Yankee Doodle Dixie (33 page)

“Let’s see now. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself,” Frances says, and pulls her legs up underneath her.

Thirty minutes later she knows the high points in my life. Aside from telling her about resigning (getting fired) from my job at FM 99 and my weekend with Liam, she knows my parents are both deceased, I’m an only child, my mother had a drinking problem and that my husband left me with an inn to run and two daughters to raise all by myself. Phew. That ought to be enough information to keep her employed for the rest of the year.

“Let me get this straight,” she says, scratching the back of her head. “Your husband came home one night and asked you to uproot your family and move to Vermont. What kind of business was he in prior to this?”

“The insurance business. It was his daddy’s State Farm branch. He hated it though.”

“Did you know he hated it?”

“Not until he wanted to move.”

“Did you consider putting your foot down and saying no?”

I gave her question serious thought before answering. “My three best friends considered it. They told me I was crazy to move. Of course it wasn’t any of
their
husbands who had a dream of becoming an innkeeper. None of my friends were ever faced with that decision. And I’m still not sure I wouldn’t do it all over again—this was the love of my life telling me he wanted to fulfill a passion he’d had since he was a teenager … how could I say no?”

“Tell me more about your ex-husband. It’s Baker, right?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about Baker. Because even though you were sympathetic to his wants, at the very root, that was a selfish thing to do in the first place. Moving his wife and young daughters to a place very different from home to satisfy his desires.”

I shake my head as if I agree with her totally.

“And then especially to leave her to do it all. After only how many months?”

“Four.”

“He left you for another woman to run the place all by yourself?”

I nod. “An older woman.”

Frances smiles. “Did you consider coming home then?”

“Yes, but it was my father’s money that financed the inn. I didn’t want to lose it.”

She slowly nods her head before speaking again. “No wonder it was that easy for him to walk away. It wasn’t his money.”

I hang my head in shame.

“Honey, you are not the first girl to let her husband talk her into doing something like that and you won’t be the last. Plus you’re what, thirty-two, thirty-three?”

I nod my head. “I’m thirty-four.”

“You fit the pattern. A thirty-four-year-old young woman raised in the South by a controlling father, who has a hard time saying no. Not to mention an alcoholic mother. The South is the land of manners and perfect hostesses, pleasing others and acting graceful.”

It’s so obvious, I can’t even say a word.

“If you’d been forty you might have thought twice about it. Fifty, you’d have said
hell no
.”

We both laugh.

“How old were you when you married?” she asks.

“We were both twenty-four. I’d been in love with him since I was sixteen.”

“Let me guess. He was on the football team.”

“The captain.”

“Gorgeous?”

“Drop dead.”

“Fraternity president?”

“He didn’t actually go that route. He was a University of Tennessee football star. Football was his first real love.”

“What else did he love?”

“Fishing. And golf. He was a sports-aholic,” I say, smiling.

“Was he ever a Leelee-aholic?”

I look away, studying the sterile window with a plain beige curtain hanging from a black iron rod. Hearing those words cut me to the core. Looking back over at her I can’t help but hang my head. “No. I don’t think he ever was, now that I think about it. I thought he was at first, though.” I’m getting teary eyed.

“How was he as a lover? Did he please you?”

This is a tough one. “He did in the beginning. As the years went by he didn’t seem as interested in my pleasure as maybe his own.” As I hear those words leave my lips I start to cry. I’ve never admitted that to anyone. Not even my best friends, seeing as how they already felt about Baker.

Frances reaches over and hands me the Kleenex box. She reminds me of Mama the way she sits on her feet. “Leelee,” she says tenderly, “are you familiar with narcissistic personality disorder?”

I shake my head. “No.” I reach over for another Kleenex and blow softly.

“It refers to someone with excessive love or admiration of oneself. An inflated view of their own importance. When their weaknesses are brought to their attention it shatters their grand illusions of themselves. They also have envy for others who have what they don’t, who are skilled at what they are not, who can feel what they don’t, and who are happy just being themselves. Sounding familiar?”

