What Doesn't Kill You (15 page)

M
y visit with Tressy was a wake-up call, and I was done pushing the snooze button.

That night I drove home in the slow lane 'cause I felt shaky and dumbstruck, like I'd been hit upside my head which, come to think of it, I had.

Twelve years and it took less than two hours to de-Gerald my house. Nothing dramatic—no bonfires or power saws. There wasn't any teary sorting through his sweaters either. I didn't hold on to the reading glasses he kept in the table on “his” side of
my
bed. I didn't take a last whiff of the Grey Flannel aftershave in the medicine cabinet. I just bagged up my dozen years of Gerald trace evidence and dumped it in the trash.

But it still felt unreal. Maybe because I didn't have any feedback. When a relationship is over—from divorce, death, defection or mutual decision—don't you talk about it? Or at least claim you don't want to talk about it? Aren't people supposed to bring you cake and comfort, or a bottle of bourbon and
join the bitchfest—whatever's your pleasure? It's the perfect misery-loves-company opportunity—the more the merrier. When my ex hit the road, I had Olivia and even my parents who were happy to say, “I told you so.” For better or worse, talking about it made it real. But how do you tell somebody your honey is gone when they didn't know anybody was buzzing around your hive? Which is pretty remarkable if you think about it. All those years and no one knew—except Amber, and she wasn't about to commiserate.

Julie and I only shared workplace misery. I hadn't divulged any mess from the home front, but I thought about calling her. I was pretty sure she would offer a serving of tea and sympathy without judging me—not because what I did wasn't wrong, but because she didn't appear to have a sanctimonious bone in her body. Except I always felt like she looked up to me and I didn't want to risk that, so I kept my business to myself.

Guilt is nothing without someone to share it with?

But nothing I did or didn't do stopped me from being mightily pissed at Gerald, and at myself. Or helped me come to grips with why it hurt so much—hadn't planned on that. Pathetic.

I was under the impression I could take Gerald or leave him—like prunes. He wasn't supposed to be ice cream, something I'd have a hard time giving up. Guess that idea made it palatable for me to spend all those years on a man who obviously viewed me as the
other
one, not
the
one. No, at the very beginning he didn't mention there was a Mrs. behind door number one. That should have been a hint. Then maybe I wouldn't have been surprised to find a Mrs.-in-Waiting behind door number two at the very end.

He also didn't sing the “She Doesn't Understand Me” blues about his miserable married life to a bitchy wife. Didn't keep
me dangling, waiting for him to run away from home and into my chubby but loving arms. Gerald made no promises, and I made no demands. He didn't curl my toes, give me butterflies or rock my world, which was fine. I'd been there. As far as I could tell, everlasting love was as much a fairy tale as the seven dwarfs—hi ho. For most of our association I had a job, a good one, so I wasn't looking for a man to take care of me or my daughter. It was clear from the giddyup that our activity was extracurricular. I never expected to move up to the wife position.

I didn't. Really.

But the idea I wasn't even in the running when the time and the opportunity came—not that I would have said yes—talk about more than you can chew. It was an awful lot to swallow. I couldn't wallow in it, though. I had made my bed—with another woman's husband. Was that why there were no messages on my answering machine offering me the job of my dreams? Believe me, guilt spreads easier than warm butter.

So you can imagine my reaction when I picked up the phone two days later, all perky and professional in case it was a prospective employer, and heard Tressy on the line. “May I speak to Ms. Hodges?” I'd only talked to her once, but it was a memorable occasion, so I recognized her voice. How did she get my number? What did she want? I was done with her man. Finished. I might have been pathetic, but I wasn't f 'ing Effie, groveling and belting, “You're gonna love me.”

I dug deep, found my most high-toned voice. “This is she speaking.” I sounded dignified and calm—not at all like I was worried she was some
Fatal Attraction
nut job out to eliminate the competition.

And she said, “I just wanted to thank you.” What the hell? “You saved me from a terrible mistake.” Seems she went to the
dealership right after I left and told Gerald and a showroom full of coworkers and car buyers exactly what she thought of his secret, then hurled the ring into the woods past the body shop on her way out. Last time she saw him he was crawling through the grass trying to find it. That's Gerald—utterly romantic. It sounded scrumptious, but this treat didn't sit too well. I stood there in my kitchen, waiting to feel some satisfaction—just a little. I deserved that, didn't I? But it just added another layer of sad and sorry. And he still did not have the decency or guts or whatever it took to say two words to me. The funny thing: I really had nothing to say to him.

Clearly, it was time to redirect my attentions. I convinced myself that if I did the right thing, changed my ways, I could get back on the sunny side of the street. First thing every morning I was at the computer on some site or other, uploading my résumé, or trekking to the post office with my list of qualifications wrapped in one more cleverly worded cover letter, for the few potential employers who were retro enough to still believe in mail—

—and speaking of, it took me the rest of the week to get up the nerve and the energy to tackle the pile that accumulated while I had been away. Please note I did not say “on vacation,” and you know why. And since, thanks to Markson, I'd found out the hard way that not knowing what was lurking under the flap could actually be worse than opening the damn things, I decided I would open five envelopes a day until I caught up. It felt responsible, which I was trying to be, and seemed like a perfectly reasonable amount of bad news to manage at a time.

Don't you know the first envelope I sliced open proved me right—and it wasn't even a bill, just a friendly Dear Valued Customer reminder. My car lease was expiring and I needed
to make plans to 1) “Come in and select a new vehicle to lease or purchase”—excellent idea. Why didn't I think of that? 2) “Purchase my current vehicle”—what, that old thing? or 3) “Turn in my current vehicle”—and drive the Rolls that's been collecting dust in my garage instead? More to the point, this had always been Gerald territory, and I was not ready to wade in those waters yet, so that notice went in the Don't Bother Me Now file.

