Facelift (31 page)

I carefully wipe my hand against my towel then place it against his chest. “I knew this would happen.”

“You did? And you’re not mad?”

“Mad?” I raise up on tiptoes, leaning toward him. But something isn’t right. Cliff takes a step backward. A cold sensation washes over me, replaced by a flush of heat. I drop my hand to my side. “Wait a minute . . . who are you marrying?”

“Barbar—”

“Barbie?”

My world tilts. A roaring noise fills my ears. Is it my blood? Or myself screaming? I blink, trying to absorb what has happened, what he’s saying. Words from my past assault me.

“I don’t love you anymore,” Cliff said when he left.

“I don’t want to get married! It’s my life too! Just get rid of it!” Cliff yelled at me when I tracked him down at the fraternity house and told him I was pregnant.

“I’m busy, Kaye. You’re in college. You have your own life to live now,” my father said after he and my mother divorced. But I knew what he was saying: he had his own life to live and didn’t want to be bothered with me.

I feel the weight of all of those painful words pressing into my heart, piercing me, crushing me.

“Barbara told me I should have just called from the airport.”

I’m not sure if Cliff is talking to me or himself, but then he looks straight at me.

“I thought I should tell you myself.” As if now he’s going to do the right thing! The right thing would be to stay with his wife!

“No!” I shake my head. I will not accept this. Not again. Not ever!

“You thought . . . you and I?” He chuckles, ducks, and shakes his head. “Kaye, really, I told you—”

“What was all of that about the other night?” I take a step toward him, this time my hands fisting in tight, angry knots. “You wanting to get back together? What were you? Bored? Getting back at her? What?”

He shrugs. “I was confused.”

I stare at him for a long moment, my gaze sweeping over him. “Confused? You were confused? About which woman you loved? What you wanted? I don’t think so!” My lungs tighten and I can barely draw a breath but I press forward. “You were being selfish! That’s how you’ve always been. I’ve tried to see you as something else. But it always comes back to
this
. You don’t think about others, about Izzie, or me! Not even your own mother! And you’re not thinking about Barbara. You’re thinking about yourself.”

“Now, wait a minute, Kaye! I came here because I thought you should know. I thought it would be easier for Isabel if you told her. I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“No, what you thought is that Kaye could clean up your mess once again. That I could make it all right, that I could smooth things over so you wouldn’t have to deal with your daughter’s hurt feelings or your mother’s wrath. Well, you know what? Forget it.
You
handle it.
You
tell them yourself.”

“I can’t believe you’re acting like this, Kaye. What’s got into you?”

I clench my fists. And without thinking, without stopping the anger from taking over, I shove Cliff hard in the chest. The shock registering on his face is reward enough.

But then he teeters on the edge of the pool for a second, his arms flailing, one leg kicking out, and then he topples into the water with a huge double-decker cheeseburger kind of splash. When he comes up spluttering and cursing, slapping his hand against the water, his suit jacket soaked through and through, I leave him with Cousin It barking and go into the house.

When I reach my bathroom, my limbs trembling and shaking with the aftershocks of my anger, I anticipate tears. But they don’t come. I stare at my flushed image in the mirror. I blink fast and hard. But still no tears emerge. Turning away from the mirror, I sit on the counter and draw slow, deep breaths. There was a time when I thought something like this would kill me. I thought I’d curl into a miserable ball and shrivel up. But the emotions I’d always thought might overtake me, don’t materialize. Anger pulses through my veins hot and fast. But sorrow? No. Depression? Not that either.

Shouldn’t I be crying? If I loved my husband? But I’m not. I’m angry. I’m boiling mad. So mad I could punch something or someone. Cliff’s face comes to mind, the shock of when I pushed him draws a smile from me. And then I know.

I don’t love Cliff.

I tried to do so. I tried for eighteen years. I tried to make it work. And I would have given the rest of my life to make it work, to try again to love him.

It almost feels as if a burden has been lifted, as if I’m feeling a righteous anger. How
dare
he lead me on! How dare he treat our daughter in such a careless, heartless way! How dare he treat his mother without the respect she deserves! My assessment of Cliff was right. And I almost feel pity for Barbie and what she’ll have to put up with in the coming years. Almost, but not quite.

