Authors: Fran Riedemann
He picked up his carry-on, but Brittany got up and walked ahead of him while they descended the stairs and moved across the living room toward the door. She opened it and held it open for him. He stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do, sighing one last time before grabbing his jacket and brief case, quickly proceeding through the open door; somehow managing not to touch her. She was amazed how, after all the sighing, he wasn’t hyperventilating. Once outside, he turned to speak to her; it would be the last time she would hear his voice, although she couldn’t know that yet.
“
Brit, I wrote you a letter—it’s inside the envelope I gave you and will explain some of this—along with some signed legal documents you will need to put things in your name. I’m sorry—please know that.” He looked back at her for some response, but now it was Brittany who looked away. Getting none, he nodded his head as though something had been resolved, then quickly walked away from her toward the waiting cab.
Before getting in the cab he looked back toward the house, but she had disappeared from sight. Inside, Brittany barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.
Chapter Three
Brittany stared up at her bedroom ceiling wishing she could relapse back into the grief-induced coma that had allowed her a temporary escape from reality. It was the morning of the third day after Christmas, and after spending two days curled up on her bed in a fetal position Brittany knew what she couldn’t afford to do was to allow herself to fall further into the victim role. She was not going to succumb to the mental inertia that was a precursor to depression, and, subsequently, would result in a string of bad choices. That scenario was not idle speculation; she had watched two of her colleagues go through something similar and with disastrous outcomes, including one becoming dependent to anti-depressants and the other self-medicating.
For two days she had blown off answering incoming phone calls, and was suddenly concerned that she might have missed something important, or one from Craig. There were no calls from Craig, but four were from her mother, two from her neighbor, and one from the Disabled Veterans— the call that inspired her to get moving and take advantage of their offer to haul away “unwanted items” by putting them on the curb.
She got up, pulled on some sweat pants, and started down the stairs, her eyes immediately landing on the Christmas tree that was still aglow from Christmas night. The sight caused a reaction that was physical as well as psychological.
The tree has got to go
, she decided. Resisting the urge to pitch it out the front door and into the yard and create yet another dilemma in her quest to finally be rid of it. Each ornament symbolized a special memory, and those were the memories she was determined to obliterate any way she could. The Disabled Veteran’s invitation was perfect timing.
She recalled an acquaintance who, having gone through a divorce, told her afterward how she was envious of widows. At the time, the comment hit Brittany as bizarre, until she explained how a widow had the blessing of being able to go back into her memories, and could draw comfort from them by remembering their good times together. She further explained that after her marriage ended she couldn’t trust her memories; whenever she remembered something, or looked at pictures of she and her ex-husband, she couldn’t stop from wondering when he had started wandering away from her, was there one woman or were there more, and finally questioning if he had ever really loved her at all.
To achieve closure she said she discarded, or gave away, every item that was a reminder of the hypocrisy of their marriage, with the exception of those things that might be meaningful to their son one day, and those she packed away. Sadly, closure still eluded her.For years she had to play Tug-of-War with her ex over custody issues with their son, claiming that would be another advantage of widowhood. Now, Brittany could see that what her friend had told her was true and
s
he was glad they had no children.
Brittany felt the nostalgia closing in on her like darkness, oppressively pressing in on her mind and her body, from some invisible, sadistic force that hammered in the realities she was wishing she could avoid. But, she knew from previous therapy, the pain was also an inevitable part of the road to healing.
“
No!” she said aloud, reining in her thoughts,
I won’t allow it
. Somehow, she had to resist being obsessed by a run-away thought life.
***
The following morning, with a mug of aromatic coffee in hand, she sat down at the planning desk, finally prepared to open the envelope Craig handed her on Christmas night. If she was going to function again, it was time to face the music. Her life, in a moment’s time, had moved beyond function into dysfunction She decided she could fight her way through this, and not let dysfunction's tentacles turn her into someone she didn’t want to be.
His letter was handwritten; some parts almost illegible, with words crossed out and scribbled over. She could tell from looking at it how difficult it must have been for him to write.
Dear Brittany,
This isn’t how things were supposed to turn out. Please forgive me. I met someone. I don’t expect you to believe me—it just happened. I wasn’t looking for it. I met her father on a business trip to Chicago. After working together a few times and he offered me a job (which I declined at the time)—he was a client of my firm. He invited me to his home for dinner on one of my trips and that is where I met Gina. I know the timing sucks. Since your dad died I haven’t known how to tell you, and now I am forced to, and I still don’t know how. I have already begun the paperwork for a divorce as well as instructions for some of the things (like putting your car in your name, bank account, etc.) that you will want to do right away. Gina is pregnant and we want to be married as soon as possible for the baby’s sake.
You are a beautiful, talented, and good person. I still love you, if that makes any sense at all. I look in the mirror, see myself, and can’t believe I have the capacity to do something so hurtful to you when I truly care. But I have done just that, and I am not sure there is absolution for it.
I didn’t deserve you and you didn’t deserve this.
Craig
How could he?
She thought, angry again. They had been living a lie for months. They’d had sex together, planned trips, and were even talking about having a baby of their own.
How could he?
She felt violated.
