Monday, December 17
I am the product of a broken home.
I repeat the sentence to myself in my head a few times as I stir my coffee. I’m not sure if it hasn’t fully sunk in, or if I’m just so totally, completely fucked up here that I can’t appreciate the enormity of what has just happened. My parents will be celebrating their 43rd anniversary – the next one would have been forty-fucking-three – in some…courtroom? arbitrator’s chambers? I guess probably just a lawyer’s office…unhitching their union. Split asunder for evermore.
I indulge myself with one of my favourite images of my parents – one I drew on and talked about on my wedding day. I had gotten some lame-ass award, and there was a banquet and a dinner, and they were there of course – and I was there chiefly for them, because while I thought it was a lame-ass award, it was their daughter’s lame-ass award, and so of course the greatest, most important thing ever to them. They arrived dressed to the nines. Holding hands. When was this? Pre-wedding, so eleven, twelve years ago. Exuding happiness.
One of my colleagues pulled me aside to whisper, ‘Your parents are so cute! I keep on expecting them to sneak off into some corner or another for a quickie!’
Not precisely the sort of thing you want to hear about your parents – and not precisely how I described the event when I eulogised it at my wedding – but the sort of thing that makes you think their relationship is, you know, made of stern stuff. Has a – what are people always talking about? A foundation. A solid foundation.
Even if lately they do nothing but snipe and poke at each other.
I managed to tell Alex when I crawled out of bed yesterday. We sat on the workbench – the one I sat on when Matt…I let that thought come to me briefly, don’t run from it – and I told him, and he hugged me, and said all the right things.
As well as ‘They’ve been so beastly to each other lately, it’s frankly a relief.’
Which didn’t sound like the right thing, exactly. But it was true.
We agreed to respect their decision not to tell the kids just yet. And I had a cover if I needed one for any emotional distress stemming from my phone-fucking earlier in the afternoon.
I needed one.
I am the product of a broken home.
I check work email quickly before the kids wake up. Stare at the fucking Facebook F. To check or not to check.
I don’t want to.
I’m…spent. From the intensity of the phone encounter or from news of the divorce? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.
I piddle around with email and Twitter, get cereal for this kid, clean up the spilled milk of this kid, tell the video-game addict to eat breakfast between rounds, shower, defrost meat, disappear into the home office to make a few work phone calls to follow up on yesterday’s emergency.
And I don’t jump when the phone rings. It’s not equilibrium, exactly, it’s just – whatever. Trust. I’m in the middle of the biggest mindfuck of my life, but I trust the mindfucker.
The thought is so shocking to me that I say nothing into the receiver when I pick up the phone.
‘Hello? Jane? Jane, are you there? Where the hell were you this morning?’
Marie. On the landline. To me.
This is a little bit weird.
We may be closer to 40 than 30, but we are fully the Facebook and texting generation. Plus, we’re mothers of multiple children. The little buggers never let us talk on the telephone. Why the fuck is Marie calling me? On my landline?
‘You weren’t on Facebook this morning! Or answering texts! I even called your cell!’
Ah, yes. I wasn’t.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. Marie. My friend. I love her. Support her. Must be there for her, instead of wallowing in my own insanity.
It’s chaotic, because she whispers – the kids must be in the background, perhaps JP also, but surely she wouldn’t call me in a panic with JP in the house? Still, I get the gist. Which is: she emailed her new would-be lover some skanky naked photos of herself.
‘And it’s been twelve hours, and I know he isn’t always online, and has a life, but it’s been twelve hours, I need an acknowledgement! Did he see them and hate them? Did he…’
I am about to become an affair counsellor to a fellow cyber-adulteress.
Surreal.
‘Babe,’ I say. ‘Twelve hours. Do nothing.’
How do I feel when I don’t hear from Matt for twelve hours?
Besides the point.
It’s been more than twelve hours since yesterday’s encounter actually. And I’m fine. Well, not fine, exactly, but…
‘Do not ask, do not nag. He’ll get them. He’ll react. Eventually.’
‘What if he doesn’t like them? What if he thinks I have old-people boobs? I’m almost forty. I’ve breastfed two children. I’ve…’
This is the point at which my natural inclination is to tell her that these are all things she should have agonised over before she took and emailed the stupid pictures.
But I love Marie.
