Sunday, December 16
I wake up…content. Mildly irritated at my husband. Physically exhausted and just slightly hungover. Sufficiently morally ambivalent that I make pancakes for everyone, my mother-in-law included, instead of checking email or Facebook. It is Sunday, after all.
Alex, Cassandra and Annie all leave to take Alex’s mother home. The boys run over to Lacey’s to play with Clayton.
I caress the keys.
And. My email pings. Panic. New numbers, new arguments. Can I do a quick read, shoot it back in 30 minutes? Of course. Why not? It’s a Sunday in December, Christmas countdown, what else would I be doing today? Do these people never take any days off? The house is empty, my lover is taking his hard cock elsewhere, what the fuck is wrong with me?
Work. Read. Think. And settle. A little bit, anyway. Reality is. Reality anchors. Numbers are predictable, decipherable, reassuring.
Time passes.
Ping.
I was. The selfish bastard. Anger rises in me in overwhelming waves. At myself. At my immense stupidity. At keeping Facebook open while I worked. At the rising heat in my belly and groin. Such desire. Oh, fuck. My fingers touch the keyboard. Angry. Compelled.
Ping. What the fuck? Oh, Jeezus. Nicola. Why is she messaging me? Fucking hell.
I skim over the words. The gist: frozen bank accounts. Swollen line of credit. Missed credit-card payments. Inaccurate – and this seems to be what angers her the most – portrayal of the divorce on his match.com page. (‘He’s on match.com? What happened to the skank?’ I type, while I think, ‘What is he doing with Marie?’ ‘Oh, they’re still together. I think he’s just covering his bases.’) Finally, I do read this:
- One day, months from now, I will ask you why I didn’t kick him out years ago
—Because you’re freakin’ awesome. And you try to make things work. And because you’re a good mom.
- Thank you. I needed to hear that.
—I need to go.
I need to go because I’m cyberfucking my lover in the other window. What would you say if I said that to you, Nicola? In-fucking-sane. And a hypocrite.
And I’m back with him. Inside the madness. And my bliss.
I stare at the screen. At the keyboard. Minutes pass.
The doorbell rings. I slam the computer lid down. Alex back? The boys back? No. Fucking neighbourhood carollers.
I’m inexcusably rude.
I slowly go into the basement with the laptop and the phone.
I don’t know why.
I think I want to hide.
The basement is full of Alex’s workout equipment. I go to my pretty 26-year-old boy toy; Alex, usually alone, sometimes with his buddies, sweats in the basement. Jesse comes by every once in a while to give them technique tune-ups.
I suppose it could be worse. I could be doing this from one of the kids’ bedrooms.
I’m not going to call.
Fuck.
Of course I will.
Dial.
‘You kept me waiting.’
‘I didn’t think I’d call.’
‘I knew you would. You always do what you’re told. Don’t you?’
I disassociate from myself – or connect with myself – or lose myself. I don’t know what the fuck I do. I do what I’m told. And there, in my basement, on Alex’s workout bench, I come – repeatedly – as I have never come before.
And I’m the fucking O-queen. It’s not a struggle to satisfy me, really.
Jeezus.
All the words I’ve read, in my ear. In his voice.
Jesus-fucking-Christ.
If I believed in God, I am going to hell.
Thank God I’m an atheist.
What is happening to me?
I’m flying. I’m coming so hard, I feel liquid pouring down my leggings past my knees.
The call waiting cuts in. Beep beep beep beep.
I keep on coming. I drop the phone. Shake, shake, shake.
Scramble to find it.
I think I might say…‘I have to go now.’
Or maybe just ‘Oh, my fucking God.’
And he says, ‘Now say thank you.’
I say it. My throat constricts.
‘You can go now.’
I drop the phone. Hang up.
The single most erotic, most intense experience of my life.
I am clearly so fucked.
The phone rings.
And I stare at it as if it’s a venomous snake or a cobra for such a long time – surely he’s not calling me back? No, he can’t be.
It’s my mother.
I don’t really like to talk to my mother on the telephone at the best of times. I love her, God knows I love her, but she gives awful phone. She sighs and insinuates and leaves things hanging…and gets huffy and hangs up. This is not the best of times.
I don’t pick up.
The phone goes to voicemail…and then rings again. And again.
Fuck. She does this sometimes.
‘Hello?’
‘Jane? It’s Mom.’ Well, duh. There is insufficient blood flow to my head, I decide. I lie down on the workout bench, telephone in hand.
Well. That didn’t help.
‘Are you there, Jane?’
‘Yes, Mom. Um…now is really not the best time. I’ve…’ Well, I definitely can’t tell her what I’ve just done. But it doesn’t matter. She does not want to listen to me.
‘Of course it’s not the best time. It’s the worst time. But I need to talk to you now, before you and Alex bring the kids over tomorrow.’
Tomorrow? Right. Tomorrow, on a Monday, the kids have planned a sleepover with Gran and Gramps. I don’t remember, I can’t remember why on a Monday. There’s a reason. A cogent one. Something to do with my dad’s work, Alex’s schedule, and my mother’s whims. And because the kids are out of the house, Alex and I are planning to play. Go out for dinner. ‘Date night.’ Right. Date night. With Alex. My husband. Father of my children. On whose workout bench I just came like a shameless whore for…Stop.
My mother is talking.
‘…and so that’s it, we’ve decided it’s the best thing to do,’ she says.
I clearly missed something important.
‘You did?’ I say. My voice reverberates in my ears.
‘Oh, honey.’ My mother’s voice goes all soft and gushy. ‘Don’t be angry. You know this isn’t about you. This is between your dad and me. And it really is the best thing.’
What the fuck?
‘Mom? What are you talking about?’
‘Our separation,’ she says. ‘Well, divorce, really. We’re calling it a separation, but I need to be frank with you, honey, there is no plan to reconcile, reconnect. It’s been forty-three years, mostly wonderful years, and we’ve raised just the most wonderful daughter and gotten the most terrific grandchildren out of it, but life goes on and…’
She’s talking in clichés and circles, which is what she does when she is emotionally overwrought.
‘You’re getting divorced?’ I say. ‘You and Dad, you’re getting divorced?’
‘Don’t tell the children just yet – Dad’s still living in the house, he’ll be there tomorrow,’ she says. ‘He’s going to start looking for a new place this week. I’m going to stay in the house. We decided we need to keep the house, for the grandchildren, you know. Because of the treehouse and the…’
‘You. Are. Getting. Divorced?’ I repeat.
And then I hang up the telephone.
As it starts to ring a few seconds later, I hang it up again. Then race up the stairs and unplug all the instruments in the house.
I’m standing in the middle of the living room, wild-eyed, when the doors creak and Alex and Cassandra come up the stairs.
‘Everything cool, Mom?’ Cassandra asks.
‘Jesus, Jane, what happened?’ Alex asks. And then, ‘Annie’s asleep in the car. Should I bring her in?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I say. ‘I’m OK. But I’m just going to go lie down for a few minutes. I’m dizzy. Give me ten minutes, OK? And then get me if you need me.’
‘What should I do with Annie?’ Alex asks.
‘Bring her up to her bed,’ I say. ‘Or my bed. I don’t care. Look. I need to lie down. Now.’
I stagger up the stairs to the bedroom. Bed. Blanket.
I wonder if the universe is trying to deliver some big moral to me here.
If so, I don’t hear it.
‘He’s going to start looking for a new place this week.’
What’s just happened?
What am I?