The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (9 page)

Kevin collected his pile of shirts and left the room.

I couldn't bear to sit in our room alone, not as long as he was still in the house. I followed him downstairs to wait while he packed. I sat on the stairs and studied his every detail, touching him with my eyes on each pass he made through the door.

The November air chilled my bare feet numb. Huddled on the stair step, my body shivered uncontrollably. I moved to the marble hearth of the fireplace and sat holding a fistful of tissues. They disintegrated in my hands as I watched him carry away box after box of his stuff. I held back the sobs, but the tears flowed freely.

When the truck was full, Kevin readied to leave. I cast my eyes to the floor, studying the pale nubs of the carpet. My hair swung forward to hide my face. I couldn't watch him walk out the door for the last time.

Kevin kneeled beside me. The hiss of heat from the gas fireplace wasn't warm enough to reach the chill in the marrow of my bones. “Hey,” he said, ducking to look at my tear-swollen eyes. “I just want to say one last thing.”

I felt my heart breaking from the weight of sorrow pressing against my chest. I couldn't look into his eyes.

“I want you to know that I'm still going to pay half the rent until the lease is up. And whether you believe me or not, I will always cherish the time we spent together. You will always be special to me, and I will always love you.”

My throat knotted tightly, I didn't respond.

I couldn't.

Kevin rose to his feet and walked away. Then I heard the door click softly behind him.

pine box or bust

Wednesday, December 5

I looked at the digital clock in the dashboard: 3:00 a.m.

The club was busy tonight. I was tired. Exhausted. It seemed to take forever to count up the ones and divide the money to pay out the house, the DJ, and the bouncers. Even the seven-mile trip home seemed to take longer than usual. The only part of the drive I remembered was waking up at a stoplight. I had no idea how many changing light cycles I'd slept through. I put the windows down, hoping the cold air would keep me awake the rest of the way home.

When I pulled into the garage, I thumbed the remote to close the roll-up door and laid my head back against the headrest. So tired. I didn't have the energy to move. I just wanted to rest a few minutes before going inside.

The carbon monoxide pumped into the chilly, cement garage, displacing the air. My eyelids felt heavy. My body slowly sank into the soft embrace of the bucket seat while the car engine continued to idle. Silence, like cotton, padded my thoughts, making them thick and slow.

It seemed like such a wonderful way to rest. The seat held me like a cradle. It would be easy to sleep, so quietly, so much peace…

But my screaming obligations shook me awake while my mind played out disjointed thoughts about the horrible consequences if I continued to let the engine run.

I wouldn't want Josh to find me.

Not like that.

Blue-faced with my tongue hanging out and my cute jeans full of feces pieces.

Responsibility was the only thing that always kept me going. Josh couldn't raise himself. If I'd ever made a commitment to anyone, it was to him. When he was only a few hours old, I promised that I would always be there for him. He had become the only constant in my life and I couldn't leave him alone.

If I died, Kevin would probably think I did it because he left. But it wouldn't be the truth. As far back as I could remember, the same darkness came for me every winter and made me feel tired all the time.

I switched off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition. The nail on my index finger caught in the key ring, tore to the quick, and snapped off.

“Damn!” I plunged my sore finger into my mouth.

I stumbled out of the car and pressed the garage door opener to release the gases into the night.

Silently, I padded upstairs in the stillness of the house and fell across our empty bed, still dressed in my clothes. Slumber came quickly and my near fatal mistake faded into a sea of foggy dreams.

teen birthday with a titty surprise

Wednesday, December 12

I think the tradition started with Josh's first birthday when I bought a Baskin Robbins roll cake with chocolate chip ice cream inside. He'd had one every year since.

I stepped out of the ice cream parlor and balanced cake number thirteen, while I juggled the keys to open the car door.

The seat? Or the floor?

Even after so many years, I never managed to get the cake all the way home without it rolling against the side of the box and messing up the frosting.

Josh was out front riding bikes with Adam and two other neighborhood boys when I arrived.

“Is that my cake? Can we have it now?” Josh laid his BMX bike on its side and reached out to take the box.

“Paws off. No cake until after dinner,” I said, lifting it away from him. I felt the cake roll and bump against the side.

I left the boys to jump curbs and a homemade wooden ramp on the little street in front of the identical Crackerjack-boxes in our quiet, gated community.

After I stowed the cake in the freezer, I started dinner. Josh's favorite: Mexican lasagna—a 9x13 casserole, double-layered with white corn tortillas, tomatillo sauce, refried black beans, cooked brown rice, stewed tomatoes, diced green chilies, black olives, and jack cheese. I preheated the oven to 350 degrees and set the timer for forty minutes.

I'd have just enough time to get ready for work, eat dinner and cake with the boys, and go.

I took another lap around the club and scoped out the prospects for my next private dance campaign. December was always a busy month, no matter what night of the week. Husbands would tell their wives they were going out Christmas shopping, then spend thirty minutes in the mall and three hours at the local strip club.

I checked the time on my cell phone and decided to call Josh before it got too much later. It was too noisy out on the floor, so I wandered into the back dressing room.

“Hey Wonderboy, I'm just calling to say goodnight and make sure you brushed your teeth.” I dug a mint out of the Altoids tin in my moneybox and popped it into my mouth.

“Not yet. I'm having another piece of my cake and watching
Dogma
, but it's almost over. Is work good?”

“I'm really busy, it's slammed tonight. I can barely keep up with all the drink orders.”

One of the dancers touching up her makeup turned to me and raised her eyebrows.

The curtain into the dressing room parted as Brandy pawed her way through it, her thin, bleached hair disheveled by the heavy velvet folds.

