The Life List (The List Trilogy) (34 page)

“I’m, I’m…I’m at home and there are all these people…and I can’t leave, and I didn’t know… I’m so mad and…”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re gonna freak out, Leo.”

“Tell me what’s going on!”

“Kurt threw me a surprise party.”

Not the way I wanted to start being truthful with Leo but I’m backed into a corner here. He’s gotta see how upset I am and show me some compassion.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

Or maybe he doesn’t. I hear someone in the background say, “Sir, please keep your voice down.”

“Leo, please listen to me, I came home from work to shower and change, and this is what I walked into. I’m so sorry, but you have to believe me, I didn’t know anything about this.”

“What the hell makes that guy think he can throw you a party? Tell me, Chrissy, TELL ME NOW!”

And then I hear it again: “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave the restaurant if you don’t keep your voice down.”

Leo shoots back, “Fuck you! I was leaving anyway.” Without even a pause, he turns his attention back to me. “ANSWER ME CHRISSY! WHAT MAKES HIM THINK HE CAN THROW YOU A PARTY?”

“I…don’t…know.”

“YES YOU DO. YOU’RE FUCKING LYING TO ME!”

“Leo, please calm down.”

The pounding on the bathroom door startles me.

“Chrissy, who are you talking to in there?”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“That doesn’t sound like a work call.”

“I SAID I’LL BE OUT IN A MINUTE!”

“Who the hell are you talking to?
IS THAT HIM
?!”

“Leo, stop. Let me ex--”

“NO! I WORKED DOUBLE SHIFTS ALL WEEK SO I COULD AFFORD TO GIVE YOU A NICE BIRTHDAY. I WORKED TEN HOURS DIGGING A DITCH TODAY AND THEN DROVE THREE HOURS IN TRAFFIC TO BE HERE IN TIME, AND FOR WHAT? TO HEAR THAT FUCKING ASSHOLE’S NAME; TO GET STOOD UP BECAUSE OF
HIM
? WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“WHAT?”

“I don’t know who I am.”

And then he hung up on me.

Usually I’m fearless

But I’ve become undone

A clown without even a disguise

Now everyone will know that I’m falling

I’ve fallen in love…

(Falling, Keri Noble)

Party’s Over

November, 1998

“Outta my way, I gotta pee so bad! I had to do three laps around the block before I finally found a parking spot!”

As I whiz past her, she yells out, “If you plan on staying here for the long haul, you might want to pay for a parking permit!”

From the comfort of the toilet seat, I yell back, “You’re right, I should’ve just bought one in August, but I never thought in a million years I’d be sleeping on your couch three months later!”

It’s nice here. I get to do things like pee with the door open and have girl talk.

“You stay as long as you want, hunny, I enjoy the company.”

Slutty Co-worker opened up her home to me after my surprise party meltdown. Actually, to call it a meltdown is an understatement. The events that occurred that night are still a blur…that’s how crazy I was. After Leo hung up on me, I curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor and laid there in a state of panic the likes of which I hadn’t felt since my “I FEEL DEAD INSIDE, I FEEL DEAD INSIDE” night ten months earlier. After an indefinite amount of time passed, Kurt got tired of banging on the door, so he broke it down. I lifted my head to find a large amount of people staring at me with shish-ka-bobs and beers in tow. Almost immediately, an argument ensued between my friends and Kurt, something about them wanting to take care of the situation and Kurt thinking he should. I got up, put on a shoe that had fallen off, and headed for the front door. On my way there, things became very quiet, or maybe it was just quiet in my head, but I do remember Kurt grabbing my hand and asking me where the hell I was going. I
think
I said, “to meet my co-workers like I originally planned,” and then I left. I vaguely remember my friends telling Kurt to let me go but I’m not really sure, because I haven’t spoken to any of them since that night to substantiate anything. I got in my car and drove straight to the restaurant where I was supposed to meet Leo. I thought there might be a chance I’d find him drinking his troubles away at the bar, but not so. The hostess told me Leo punched a waiter for grabbing his jacket in an attempt to force him to leave the restaurant, and after that she wasn’t sure where he went. She was just glad he was gone. I almost punched her. I got back in my car and went to the next logical place I might find him: his apartment in Moraga. But, if he was there, he didn’t answer his door. After knocking for what seemed like forever, I left a note and a message on his answering machine. They both said the same thing.