“Very familiar.”

“Leelee, the thing is, they’re very attractive—most often they are good-looking people, and charming, and kind. They seek out partners who will complement them, add to their beauty. In turn, you become wrapped up in their definition of themselves. Baker could only love you for what you were together—not for you alone. Look, the point of this is not to talk about Baker, but to point out why your self-worth became wrapped up in his. From now on, it’s you we need to fix.”

I sit perched on the end of the flowery couch, squeezing the very last life out of the two tissues I’d grabbed earlier. It was a relief, to let go—to finally put a clinical name to what had happened to our marriage.

“Now. Your challenge will be learning how to stop the pattern. To change the kind of man you’re attracted to.”

“Has Alice been talking with you?”

Frances laughs and tells me she deals with this all the time. She says Southern women are particularly vulnerable to this type of man.

So now I have a label for Baker. And there is no way I would ever pick another guy like that. Oh yes—I already did. Liam. Just when I’m about to tell her that there is,
well was,
one man in my life that doesn’t fit that description Frances glances at the clock and tells me politely that our time is done. It seems I’ve just gotten started. I guess I’ll have to save that conversation for next time. After writing her a check, I make another appointment for two weeks.

*   *   *

How many bumps in this old popcorn ceiling can I count in one night? It’s better than counting sheep or toe wiggling, I know that. Frances Folk has suggested that I try deep breathing and visualizing something peaceful. When pressed for other anecdotes, she claims sex does the trick but also recognizes that’s not possible right now and even if it were the side effects might make things worse. She’s been teaching me the benefits of thought and image blocking but as I’m counting the popcorn bumps high on top of me, someone’s face keeps appearing in the patterns. Aside from the profound feelings of loss I feel over someone who’s never going to be mine, I’m worried about my future and where I’m going to find a job. I’ve been putting in applications all over the place but I’m either underqualified over overqualified, depending on who’s viewing my résumé. Even though I’ve been beating myself up about the choice I made to run up to New York with Liam, Frances has been trying to convince me to stick with my original thought and tuck it away as a memory to tell my grandchildren.

There
is
a big part of me that’s excited about the next chapter in my life. After all, I am a dreamer. But there’s definitely something missing. I can blame it on all kinds of things but when it boils right down to it I know it’s Peter. He’s what’s missing. I can’t help but think my pride has gotten in the way of calling him. Maybe it is my pride but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s not like he ever calls me. I sit up in bed and cross my arms in front of me. After only a minute, I slide out and hunt down a pad and pen. After this one—I’m done. Frances Folk says I need to thought-and-image-block him out of my mind forever and finally move on.

Dear Peter,

How’s your job going? I hope you’re settling in. Did I tell you how happy I am that you got a big salary boost when you took the job? I’m not sure if I ever got a chance to tell you but when I think about it, it makes me smile. And that makes me think about your smile. Those gorgeous perfect teeth. Just like the old Dentyne ads.

Somebody winked at me today. Just like you used to do. But the only difference was it didn’t give me goose bumps the way it did when you used to do it. I remember the first time. I had just interviewed you for the sous chef job and you were leaving the inn. You winked at me. I didn’t realize it at the time but I was undone. You walked out the front door and I watched you walk to your truck while peeking behind the curtains in the front parlor. I had noticed your forearms in that T-shirt you were wearing. I had been sneaking peeks at them when you weren’t watching.

I have one question for you. Why did it take you so long to tell me how you felt about me? Why did you wait until I was leaving? I had made up my mind already. When it came right down to it I felt like Sarah and Issie would be better off living back down South where they wouldn’t have to spend most of their lives inside, trying to escape the cold.

Are you interested in why I left Vermont? Have you ever wondered why I didn’t turn around and stay? I needed to be true to myself. Daddy had made almost every decision for me until I met Baker. Well, most all of them. I put my foot down when he tried to make me go to Hollins. Nothing against Hollins, it’s just that I didn’t want to go to school with only girls for another four years. He thought it might increase my chances of marrying a boy from a well-to-do family. In looking back on it now, maybe he was right.