“Fuckin’ clumsy sonofabitch!” She staggered and almost fell. “He tried to grab my tit and spilled his whole fuckin’ beer on me.” She stopped in the middle of the room to use the wadded dress in her hand to wipe the wetness from the large tattoo on her stomach.

I motioned with my hand for her to keep her voice down and pointed to the phone pressed against my ear.

Brandy scowled at me and reached out to steady herself with the edge of the makeup counter. She missed and stumbled into me, directing her crimson mouth less than six inches from my phone. “We're all fuckin’ strippers, nobody's fuckin’ quiet. It's a strip club. Fuckin’ deal with it.”

I backed her into the wall of lockers and held the cell phone against my bare abdomen. “Shut up,” I hissed in an angry whisper, “It's my son.” I glared at Brandy and walked away.

I stepped into a bathroom stall, closed the door behind me, and lifted the phone to my ear. “Hey Wonderboy, you still there?”

“What was that all about?” he asked, a sharp edge to his voice.

“Just some girl. She's drunk.”

“I guess so.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Well, I have to get back to work. Don't stay up too late. I love you,” I said, struggling to sound as if nothing had happened.

“I won't. See you in the morning, love you too.”

I slammed open the stall door and went looking for Brandy. I found her perched precariously on one of the wooden stools in the makeup area.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I yelled. “That was my son. And he thought I was a cocktail waitress until you opened your big mouth.”

“Well, fuck, you shouldn't be on the phone with your kid back here. What the fuck did you expect? Get over it, so now he knows. Big deal.” She shrugged and looked away.

I wanted to reach out and choke the stupidity out of her. “Unbelievable,” I said, turning on the heel of my platform stilettos.

I brushed through the velvet curtain. Four hours left in the shift.

Happy thirteenth birthday, son. Just thought you should know, Mommy is a stripper.

homeschool park days

Thursday, December 13

“What if they're all weird?” Josh's anxiety overflowed in his tone.

“I talked to the mom who organizes the group. She seemed really nice. I'm sure the kids will be nice too.” I guided the car up the 57 Freeway toward the community park in Brea.

Josh squirmed in his seat. “Just because they're nice doesn't mean they won't be weird.”

When we pulled into the lot, I parked my sporty little convertible in a line of minivans and SUVs. It reminded me of a kindergarten worksheet:
Which Object Does Not Belong?
Maybe Josh had it wrong. Maybe we were the weird ones.

Josh grabbed his baseball sports bag and his skateboard from the trunk. We walked up the grassy hill toward the covered picnic tables. A group of mothers sat on the benches and many small children played nearby. A group of older kids stood gathered around another table and took turns writing on a large scroll of butcher paper.

When we reached the crest, the entire group stopped and watched us approach.

“They're all looking at us,” Josh said, barely moving his lips.

“Just smile and give them a chance.” I stretched a grin across my face. “Hi,” I waved to the group. “Which one of you is Glory?”

Glory, a plump Hispanic mother with a shock of dark curls, shook my hand and pointed around the picnic area, naming the members. During the dizzying introduction, I counted fourteen moms and thirty-one kids. Only five looked to be in Josh's age group, the majority ranged from toddlers through elementary school.

Glory explained to Josh that the older kids were working on writing a perpetual story—each child adding the next scene to something the child before had written.

Josh tilted his head and looked at me. His expression couldn't have been more telling of his thoughts. The look he gave me screamed:
You've got to be kidding. See! I told you they'd be weird.

Despite his reluctance, I was proud of his display of manners. He smiled at Glory, set his bag and skateboard at my feet, and wandered over to join the juvenile storytellers.

Once Josh was settled watching the narrative project unfold, the group's attention turned to me.

“Are you a stay-at-home mom?”

“What does your husband do?”

“Where do you live?”

“How long have you been homeschooling?”

I didn't realize I had to interview to join a homeschool playgroup. I knew my situation was far from the norm. I felt uncomfortable being asked to hold it up to scrutiny by so many people at once.

“Well, I'm a single mom. We live in Aliso Viejo, and I just started homeschooling Josh.”

I felt like a life-sized Show-and-Tell project. The questions just kept coming.

“What does your ex-husband think of you homeschooling?” asked a petite Asian woman holding an infant.

There it was. The same basic question that always came up one way or another. In Josh's early years, I answered in vague platitudes about accidentally putting the cart before the horse. After thirteen years, I just served up the answer without decoration.

“I was never married. Josh's father left when I was five months pregnant and I haven't seen him since.”

There was a soft collective “Oh.” just like the sound made when a crowd witnesses a circus performer fall off her horse.

I waved it off. “But that was a long time ago. So it really doesn't matter, and I certainly don't need to worry about what he thinks.”

One mother, Tammy, raised her hand to ask the next question. She had a warm smile and looked like the cliché of granola crunchy, all the way from her Birkenstocks to the thick braid of hair that hung like a rope down to the seat of her pants. “So, what do you do for a living?”

Out of the relationship frying pan and into the employment fire.

“I'm a writer.” I shrugged slightly. “And I work part time in a bar.”

I didn't want to admit that it also happened to be a topless gentleman's club. I detested having to mention the bar job at all. It always led to that unspoken assumption that I was only a writer wannabe. But the only way you could confidently say you were a writer was if you could provide an ISBN or production credits to back up your claim.

Everyone, everywhere, seemed to be writing a book or a screenplay. I cringed whenever I mentioned writing a book and a person's response was, “You are? Me too.” Invariably, their next comment was “I think we should get together and collaborate on a project. You can help me write it, you see, I have this idea…”