‘You’re hot and you have great boobs,’ I say, which is true. I’ve breastfed four children to her two, and my boobs are hot. Well, in the right bra, and at the right angle. In the right dim light. ‘Just stay offline. Don’t write anything. Don’t chase. It’s undignified.’ I think I’m quoting Matt. Lovely. ‘And not sexy.’
‘It’s really hard,’ Marie says after a pause. ‘I want to talk to him.’
‘Don’t fucking chase,’ I chastise her. And then listen to her say that maybe he likes that, maybe he wants to be chased? Suppose that’s his turn-on? And what if…
‘Look, you’ll do what you want, of course,’ I say. ‘But…if you’re not sure – if it’s just a case of wanting to get it out of you – just text me with what you want to tell him. Or better yet, just write yourself a note. You know? The diary solution.’
Why am I telling her this? Because she’s terrifying me with her need and her vulnerability. Because I want to give her armour.
‘That’s brilliant,’ Marie says. ‘OK, I’ll write it down, and then I’ll have said it, but not sent it. That’s brilliant. Jane? Do you do that?’
No. But I was once a very, very exposed and vulnerable teenager.
And now I kind of think I’m a hard-ass.
‘Jane? You OK?’ Marie’s voice comes from far away.
‘Yes, yes. Kids, you know. I’ve got to go. Stay offline. Do stuff. Wait for him. This is not the recipe for true love, this is how you play a player. OK?’
‘OK. Thank you.’
‘Anytime.’
I drop the kids off at school and ignore my mom’s texts inviting me over for lunch or coffee or just a ‘chat’. I don’t want to deal with the whispering and ‘secret’ confidences I know my mother will inflict on me, while repeating that she wants to keep things ‘normal’ for the grandchildren. Not yet. To the gym – today’s lifeline. Nicola’s finishing her session as I walk through the door, hair plastered with sweat to her forehead, face contorted in agony.
She grunts in my direction, and I run to the change room to effect my switch as quickly as possible so I’m out of there before she comes in so we don’t need to talk about the rat-fuck bastard. And so I don’t have to see how angry she still is from our last encounter.
Foiled.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey. Good workout? You look good. You’ve lost weight.’ Life is turning me into a liar.
‘From stress,’ Nicola sighs. Then looks at me sideways. ‘Are you getting tired of my whining and bitching?’
There are times when friends tell friends the truth. And there are times when friends lie.
‘You are entitled to whine and bitch as much as you like,’ I say. Nicola sighs. I don’t think she believes me. I’m right.
‘You’re a terrible liar,’ she says.
‘You are entitled to whine and bitch as much as you like about the rat-fuck bastard,’ I repeat. ‘And yes, the people around you might get tired of it, and wish that you’d get over it. You know what? Who gives a fuck what they think? This is about you. You can be as self-centred and self-indulgent here as you like. Fuck us and our desire for you to move on because your unhappiness inconveniences us.’
‘I don’t just whinge,’ Nicola says. ‘I’ve – I’ve totally taken control of finances. I’m not sitting around destitute while he tries to be a deadbeat dad. I’m pulling in income however I can. I’m economising.’ She leans over and whispers, ‘But Jesse’s too sweet to economise on. I’m not ready to give that up yet.’
‘Sweet,’ I agree. ‘Speaking of Jesse, I’ve got to go. Be you. Be awesome. And all that.’
‘I love you, Jane!’ Nicola calls to my back.
She doesn’t really. She doesn’t even like me. It’s one of those obnoxious things people say. For the record, I do not love Nicola. At all.
But I do love Marie.
And Lacey. And her earlobes.
But I digress.
Jesse.
‘Abs, arms or legs today?’ he asks. ‘We did full body last time, so take your pick.’
‘Abs,’ I say promptly. Abs are easy. For abs, I get to lie on my back most of the time. It’s relaxing, almost.
I start crunching. And then planking. And then obliques. And side planks. And…
‘You look different,’ Jesse offers suddenly.
‘What?’ I’ve got one hand in the air, one on the ground and my legs contorted all around me. ‘Crooked?’
‘No, I mean – you look more in your skin,’ he says. ‘You know. More yourself.’
I stare at him. Really? Today you notice I’m more in my skin? Today? The day after I phone-fuck my ‘the more wrong it is the hotter it is’ mindfucker of a cyberlover and find out my parents are splitting up? Today I look more in my skin?
