Apart at the Seams (7 page)

F
or about a week, I became somebody I didn't recognize.

The first three days were taken up mostly with crying, drinking, and chain-smoking. There was also a certain amount of ignoring calls from Brian, then answering the calls and bursting into fresh waves of sobbing as soon as he started talking, after which I would hang up on him. Eventually, I just switched the phone off.

That was the really pitiful part of my pity party, those first three days. When the scotch ran out and when I had cried so many tears that you could have twisted me like a pretzel and not wrung out one more drop of liquid, I started cleaning. And cursing. And breaking things.

I had to do something.

Trash bag in hand, I banished the last traces of Christmas, throwing out the greeting cards, a bright green tin still containing a litter of cookie crumbs and sprinkles of red sugar (no wonder we had mice), a terra-cotta pot containing a dud of an amaryllis bulb, crumpled ribbons and wrapping paper, and various other bits that had been overlooked in our rush to beat the post-holiday traffic back to the city.

I scrubbed all traces of visiting rodents from the countertops and appliances, emptied the refrigerator, and wiped down the cupboards. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the wood floors and baseboards with such vehemence that I broke a sweat and raised splinters. I moved furniture and rolled up rugs. I swept and mopped and wiped and scrubbed, working until my hands were raw and my eyes watered from bleach fumes. When that was done, I started cleaning closets. My life was a shambles, but my closets would be in perfect order.

The first box I opened was filled with dozens of how-to books that I'd bought and never really read or used. There were books on how to make candles, scrap quilts, jewelry, knitted scarves, woven baskets, homemade bread, pasta, and pickles. There were books on how to plant a garden—grow herbs, flowers, and vegetables—make compost, upholster furniture, design a tree house, write poetry, and draw with the right side of your brain.

That's what really put me over the edge—the books.

It suddenly occurred to me that if I had two lifetimes in front of me rather than the last half of only one, I wouldn't have time to master more than a fraction of the skills contained in those books. Even so, year after year, I kept buying those books, telling myself that someday, after the kids were out of diapers, or out of kindergarten, or out of college, that when I finished my degree, or got out of debt, or retired, I would have time and money and permission to do what
I
wanted to do, to
live
life instead of just getting through it.

I'd put myself on hold, thinking it would be worth it in the end, that one day, someday, when the time was right and I had fulfilled my responsibilities to my parents, my husband, my children, and my clients, it would be my turn,
our
turn, that Brian and I would finally get to be together and happy. I had believed that this house, which Brian had insisted we buy three years before, was a kind of down payment on that life we would live
together
and share
together
in that someday that was always just a little farther over the horizon.

How stupid was that? How stupid was I?

Very stupid. Fabulously stupid. Naïvely and foolishly and trustingly stupid. The magnitude of my gullibility was too great to put into words, or at least the sort of words I was accustomed to using.

That's when the cursing began.

Words I haven't used since I was in college and trying to convince people of my worldliness, words I've never used in my life, acidic and searingly profane, spouted from my mouth like lava from a volcano.

For the first time in my life, I understood how crimes of passion came to pass. At that moment, if she, the Other, walked through the door, there was no doubt in my mind that I could have inflicted serious bodily harm upon her. I had never been so furious, so emotionally out of control. It was frightening but at the same time strangely exhilarating. I don't think I realized—not until that moment—how hard I had worked for so many years to keep a lid on my emotions, desires, and disappointments. Initially, my rage was directed only at the Other, but it quickly expanded to encompass the unjust, uncaring universe in general and my faithless, thoughtless, heartbreaking husband in particular.

I ripped the top off another box. It was filled with paperbacks, all belonging to Brian. I kicked at the box, and then, one by one, flung the books into a garbage bag, along with one from my box, a book about rekindling marital romance. I ripped off the front cover of that one, then the back cover, and various pages, whole chapters at a time, and threw them in the bag with the rest.

