Читать книгу Second Chance - Elizabeth Wrenn - Страница 9

FOUR

‘You got that at Victoria’s Secret?’ Neil had an almost sick look on his face. ‘That?’

I’d just pulled off my new bathrobe, having worn it for the first time and gotten exactly the reaction I’d feared. We were dressing for the O’Keefes’ party, and, as much as I didn’t want to go, a sense of duty drove me. And, I believed in the clinic – there were too many people for whom health insurance was an impossibility. Besides, I wasn’t ‘You-zing’ my life; the least I could do was support my husband in using his.

I hung the robe on the closet hook. It now looked more prune-colored than purple to me. I sighed. ‘Yes. It was on clearance.’

‘But, Dee, you, in Victoria’s Secret?’ He chortled. ‘The one time you go and that’s what you get. Of all things.’

Neil, in worn but clean undershirt and briefs, looked at the robe, and he too sighed. ‘You could have gotten something for me, if you know what I mean.’ I knew exactly what he meant, and I didn’t even come close to having enough energy to explain to him that I was tired of always doing and buying and being for someone other than me. I said nothing, and Neil went into the bathroom to shave.

I sat on the bed and slipped my thumbs down into one leg of a pair of suntan panty hose, gathering it up as I went. I placed my toes inside. Sitting there on my bed I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d worn panty hose. It could well be that the pair in my hand were more than fifteen years old. Ten minutes earlier I’d excavated them from the back of my underwear drawer and taken them out of the sealed package. When I’d gotten out of the shower that evening, Neil, predictably, had begged me to wear a dress to the O’Keefes’, rather than one of my ubiquitous pantsuits. ‘You used to look so good in a dress and you never wear them anymore,’ he’d said. ‘This may be our only opportunity to really dress up till one of the kids gets married.’

‘I had it on the other night, you know,’ I muttered, too low for him to hear in the bathroom, as I spread the dress out on the bed. It was somehow even less stylish than it had been six nights ago.

I sighed. I didn’t want to go to this soiree at all; it wouldn’t matter if I was unhappily there in a pants outfit or unhappily there in a dress. ‘I tried to call Sam again today,’ I said, staring at my foot. I was sitting with my ankle on my knee, still with only my toe in the hose, waiting for the motivation to pull them up.

‘Diddah you yust caw heh a cuppa day ago?’ he said, sounding like an old man who’d removed his false teeth as he contorted his face to shave under his nose.

‘Yes, but I didn’t talk to him. I never talk to him, I just leave messages.’

A little laugh from the bathroom, accompanied by his razor swishing in a sink full of water.

‘Aw, Dee. He’s just busy, having fun. You remember college, don’t you? It’s a whole new life for him. We’re not his life anymore. We’ve got to accept that.’ Meaning I had to accept that. Neil seemed to be fine with the fact that we’d gone from three kids to two, and that the two would also soon disappear from our lives.

Slowly, morosely, I pulled the leg of the hose up over my ankle, then calf. I stopped, just above the knee, wondering if there was an expiration date on panty hose. The nylon felt more granular and restrictive than I remembered. I gazed down at the box on the bed. No ‘use by’ date. It should at least give a use by weight. Which, come to think of it, it did on the chart on the back. I flipped the box over to the height and weight chart; I was precariously close to the outer limit. Darn near expired.

I pulled the hose up over my knee. I wondered if the fabric got unstretchable with age. There just simply did not seem to be enough material here, considering how far I had yet to go. I gathered up the other leg, slipped my foot into the suntan donut, then slowly pulled that side thigh-high. I put my stockinged feet on the carpet and stood. I tugged on the right, then the left, then the right, all while swinging my butt hither and yon trying to stretch a couple feet of fabric up on to an acre of hips. I took a breather and caught my hunched-over reflection in my dresser mirror, my pale flesh bulging out in more than the usual spots. There was the familiar boobies-in-the-back bra bulge, the see-I-have-two-waists! panty bulge, and now I had added the glorious bisected-saddlebag thigh bulge. Worse, it was not only me staring at my bulginess. There in the mirror, staring at my reflection, was Neil’s reflection. He was leaning on the doorframe of the walk-in closet, mostly dressed now, a twinkle in his eye.

‘What d’ya say we show up fashionably late to this thing, Dee?’ he said suggestively.

Oh. My. God. If he could get turned on by this, a bent-over, middle-aged manatee-shaped woman wrestling her way into a garden hose, it was indeed Neil who needed some hormone therapy.

‘Give me a break,’ I said, irritably. I stood upright, yanked on the hose, and promptly poked a fingernail through the fabric. As I watched the run cascade down the side of my leg, the tears slid down my cheeks. ‘Goddamnit! Goddamn them! Goddamn them to hell!’ I started to sob.

‘What’s wrong? Calm down, Deena. Who are you mad at?’

‘Everyone! Men. The men who made the first panty hose!’ I glared at him. ‘You know it was a man, don’t you?!’ I actually didn’t know it was a man, but I’d have bet good money on it.