A light rap on the door makes my breath catch in my throat. “Who is it?”

“Mom? You okay?”

I turn the knob and allow her entrance. The sound of teens laughing and goofing around follow her into the closed space.

“What’s going on? Who’s here?”

“Some of the swim team. We’re working on the swim-a-thon.”

I rub my forehead, remembering as I raced through the den so quickly, not even noticing who was there. Or maybe I didn’t care. But now looking back, there were several faces I recognized besides Gabe. And if I remember right and wasn’t hallucinating, there were a couple of shaved heads—besides Izzie’s and Gabe’s.

“Did some of your friends shave their heads?”

She closes the door behind her, shutting out the noise but then laughing. “They think I’ve been trying to show the coach I’m more determined to win. So they wanted to prove they were competitive too.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Soon the whole school will be bald.”

“By then my hair will have grown back.” She hugs me close. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Is
he
gone?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

“Oh, yeah.” Her mouth pulls to the side in a half-smothered smile. “You sure you’re okay?”

I smooth my hands over her back, thankful that we have each other, as we hug. The irony that she put me in a lifelong relationship with Cliff hits me, because if it wasn’t for her I’d be falling apart now. “Yes, Izzie. I’m good.”

“Really?”

I look her in the eye and feel a peace come over me. “Yes.” Then I hold her in my arms, feel her soft hair against my face. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.” Her embrace is solid and comforting.

After a moment, I pull away. “Is the pizza here yet?”

“Yeah.” She studies me, searching my face for something that might tell her I’m coming unglued. “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“You pushed Dad in the pool?”

I nod and then a giggle bubbles up inside me. I cover my mouth.

“Mom! What did he do this time?”

“Same ol’ same ol’.”

And she begins to laugh, then hugs me close again. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, I wish you’d done that a hundred times before now.”

I rake my fingers through my wet hair. “Oh, I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t the most mature thing to do.”

“Mom”—she braces my shoulders with her hands—“it’s okay to be angry. Especially at him.”

I feel my lip start to tremble and snag it between my teeth, but the tremulous feelings expand, making my whole body shake.

“You know what? I think God is really angry at him too.”

I start to shake my head, but Izzie brackets my face with her hands.

“No, Mom. He is! What Dad did was wrong! Anger isn’t a bad thing. You can’t sugarcoat it. You can’t hide it. It will eat you from the inside out.”

“So you’re saying shaving your head is far healthier?”

She grins and rubs her fuzzy head. “Maybe. Wanna try it?”

“Not tonight.” My throat burns with unshed tears. I don’t want to tell her the latest. I want to protect her. And I don’t want to give Cliff the satisfaction of smoothing out all the wrinkles he’s caused. My first priority is Isabel, and she has the right to know what her father is doing. It will be better if it comes from me. At least for her. Not Cliff. “He’s getting married again, Izzie.”

She wraps her arms around me. “Good. Then maybe you can let him go.”

Her calm response is a balm to my injured soul. I hug her close, grateful for her. She’s an amazing person, this daughter of mine.

Chapter Twenty

Most of the kids have headed home. Gabe and Izzie are studying for a calculus test at the kitchen table. Looking up at the dark sky and twinkling of stars, I’m back on the diving board, the tips of my toes dangling in the water. But I’ve changed my swimsuit for comfy jeans and T-shirt. Overhead there’s the occasional blinking lights of a plane. Could it be Cliff’s plane? I imagine him—all dry and redressed—snuggling with Barb in first class as he tells her how I thought he was proposing to me. My jaw clenches tight. A fall breeze ruffles my hair and tosses a handful of white crepe myrtle petals carelessly into the pool.

“Well, God,” I shift my gaze toward the moon, “I guess I read this one wrong, didn’t I?” I rub my hands down my jean clad thighs and stretch out my bare feet. “How did I
not
see this coming?”

“Are you entertaining?” Jack’s voice startles me. “Or can I join you?”

My pulse thrums. He stands at the back door, which I didn’t hear open. He’s wearing worn jeans and a faded red T-shirt. I offer him a smile that doesn’t feel very self-assured. “Sure, come on out.”