But I ended up with Baker and I loved him. There was a time when he was good to me. I don’t think a woman can go through pregnancy and labor with someone and not keep a place for them in her heart. Once I married Baker, he made most of my decisions for me. I just wanted you to know that my decision to move back home had nothing to do with you and everything to do with the fact that I needed to put myself first. Vermont was not my home. And it never would be.

I hope you are happy. I truly do. I don’t think I’m going to be writing to you anymore but that’s only because I’ve decided to move on. My therapist, yes, I’m seeing a therapist, thinks I need to open my heart and the only way I’ll do that is to push you out of it. Don’t be afraid to pick up the phone and call me, though. I still want to be friends.

Love always,
Leelee

After folding the letter, I tuck it in the drawer beside my bed with the others. If he never reads these letters, I can live with that. What I can’t live with is never being able to express my feelings. Frances Folk says that it’s very important that I write out my emotions and has suggested that I journal on a regular basis. For now, unsent letters seem to be the best way I know to express myself.

Chapter Fourteen

I’d assumed quitting my job would mean heaps of free time during which I could take a little time for some much needed rest, enjoy the Memphis summer relaxing by Virgy’s pool with a spiked citrus beverage, and contemplate my next career move. Instead, I was too busy trying to find someone to patch the “accidental” damage in my powder room, tutoring Issie and Sarah for their new school year in the fall, and shuttling back and forth between therapy, swimming lessons for the girls, and walks with Roberta. I nearly forgot it was August until I spied a pair of overstuffed white polyester pants covered in sequins.

Thousands of Elvis Presley lookalikes descending upon your hometown during one week in late summer might be hard for the average person to imagine. Especially since the words “white,” “handsome,” “talented,” and “male” are not prerequisites for the job. There are plenty of black Elvii (the plural of Elvis), Mexican Elvii, even Chinese Elvii floating around, not to mention a large number of female Elvis lookalikes who are making their own mark in the field of Elvis impersonation. They answer to Elvira.

As Memphians, we’re used to it. During Elvis Week, held every August, you can’t run down the street for a carton of milk without bumping into a black wig or a jewel-studded cape. These regal clotheshorses have become part of the city’s fabric ever since the King’s passing in 1977. We welcome them home with open arms, especially considering the amount of money they spend. Many are “official” Elvis impersonators, meaning they actually earn prize money from local contests, although the self-proclaimed “cream-of-the-crop” would dare anyone to call them impersonators. They are “tribute artists,” thank you very much. And at the very end of Elvis Week the Orpheum Theatre holds the finals, the super bowl of all tributes, where one lucky artist is voted the winner of the Ultimate Elvis Tribute Contest.

Personally I think Memphians take Elvis for granted. Growing up in his hometown has blinded us not only to his talent and image but the money he brings into our city. It’s a shame, but only a small number of us partake in the slew of well-planned activities swirling around Elvis Week. Elvis Presley Enterprises sanctions most of the events, which people pay a fortune to attend I might add, but there are a few local, off-the-Boulevard festivities that can be quite entertaining if you’re looking for something more eclectic. One year we attended the Dead Elvis Ball at the P & H Café, a party poking fun at the hysterical Elvis fan. In our pre-children years we once attempted an Elvis Week 5K, but after Mary Jule spiked her water bottle with bourbon we abandoned any hope of finishing the 3.12 miles in a respectable time. We were just happy to cross the finish line.

But this year we’re determined to experience the real McCoy, the granddaddy of Elvis events held every year in our own backyard—the Candlelight Vigil. “When in Rome,” is what I say. Besides, due to my post-FM 99, post-Peter blues, the girls, though they won’t admit it, have reached their limit when it comes to placating me. I have a feeling our little Elvis outing is as much for them as it is for me. So Virginia, Alice, Mary Jule, and I have unanimously decided not only to attend the Candlelight Vigil but do so in full Elvis regalia.