Defensively, Neil held up both palms toward me.

‘Well, it was a man! Goddamned men. They invented high heels, too. And girdles. And makeup.’ Again, I had no idea if this was all true, but at the moment, it felt it could be no other way. ‘All the things that tell women we’re not good enough the way we are. We need to be tanner, smoother, taller, prettier.’ Neil looked at me as if my face was familiar but he couldn’t recall my name. ‘And especially younger and thinner!’ I screamed. Whew. When the lid blows off a pressure cooker, it blows hard.

Suddenly Neil was sitting on the bed next to me, patting my knee and talking as if I was a four-year-old. ‘Now, now, Deedle.’

‘Don’t patronize me.’

‘Who said I’m patronizing you?’

I just stared at him. I half expected him to pull out a roll of stickers from his breast pocket and hand me one, the way he placated his youngest patients. But suddenly his expression changed, softened. Quietly, he said, ‘Do you just want to stay home?’

Tears of relief slipped down my cheeks. ‘Oh, Neil, can we? Yes. Thank you.’ Instead of forced chitchat in tight shoes, I saw us walking around our neighborhood lake, in comfortable sneakers, and hand in hand. Like old times. Maybe I could even broach the idea of the dog thing I’d seen on TV.

He looked sheepish, then impatient. ‘Not we, you. I have to go. I want to go. I’ve put my life into this clinic. It’s important.’

I just looked at him. Part of me wanted to say, And your family isn’t? Yes, the past couple of years you’ve put your life into the clinic. Not your kids. Not your marriage. No wonder he seemed so unaffected by Sam’s departure, and Lainey’s and Matt’s growing independence and absences. He was able to throw himself into his work with impunity.

Neil stood, walked to the door, put a hand on the knob, then turned toward me. He looked as handsome in his dark gray suit as I’d seen him in years. ‘What’s it going to be, Deena?’

I stared at the blue dress, the blue tights with the shot elastic waist now my only option. We wouldn’t even look like we belonged together.

‘I’ll stay home with the kids.’

‘For God’s sake, they’re teen— They don’t need a—Oh, never mind.’ He closed his eyes, shook his head, and left.

I sat on the bed, peeling the panty hose from my legs. I looked up to see myriad fat Deenas looking at me. The closet door mirror was angled just right to catch my reflection in the dresser mirror, making multiple mes, each disappearing into the next. I wadded my panty hose up in a ball and threw them at the mirror. But they had no substance or weight and merely arced limply for a few feet, and dropped silently to the carpet.

When the house was still again after Neil had driven away, I came downstairs in my pruney bathrobe, walked into the kitchen, and was greeted by three unpacked lunch bags on the counter and Hairy sitting on the desk meowing for food again.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘You have your dry food. You only get wet food in the morning.’ His meowing ratcheted up a notch. I couldn’t stand the noise, so I gave him several Pounce treats in his bowl. As he devoured them, I began unpacking the lunch bags, pulling out dirty Tupperware containers, chip bags and largely unused napkins. As I was throwing the trash away, Matt came into the kitchen.

‘Hey, Mom,’ he said laconically, not looking at me, walking straight for the pantry. ‘How come you didn’t go with Dad tonight?’ He’d pulled open both pantry doors and was hanging on the handles, which I’d asked him approximately three hundred times not to do. He stared with a bored expression at the choices in front of him.

‘I— I’m not feeling well.’ I was struggling to open a small Tupperware container in which I’d packed Matt’s favorite homemade chocolate pudding. Lainey preferred the store-bought variety, feeling that anything else would make some sort of horrific social statement to her friends. But Matt said he preferred mine, which made me happy, although I’d evidently packed too much because he hadn’t finished it. I pulled again at the stubborn top, unable to leverage it. Just once I’d like to see a commercial not about how well a lid holds, but how the hell to get these small ones off their containers.

Matt grabbed an opened bag of popcorn from the pantry. ‘What’s for dinner?’ he said, shoving a handful in his mouth.

‘Yeah, I’m hungry.’ Lainey had suddenly appeared behind me. I was sure the only reason they were home on a Friday night was because they’d expected their parents, both of them, to be out.

‘I thought you guys were going to order pizza. Didn’t Dad leave money on the desk?’

‘No, he said since you were home, you’d cook.’ Lainey was fingering the tie of my robe. ‘You know, Mom, I don’t like this color as well out of the store. You should have gotten the pink. Don’t take this the wrong way, but this purple kind of makes you look a little fat.’ She stood a step back from me, a sympathetic expression on her face.

And just what was the right way to take that comment? I wanted to ask her. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to start crying again. What was it about adolescent girls that they thought some sort of verbal disclaimer made plunging a knife into your gut okay? It didn’t really help that I knew she wasn’t trying to be deliberately hurtful.