The next box was filled with old clothes, boots, and gloves. Every single item that belonged to Brian ended up in the trash bag, even his ice skates. When the bag was full, I carted it to the back door, got another bag, and went on a rampage, opening closets and drawers, pulling out everything I could find that belonged to Brian and tossing it all into the trash bag, staying my hand only when it came to his guitar, the one he'd been playing when I first saw him in London.

When I was done, when I had banished every trace of Brian from the house, I ran across the yard in the rain to the old barn that served as our garage, carrying three big black trash bags and a cardboard box. My load was unwieldy and the ground was like a soggy sponge. I didn't see the stone sticking up from the ground, the one that tripped me and sent me tumbling.

I landed flat on my face in the pouring rain, surrounded by books and papers and clothing and crumpled Christmas wrapping.

After lying there a moment to make sure that nothing was broken, I groaned and got up. My jeans were muddy. So was my sweater. And I was missing a shoe.

I found it, slipped my mud-sodden sock back into it, spit out a few more profanities, and then picked up everything and threw it into the big blue trash can as quickly as I could before running back into the house, water dripping from my hair, mud squelching over the top of my left shoe. I was soaked, filthy, and so angry I was ready to explode. In a way, that's what I did.

I stood in the kitchen, dripping mud and spitting expletives, feeling powerless and furious. I pounded on the kitchen table, leaving a muddy crescent, the shape of a curled fist, then spun around to the sideboard and snatched a delicate, bone-china teacup with yellow daisies painted on the side, one from the set my mother had given me when the twins were born.

I hurled it as hard as I could against the far wall. It shattered into a million pieces, or maybe just a hundred. It didn't matter; the effect was the same: destructive and oddly satisfying. Especially when the echo of exploding crockery was coupled with the report of gunshot-loud profanity.

I grabbed another cup from the shelf, flung it, and smashed it. And another. And another. Until they were gone, smashed to smithereens. All six of them. The only thing left was the matching daisy-painted teapot.

When it was over, I walked through the kitchen over the broken teacups, the ceramic shards crackling beneath the soles of my shoes, my breathing ragged from the exertion of my labors, climbed the stairs, took a shower, and went to bed.

It was the best night's sleep I'd had in four days. I woke up feeling calmer, able to think clearly. For a while.

 

While I showered and dressed, I began thinking practically about my situation, considering what my life might look like if Brian wasn't in it.

In a brief moment of lucidity, I had taken Lanie's advice and placed a call to her divorce lawyer, Libby Burrell, who gave me a quick overview of the procedures, the timeframes, and the ravages that divorce would likely cause to my life, my family, and my finances. The last point was driven home with particular emphasis when she informed me that she would require a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer before taking me on as a client.

“It's obviously a lot of money,” she said in response to my gasp. “But I think that figure is in line with the reputation and results you can expect from our firm, as well as the importance of the path you're about to take. For some couples, divorce is the only option. But this isn't a step you should take lightly, Gayla.”

The conversation was so depressing that it brought on another crying jag as well as a trip to the liquor store for a second bottle of scotch. But she had a point. Getting a divorce would change my life completely. I needed to be prepared for that, to think carefully about what came next. There was a lot to think about.

One of my biggest, most immediate concerns was housing. Where would I live after the divorce? Without Brian's income, I obviously couldn't afford to keep our apartment. What could I afford? A prewar studio in the Village with quirky neighbors, real wood floors, and a bathroom the size of a phone booth? Something more spacious but in the outer boroughs? Or New Jersey? Lanie's spare bedroom? Would I live alone? Get a roommate? A cat?

After the divorce, which of our friends would be his and which would be mine? And where would the kids spend the holidays—at his place or mine? Or would I pass my turkey baster on to the next generation, letting Maggie take over the organization and execution of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners? Or would we meet on neutral territory, become one of those families who celebrate Thanksgiving in hotels and learn to live without leftovers, or spend Christmas in a condo in Hawaii, forgoing gifts because there's no room in the luggage?