I have something really important to tell you, and it will explain everything.

I’m parked on the street, and I’ll wait for you till morning.  I’m sorry.

He never showed up, and he never called. The next morning, cold and tired, I drove home to face the inevitable. The TV was on ESPN, but on mute. Dishes were still scattered everywhere, and Kurt was asleep on the couch. I tiptoed to the bedroom and got to work. Just as I was finishing packing up my second suitcase, he came in with two cups of coffee and handed one to me. I felt so horrible about everything I had done to him that I probably would’ve eaten eggs if he offered them to me.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

I shake my head.

“That’s okay, I think I already figured it out.”

Plop goes my journal right onto the middle of our bed. My legs collapse beneath me and I land Indian style on the ground. Busted.

“What, you didn’t think I’d go searching for answers?”

 I say nothing.

“Who’s Leo?”

Leo’s name coming out of Kurt’s mouth made my skin crawl.

“He’s a…he’s a guy who works for one of our corporate vendors.” My God, I marvel at my ability to pull a lie outta my ass.

“What’s going on with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You wrote a fucking novel about him!”

“All right, I can explain. I met him at a work function. He’s having some trouble in his marriage, and we’re having trouble in ours, and we just started talking. He makes me feel… sane.”

And I’m sorry, Kurt, but I’m in love with him, and I can’t be married to you anymore.

“What I read in that book of yours makes me think you’re in love with him or something.”

“I enjoy talking to him, Kurt, he makes me think about things.”

You know…things like finding true love.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

You never did.

“Seriously Chrissy, how would you feel if I did this to you?”

Relieved that I didn’t have to be the bad guy.

“Aren’t you gonna say something?”

There’s too much to say. You wouldn’t understand. You won’t let me go.

“Don’t talk to him anymore. I mean it. If I find out you’re still talking to him, we’re gonna have some trouble.”

My gaze shifts from my journal to his face. On what planet does he think those kinds of demands are acceptable and furthermore…doesn’t he realize we’re already in deep trouble? I hired a therapist, filled up a journal with thoughts of another man, bailed on my surprise party.  We’re in all kinds of trouble!

“What are you packing for?”

“I’m moving into my friend’s place in the city.”

“I TOLD YOU THAT’S NOT HOW WE’RE GONNA SOLVE OUR PROBLEMS!”

“They’re not getting solved with me here’ Kurt!”

“Well judging by the crap in that journal, you’re not even trying!”

“You’re right, I’m not’ and that’s why I have to go.”

On the way to Slutty Co-worker’s apartment that day, I wondered how the hell Kurt could even
want
me to stay after reading the filth in my journal. It struck me as really odd, almost inconceivable, so I pulled over and whipped it out. To my surprise, I found that most of the inflammatory pages had been torn out. The only explanation I can think of is that after I left the surprise party, my friends must’ve rummaged around my room looking for evidence of my sins to protect me from further pain and embarrassment. They found the journal and hid my secrets. But even though three months have passed, I’m still too horrified to talk to any of them to confirm my assumption.

Kurt and I talk every couple of days, and essentially nothing between us has changed other than I live somewhere else. And Dr. Maria was right; he continues to be just fine. I begged him to tell his family what’s going on, but he says everything’s my fault, so it’s my responsibility to tell them. Dr. Maria encouraged me to do just that as a first step to freedom, but I can’t. Even after everything that’s happened, I’m still not ready to be the bad guy.

Leo’s back in Moraga, and it sounds like school’s going well for him. He’s not working at the rock yard anymore. He got a paid internship with some small financial institution, and he’s making pretty good money. Probably enough to finally buy a pretty girl a drink at a bar. The Ho-Bag moved out and he’s living alone, and as far as I can tell, he’s not seeing anyone. I know all this because I’m still a masochistic freak and listen to his voicemail. Since the surprise party, there’s only been one message that mentioned my name and it was from Taddeo. It said, “Told you so, buddy. Fuck her.”