I looked at Matt, who was crunching another mouthful of popcorn, his hand already back in the bag, gathering the next handful. ‘So, like, are we going to eat soon?’ he said, rather messily.

My hands tightened into a chokehold on the Tupperware. Then, to punctuate the tenor of my evening, I felt the perspiration begin to ooze out the pores of my forehead and upper lip, the familiar temperature surge building in me like an overheating engine.

I pulled off my bathrobe, grabbing the top of my worn pj’s, pulling it in and out rapidly, trying to cool myself. I looked at my kids. I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t planned anything. I knew I could always make a tuna casserole. But I hadn’t planned on cooking tonight. I didn’t want to cook tonight. The anger I’d felt upstairs surged again. I wondered if other women going through the change had anger flashes, in addition to hot flashes. I put the Tupperware bowl on my hip and ripped the lid off, losing my grip and inadvertently flinging the lid across the kitchen. It Frisbeed its way right into Hairy, who, his white fur spattered with chocolate pudding, stood, yowling and hissing at me.

‘Dammit!’ I yelled.

‘Maw-ahm!’ yelled Lainey, rushing toward Hairy, but stopping just short. ‘Poor kitty!’ She glanced back at me, eyebrows up. ‘And you owe me another dollar.’

Matt bent forward, laughing and spewing little globs of half-chewed popcorn across the tile floor. ‘Now he’s a Dalmatian cat!’ He convulsed in laughter again.

‘Poor kitty,’ repeated Lainey, still not touching him, trying in vain not to smile.

I handed her a wet paper towel. ‘Wipe him off, please, Lainey.’ I dabbed at the chocolate on my robe with a wet sponge.

She took the paper towel from me but merely held it, as she was overcome finally with laughter. ‘I’m not the one who threw pudding all over him,’ she said, leaning on the desk and covering her mouth, then turning away, as if she didn’t want Hairy to see her laughing at him. He had a blob of pudding on one side of his forehead, a Groucho Marx eyebrow. I was worried it would go into his eye.

‘Okay, fine, I’ll clean him up.’ I snatched the paper towel from her, and she grabbed her stomach with both hands and bumped into Matt, who was also still convulsed with laughter. I wiped Hairy’s eye, then, with a grunt from both of us, lifted the enormous chocolate-spattered cat from the desk and took him to the sink. ‘Sorry, Hairy. It was an accident.’ He glared back at me, the angry-looking face that is every Persian’s lot in life now looking downright murderous.

‘I’ll be downstairs,’ said Matt breathlessly.

‘Me too,’ said Lainey. ‘Call us when dinner’s ready.’ Holding Hairy firmly in the sink, I watched, my mouth open but nothing coming out, as she reached over Matt’s shoulder into the bag of popcorn as they descended.

In the next couple of hours I bathed the cat, put a bandage on the scratch on my arm, swept the kitchen floor, made and served a tuna casserole, and folded and put away some laundry while the kids ate. I wasn’t hungry after Lainey’s comment. While the kids watched a movie, I did the dishes, mopped the floor and dusted, all in the name of therapy.

At nine o’clock I headed up to bed, wanting to be asleep before Neil got home. I wasn’t, but I again faked it. It was a mystery to me how I could perpetually be so tired and yet have so much trouble sleeping. But I was getting very skilled at playing possum. I lay still, on my side of the bed, the edge really, my back to the center. Neil came into the room, undressed, was in the bathroom for quite a while, then finally slipped in on his side. Thankfully, he didn’t reach for me.

But pure guilt made me reach for him. I fulfilled my wifely duties then returned to my edge.

I lay for close to an hour, frozen in my assumed position, till I was sure he was asleep. Then I silently slid out of bed, wrapped myself in my new prune-colored, fat-emphasizing robe, and went downstairs to the kitchen. I pulled out the tuna casserole, grabbed a fork, and shoveled in a big mouthful. Then another. Still chewing, I loaded up the fork again, gazing at the pictures and memos on the door of the fridge. An upcoming birthday party invitation from one of Lainey’s friends. A shopping list. Matt and Lainey’s wallet-sized school photos. A picture of Sam with his friends at a graduation party. Another mother had given it to me. And under a magnet from a car mechanic was an old snapshot of Rocky and Fordy, both going after a stick in the lake. I stared at it, holding in one hand the ancient white CorningWare we’d gotten so many years ago as a wedding gift, and in the other my laden fork. I swallowed what was in my mouth, looked at my forkful, and let it drop back into the casserole. I put the lid on and pushed the dish back into the fridge. I put my fork in the dishwasher and quietly closed the door. Tightening the tie on my robe, I walked down the second flight of stairs to the den. I sat, turned on the computer, ner-vously pulled at the cuticle of my index finger, waiting. As it hummed into being, the monitor’s dim blue screen softened the too-clean room. I clicked, typed, and clicked again, until the Google box appeared. I took a deep breath, then carefully typed in the letters, one by one:

RAISING GUIDE DOG PUPPY