Would the dissolution of our marriage be amicable and equitable, as Brian posited? Or vicious and grasping, as Lanie predicted?

And when it was final, would I date? Would I go to bed with other men? Would they expect that? After how long? Did I even
want
to sleep with other men? Would other men want to sleep with me? Maybe not. Maybe I'd never have sex again. Or maybe I
would,
but then the guy would never call me again. How humiliating would that be?

On the other hand, I thought as I went downstairs to the kitchen, plugged in the coffeemaker, and started sweeping up the broken teacups while waiting for the coffee to brew, maybe it would be great.

Maybe some kind, handsome, fun-loving man with good hair would be interested in me. Maybe he would listen to me,
really
listen—as opposed to talking on his phone and pretending to listen—and find me interesting. No, fascinating. Fascinating was better. And maybe I'd feel the same way about him. And maybe, after some time had passed and I was ready, say, two or three months, I'd invite him to come inside after one of our dates, and he'd stay. No, he'd
ask
if he could stay. And I'd say yes. And we'd kiss passionately and go to the bedroom and get undressed. And I wouldn't be embarrassed because by then I'd be in better shape because I would have started going to the gym again. And the sex would be great—so great! Better than it had ever been with Brian—not that I was sure exactly what it would take to make it better than it had been with Brian. I had no basis for comparison. But it would be better. Much better. And I'd realize what I'd been missing all those years. What
had
I been missing all those years?

Would I marry again? How would the kids take it? What if they didn't like my new husband? What if he didn't like them? No. Not a possibility. I wasn't going to marry anyone who wasn't crazy about my kids.

Would Brian marry again? Definitely. Memo or no memo, Brian was the marrying kind. He said that woman he'd slept with meant nothing to him, but she'd probably figure out how to get her hooks into him. That kind always did.

And Brian, the stupid sap, would be too clueless to know what was going on, or how ridiculous he looked running around with some bimbo half his age. Of course, I didn't actually know how old she was, but she had to be younger than him, a
lot
younger. And after his money. That kind always was. Except she was probably so stupid that she didn't realize he didn't
have
any money, not really.

But he'd probably end up spending our kids' inheritance buying her an enormous, vulgar engagement ring anyway, and showing up at family gatherings, reunions, weddings, and the birthday parties of our yet-unborn grandchildren, dangling his trophy wife from his arm like a bauble from a bracelet, showing off her big diamond. And her big boobs. And her . . . Damn him!

The volcano erupted again. I grabbed a sugar bowl from the sideboard and lobbed it like a grenade against the wall, smashing it to smithereens.

I felt better.

But also a little foolish, especially since I had only just finished sweeping up the shards of the teacups. And because I had really liked that tea set.

Continuing to smash family heirlooms against the wall didn't seem like a good idea, so I drove to Goodwill and bought a whole crateful of mismatched china plates, cups, bowls, and saucers for six dollars.

For the next several days, night or day, whenever I felt the lava beginning to bubble, I would go outside and hurl dishes against a stone wall until the threat of eruption had passed. Better there than in the kitchen.

It wasn't dignified, but it kept me together, sort of. And it was a great sleeping pill, better than Ambien.

 

Three nights later, I had a dream.

I dreamed that Brian showed up at the cottage with a moving van and her, the Other. I don't remember what she looked like, or even seeing her face. In my dream she was always turned away from me or standing in a shadow, but I knew she was beautiful and younger than me. She had blond hair that reached past her shoulder blades, falling in a golden cascade down her back. I remember him standing on the porch of the cottage, with me in the doorway, as he looked over his shoulder back to her, saying, “She always wears it loose.” I remember following his adoring gaze back to where she was standing, next to the moving van, watching her turn slightly to one side, seeing a bulge beneath her blouse, realizing she was pregnant, pregnant with my husband's child. I remember the look of bliss on Brian's face and him saying, “Twins. We're going to need more space. The nursery furniture is in the van, so if you'll just get out of the way . . .”