I really was gonna tell Leo I was married that night when I waited for him in my car at his apartment. I had no choice. During that phone call in my bathroom, I could hear the damage my surreptitious lifestyle was doing to him, and protecting my identity no longer seemed as important as his knowledge of it. It no longer seemed as important as his sanity. The rage that exploded from his body when I told him I was in Kurt’s presence was frightening. There was a huge disconnect between what I was saying and what I was doing, and I could hear in his voice that he was trying to piece together the reality of the situation. Things weren’t adding up. But the love he wanted to believe existed between us made it impossible to do that, so he went nuts. It made me sad and scared and so desperately wanting to end the charade. So yes, I really, really was gonna tell Leo I was married that night.

I remember a long time ago when Dr. Maria suggested my secret affair was probably making Kurt insane. But she was wrong. My secret marriage was making Leo insane. I’d like to think I’d still tell Leo the truth, clear things up for him, if he’d give me the chance, but the surprise party was the line in the sand, and I never heard from him again. And so for the last three months, Slutty Co-worker’s done everything she can to mend my broken heart. Night after night, she tries to convince me to hit the town with her, but I insist on staying in with my Thai take-out and sad Sarah McLachlan music. Sometimes I venture down to Union Street to take my mind off things, but usually I’m reminded of why it’s a bad idea. Seeing all the cute couples walking hand in hand with their groceries and fresh flowers and watching the singles whoop it up at the hip restaurants makes me want to jump in front of a cable car. Everything I see and do makes me crave therapy! But Dr. Maria thought our sessions had become redundant, and she suggested I take a little time off to think on my own. Either she’s the most honorable therapist on the face of the earth to pass on my money or she got just as tired of talking about my problems as me. Four weeks ago, at my last session before my hiatus, I asked if Kurt had ever shown up for an appointment and, of course, he hadn’t. She asked me if I had spoken to Leo and, of course, I hadn’t. I walked out of her office feeling just as dejected as the first day I walked into it.

Immediately after Dr. Maria kicked me to the curb, I scrambled to find help elsewhere. No, not another therapist! Puleez, I may cheat on my husband but I would
never
cheat on Dr. Maria! I bought all the best-selling self-help books I could find. Did they help me? Of course not, but what happened when I was looking for the books did.

Before I tell you what happened, let me explain something to all of you needy mother-fuckers out there. The self-help section at your local book store is the place people go who either don’t have enough money for a therapist or simply don’t want the frank assessment a good one can provide. Self-help books are jam packed with lively case studies of the moronic and doomed and filled with lists of easier said than done positive steps for improvement, all of which make for a convenient diversion from what self-help book readers really need: therapy. You see, self-help book readers are needy bastards who
loooooooove
identifying with the folks in the case studies; it makes them feel like they’re not alone and psycho. Take me for instance. I found bits and pieces of myself in every emotionally abused adulteress I read about. Each one of those sluts made me feel like I wasn’t alone! But whenever it came to the part of the book that told me how to heal myself, I’d skip pages or throw the damn thing on the coffee table. Let’s be honest, most people want validation for their fuckedupness, not a cure for it. Cures are boring and take work. And so we go back to the bookstore the next day to look for more validation and case studies, only to remain forever fucked up. I know, because I slipped into this dangerous territory for a while. Now onto how my search for the stupid self-help books helped me…

If you’re a self-help book virgin, no need to ask the bookstore clerk for assistance locating them, just follow the weeping and moaning sounds. It doesn’t matter what bookstore you’re in, you round the corner to the self-help section and the entire area is littered with Sad Frumpy Ladies. They’re either crying, deliriously laughing or visibly traumatized to the point that their entire bodies are shaking, and every single one of them will look up at you and give you a needy smile and a nod of the head that says, “Hi fellow fucked up person, come on in, you’re safe here.” The first time I encountered the emotional carnage sitting on the floor of the self-help book section, my first instinct was to turn and run, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have the heart to cause those haggard faces and tattered hearts additional damage by rejecting them, so I entered into their bizarre world. And once you’re inside those walls, it’s very hard to leave,
especially
for a narcissistic person like myself who likes to read about people who have committed similar acts of cruelty and who are now bestselling authors of books called,
‘How I Committed Adultery, Survived, Wrote A Book, And Got Rich
.’