice of a spouse?
What did Rochelle get by making her decision? She could have gotten rid of the baby and kept Dave. I don’t know. She chose to keep her baby; she had choices and made that specific one. She’s a single parent raising a son and is no longer able to finish her education as she tries to figure out where she’ll get the next box of diapers. Sad. I could never raise a child under those circumstances. I must have confidence and purpose.
As I finish watering the last orchid, I consider my options as I play emotional ping-pong in my head.
I should drop it, forget about it, but I can’t; it nudges my mind in ways I’ve never considered. I know you want me to move on, but I can’t. This is me, the real me, and how I think inside. I can’t stop myself from considering the outcome of my choices.
Am I feeling guilty?
Is that what this is?
Am I feeling sorry for something I may do? Am I feeling shame or remorse?
I don’t know; I don’t know what I feel.
Empty.
Lost.
Alone.
I have Denny. I have someone who loves me, right?
He’d never understand what I’m feeling. Not now.
Tell me I still have Denny, despite our fight.