Standing to her feet she crumpled the letter into a ball threw it on the kitchen table. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see it had been written before Christmas night, questioning whether his plan had been to leave without facing her at all. She couldn’t prove it, but she felt pretty certain he’d procrastinated with facing her so long that the unexpected turn of events denied him that option.
Can it be possible I’ll never see him again?
For a moment the thought panicked her.
Also inside the envelope were copies of documents, along with another, more formal, typed letter explaining in detail how he intended to treat her financially. She scanned the ledger and saw he was being more than fair. If anything, it was punitive for him, leaving her to further speculate where the money funding the divorce was coming from; she knew they didn’t have that kind of cash lying around. Pacing back and forth she read through the second letter point by point for a second time, seething as the realities sunk in.
Her emotional adrenaline was surging. With the help of the anger, assisted by too much caffeine, she was spurred forward to dial his attorney’s phone number. “Is Mr. Chandler there? She asked the female voice that answered. The voice told her he was “in a meeting”, which Brittany concluded was an excuse for him to not take her call. Using her coffee/anger/adrenaline buzz to the fullest, Brittany informed the woman that she was on her way over, and expected the paperwork to be ready for her to sign within the hour.
One hour and twenty minutes after Brittany Foster-Larson (soon to resume being Brittany Foster) arrived at the offices of Chandler & Associates, dressed in her bathrobe, sweatpants, and slippers. She walked up to the receptionist, demanding, “Where do I sign?” An hour and a half later she exited their offices with her goal, for the most part, achieved.
While it wasn’t exactly that simple, and there would still be things that needed addressing, she left feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from her. On her way out she handed the attorney Craig’s letter stating his specific assurances for how she would be treated financially. Mr. Chandler took it from her, reaching out to pat her hand, mentioning he felt strongly she might want to consider getting some therapy.
How patronizing
, she thought, indignant.
On her way to her car it dawned on her that she had, in a sense, signed her life away. Amazingly, she had not read one word of what she had signed and probably wouldn’t look at the paperwork again unless forced to. Plus, she had given Craig’s attorney her only copy of his letter of intent. It was a gray day, and the mist from earlier had turned into a steady drizzle. Brittany stared at the car’s windshield watching tiny droplets form and then merge together to slide down the window. Impulsively, she reached out and with her finger drew a heart on the window, got into the car, starting it, and turning on the wiper, watching it swipe it away the heart.
Just like that, my marriage ended
, she thought. The manila envelope, with the details of her unexpected freedom inside it, quickly disappeared into the glove box so she wouldn’t have to look at it.
On her way home, on a whim, she pulled her car into a parking space in front of a hair salon in her neighborhood that took walk-ins, went inside, asking for their best stylist for short hair. Within minutes her long auburn hair had been cut off. She watched it falling to the floor, enjoying her rebellion.She had grown it out because he liked long hair. When she left, she was holding a plastic bag full of hair she vowed would be donated to a good cause once she figured out how.
***
It wasn't until she saw the car in the driveway that Brittany realized her mother was actually concerned after days of not being able to reach her. This spiked another rise in her adrenalin level, only this time it made her feel shaky. The car was unoccupied, so she knew her mother had used her key to let herself in.
Did I leave his letter out or did I put it away?
She asked herself, panicked by the thought. If it was lying out in the open, her mother would not hesitate reading it.
Brittany found Alma seated on a bar stool, calmly sipping a cup of tea she had brewed for herself. The crumpled letter had been smoothed out and was in Alma’s hand. If her father might remind one of Jimmy Stewart, Alma might be said to resemble Glenn Close. She was actually quite beautiful, but in a wax museum sort of way. Brittany had spent much of her young life looking at her mother’s impassive face, trying to guess what she was thinking.
Part of Alma's control over her daughter was that Brittany never had been able tell what her mother was thinking, so therefore no matter what her responses were, she had already been set up to fail.
Brittany shuffled into her kitchen through the side door, enjoying watching her mother’s inability to contain an expression of disgust at Brittany’s appearance. For a fleeting moment, Brittany toyed with telling her that she had cut her hair off in a rage; instead, without comment, she tossed the plastic bag containing her hair on the counter.
Without making any effort to offer any consolation, Alma jumped right in, asking her, “Might I ask when were you going to answer my phone calls and tell me Craig left you?” She spoke in a clipped voice, waving the letter in the air while she talked. “You were well aware that I had a bad feeling about you both on Christmas. Your brother and I were about to send the police over to check on you.”
That’s just great!
Brittany thought. Now her brother was being consulted to weigh in on how to
handle
her. She toyed with a few expletives before her brain checked in, warning her to keep her mouth shut.
Okay! Zip your lip, Brittany,
she thought, feeling defensive.
This time mother can wonder what
I’m
thinking.
“
I appreciate your concern, Mother, but I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone yet. That’s all—surely you get that. Obviously you’ve read his letter, so enough said...” She turned away from her mother to brew some tea for herself, and give herself a minute to cool down. “As you have already seen, Craig is being more than fair.” She waited for a response, got none, and so went on, “I signed the paperwork this morning.” She waited, but still no response, and took that as a cue to retrieve the letter, grabbing it from her mother’s fingers, tearing off a corner in the process.