He settles on a slatted chair next to me. Close but not too close. He props up the back from when Izzie had it in flat lay-out-get-a-tan position while I go back to staring up at the sickle-shaped moon. My heart should feel as if it’s been carved right out of my chest, but it doesn’t. Maybe I’m simply in shock and don’t know I’m emotionally bleeding to death. Or maybe there’s nothing left of me to lose. I sense Jack watching me, but then he clasps his hands over his flat belly and watches the stars with me.

I suspect he knows what happened. Probably all of Southlake knows. There were teens here when it all went down. “You don’t have to watch me. I’m not suicidal or anything.”

“I didn’t think you were. I enjoy being with you.”

I give him a dubious glance. I’m not about to get hopeful over a man again. Barbie outclassed me; Jack is playing an entirely different sport. It’s better not to hope than to be crushed.

“It’s true.” His smile is fifty percent its usual wattage. “But yeah, I did want to make sure you’re okay.”

“So you heard?”

“Isabel told me but I won’t say anything—”

I wave a hand as if it’s all unimportant. But I know better and I suspect Jack does too. “It doesn’t matter. I’m ten degrees beyond humiliation.”

“Nothing
you
should be humiliated about.”

I snort out a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Nothing. I just broadcasted an announcement that I was hoping my ex would come back. So I take his mother into my house to care for her. And what does he do?” My voice spikes and I turn down the volume. “Elopes with Barbie.”

“That’s a reflection on him, not you.”

I allow his comforting words to soak into my withered emotions then shrug. If what Jack says is true, then am I only upset because of what I suspect others are saying or thinking? Or am I truly distraught that Cliff has rejected me once again?

Jack touches my arm, drawing my gaze to him. “A
poor
reflection.”

“Lots of guys probably think he’s cool for dumping the old bag and getting a trophy.”

Jack rubs the back of his neck. “Have you met the woman he married?”

I can’t conjure up a smile.

“And any man who has would know Cliff got the bad end of that bargain.”

“Or Barbie did.”

“Exactly.”

I shake my head but a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. But it’s quickly erased by morose thoughts. “Have you ever felt like you couldn’t measure up?”

He slants a glance my way. “Then I became a Christian. The fact is I couldn’t measure up. Ever. But God doesn’t ask us to measure up. He gave us the stopgap.”

“Jesus,” I whisper the name reverently.

He nods. “It’s all too easy to look at ourselves the way the world does.” He tilts his head toward the house. “As if we need a facelift. A wig. A husband.” He thumbs his chest. “A wife. Whatever. In the world’s eyes, we
don’t
measure up. Look how the world raises someone to celebrity status—the ultimate in measuring up, and then the world works hard to bring them back down to size. The world celebrates adultery or at the least excuses it. We need to see ourselves the way God does—in an eternal sense.”

The force of his words knocks into me and makes me breathless. Words I’ve heard in church come back to me—
You are deserving. Because of the blood of Christ. You are a child of the King of kings and Lord of lords.
If only I could remember that when I feel everyone’s gaze on me, sizing me up, critiquing me from head to toe. It’s the defense I need against Marla’s critical words. It’s what I need when I simply ache for normalcy. For being like everyone else in the world. Through a tight throat, I manage to say, “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“Have you ever said, ‘Mirror, mirror—who’s the fairest of them all?’”

A rueful laugh escapes me. “As a little girl.”

“Of course. Every little girl, I would imagine, wants to be the prettiest in the kingdom.”

I shrug, not wanting to admit anything. “What do guys want? To be Lancelot?”

“They have a different measuring stick.”

The corner of my mouth curls upward. “Which brings us back to the trophy wife.”

“Instead of asking a mirror, shouldn’t women be asking God? He’d have a different answer than they might expect.”

I rub one foot over the other, feeling fully exposed. “I used to tell Isabel when she was little that she was God’s princess. When did I stop that? Probably not long after she stopped wearing crowns and when preteen-itis started.”

“And the attitude wasn’t that of a princess?”

“Not a storybook princess anyway.”

He laughs.

“You have a lot of insights into the female psyche for a single guy.”