‘I didn’t like to say anything,’ Jesse says, ‘because I know how private you like to be.’
Thank you. I think.
‘But you’ve seemed quite unsettled the last couple of weeks or so,’ Jesse continues.
Well, that he got right.
‘But today – you seem more relaxed, more yourself than for a long time,’ he says. ‘Know what? We should stretch. I’ve been dying to stretch you for at least ten days, but you kept asking for hard work-outs. One more set of abs, and we’ll stretch.’
Awesome.
I melt into the floor as we stretch and I realise I am indeed, for the first time in days and days and days, totally physically relaxed.
I guess the phone-sex orgasms did achieve something.
I really hope it wasn’t news of my parents’ divorce.
It had to be the phone-fucking.
Which is probably not the moral the universe meant for me to get from the experience.
But I don’t care.
Six hours later, I’m at my parents’ house. ‘Is it going to be weird, like last time?’ Cassandra asks. ‘Gran kept on hugging us and telling us how much loved us.’ ‘Constantly,’ her brother echoes. ‘And she does,’ I say. OK. First encounter with divorcing parents. And go.
My mom is fluttering around the kitchen, as always a bundle of nervous energy. ‘I am so lucky to have my grandchildren with me, all my grandchildren!’ she trills. ‘I am simply the luckiest grandmother in the world!’ My dad sits at the kitchen table, head bent over a bottle of beer. I kiss the top of his head. Rub his shoulder. ‘You know I know, right?’ I whisper. He nods. He looks at me, and the sadness and…guilt? Jesus, the guilt in his eyes pierces me. Oh, Daddy.
For a brief moment, I’m eight.
Will I get out of there without a heart-to-heart with him? I must.
My mother pulls me away. ‘I bought the children’s Christmas presents today,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t wait to tell you what. Can I tell you? Can I show you?’ She drags me into the den. I look at the stack of Apple boxes.
‘Oh, my fucking God, you bought each of them an iPad.’
‘Don’t swear, Jane, it’s not ladylike.’
Neither is getting fucked in the ass on a workout bench.
‘Did you buy me an iPad?’
‘You always resent it and complain when I buy you expensive Christmas presents,’ my mother says defensively. ‘You can use one of the children’s if you really want.’
‘Would you have bought me an iPad if you had divorced before I had children?’ I ask, which is stupid, because there were no iPads before I had children. Still. I’m starting to feel a little annoyed with my mother.
‘Jane, you have every right to be angry and disappointed, but there is no call to be rude,’ my mother pronounces and huffs out of the room. I stick my tongue out at her back.
No manners. Product of a broken home.
At dinner, Alex asks if I want to talk about the divorce. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No,’ I repeat. ‘Anything but. Do you think Lacey and Clint will actually marry?’ ‘No,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Not if Clint plays things the way he’s been playing them. Why do you ask?’ ‘I’d like Lacey to be happy,’ I say. ‘Lacey’s always happy,’ Alex says. ‘As I’m happy – right now – to be here with you. Without four additional sets of ears. So I can tell you how adorable you look. Without a child making grossed-out puking noises in the background.’
I smile at him.
I love him.
I do not look adorable and I do not want to look adorable.
I want to be told I look hot and fuckable. And I want to be told that he will not leave me after 43 years of marriage, no matter what.
But.
I kiss the knuckles of his hand. And we have a lovely romantic dinner.
And a night without needing to do bedtime for four children. Alex draws me to him and kisses me, gently but thoroughly, as soon as we walk through the front door. ‘I am thrilled to have you all to myself for the entire night,’ he whispers as he kisses my neck and my earlobes. Pulls my breasts out of my dress, my bra.
I wonder if he’ll take me on the workout bench.
He leads me upstairs. Undresses me. Kisses and caresses me. I relax against him, into his curves and angles. I kiss all my favourite spots, and his favourite spots. Nip playfully every once in a while.
‘You’re not as voracious as you were last week,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘I’m glad.’
‘Why? Was I scary?’
‘I was a little scared I would not be able to keep up,’ he says between ear nibbles. ‘Excuse me.’ He kisses his way down my torso to my belly and my pussy.
Matt’s pussy. Christ. Where did that thought come from?
He licks me to a languorous orgasm. I slide down his body to reciprocate.
‘Oh, Jesus, Jane, oh, Jane, oh, Jane, oh, Jane!’