Next came a cruel lesson in credit management. After spending months stretching a little bit of money to pay goo-gobs of bills, I became very familiar with the “minimum payment” box, which at that point was the only thing that pertained to me. I figured if everybody got a little bit, we could all be happy. So I was shocked when I found it had doubled on the plastic-cash bill I opened next. There had to be a mistake, so I examined it in detail. That's when I discovered the interest rate had tripled. I was outraged. That was flat-out robbery. They had no right, except my inquiry very quickly uncovered the fact that they did. It says so in the extra-fine print on the Terms and Conditions sheet nobody ever reads, because who can understand it anyway, and what does it have to do with me? And once one of them hikes the rate, some silent alarm goes off signaling it's open season and they all do. Envelopes three, four and five confirmed that. I didn't need the calculator to tell me I was officially in deep doodoo and it was coming in faster than I could shovel. We don't have debtors' prison anymore, but they've got new ways to lock you up, and I was beginning to feel the chains.

Not exactly the best frame of mind for a dinner out with the kids—their treat, but I had put them off as long as I could. They wanted to hear the cruise report. So I gave them the abbreviated version, told them about the singer who cussed out her manager
in front of an SRO crowd. She didn't come out for an encore. And there was the comedian who got wasted and passed out backstage before his show, which provided lots of material for the comedian who went on instead—way funnier than his last HBO special. Toni and the Live Five did not make the highlight reel.

Really, I think both Amber and J.J. wanted to make their cases that night for what kind of house they should buy. She was leaning toward something in the McMiniMansion area—cathedral ceiling–ed and master suited. Wonder where she got her taste from? My son-in-law, on the other hand, was proving to be quite the pragmatist. He was looking at multifamily fixer-uppers, because of the income and investment potential. In the short time they'd been married I had learned one cardinal rule: don't get in it. So I nodded and kept my opinions to myself, although I must admit J.J.'s argument had a lot more going for it than I would have thought before.

Fortunately, Amber's job really kept her busy and out of my hair. She'd call me on her way home from work. We'd talk for about ten minutes or until she saw a fender bender or some speed demon passed her too close. Then she'd go refocus her attention on the road, like she was supposed to. I missed seeing her all the time, but it was better than having her notice that the lawn needed mowing because I'd cut the service to once a month, or trying to explain why I didn't have the usual stash of regular, diet and caffeine-free soda to choose from, and there were no reserves in the basement.

Scaling back, way back, was part of my plan, and I was sticking to it—like I had some choice? Therefore, the Tee Hodges who formerly looked down her nose at those annoying people in the supermarket holding up the line while they rifled their
wad of coupons to get ten cents off became a convert. Love those double-coupon days, and if it wasn't on sale, I didn't buy it. I discovered store-brand baby peas taste the same as the big-name ones. Who knew?

In my economizing zeal I switched to the basic cable package, because I certainly wasn't watching all those music, movie and sports channels since Amber moved out and Gerald dropped dead—oops, I mean moved on. I stayed out of the mall, put away the takeout menus—

—unfortunately Mother Nature was not with the program. We had the hottest June on record. I had not budgeted for heat or air-conditioning from April until at least the Fourth of July, like usual. But nothing had been usual, so why should the weather be any different? During summers utility bills were like another mortgage payment, so to cut down I dragged two old box fans up from the basement. I don't think they'd been used since we got central air. One went in my bedroom, the other between the kitchen and family room, aka my Reemployment Office, which is where I spent most of my time anyway. OK, some nights I cheated. How did I survive childhood without air-conditioning?

By the end of July, I'd sent out sixty-seven résumés, got eight responses, which led to three interviews—nothing worth mentioning. Hell, they weren't even worth going to. I even signed up with a couple of temp agencies. They warned me up front that since I had minimal computer skills I was difficult to place. I'd have a better shot in the fall when the college kids were back in school. Undergrads had more options than I did. That did wonders for my morale.

So did the brutal heat that continued all summer. To survive I ran the AC for a little while each morning and night,
then kept the vents, doors and drapes closed—a lot like being vacuum packed—doing my best to keep the hot out and the chill in. And not feel sorry for myself, or go stir crazy, because something had to give.

Oh, and I was down to six weeks left to decide what to do about my car. I had never let it get that close to the deadline, but I was trying not to think about it. We all know how well that works.

Julie checked in regularly and we met for lunch every couple of weeks. On her. She was celebrating her promotion to manager of the Markson department, and she was in a training program to become a brand supervisor with four Nordstrom's stores in her territory. Woo hoo. I was happy for her—I was. But Markson was still stuck in my craw—

—Like Gerald. I still intellectualized, rationalized and wondered about him. Hell, I missed him, which I hate to admit, but it's the truth. It's not like my heart was broken or that I couldn't live if living is without him, like it says in that cheesy song, but there were a lot of Thursdays under the bridge and you have to miss something that's been a part of your life that long. Even if it wasn't good for you. And you know you're better off without it. Ask any junkie.

When I talked to Amber, I made it sound like my days were busy, but what do you do when everything you do costs money? How much daytime TV was I supposed to watch? All those talk shows with celebs hawking their latest movie-clothing-perfume-CD, in between new-you makeovers, the twelve-minute gourmet, the budget bathroom face-lift, and how to live a sugar/hormone/wheat/meat–free life and find health, happiness, and great sex. After a while my eyes glazed over. The soaps? I'd sooner eat a bar of Ivory than watch
As the Crap Turns
or
No Life to Live
. And when did judges start doing stand-up? Or was it sit-down?

I was as interested in cyberspace as outer space, so that wasn't an outlet. My computer was a tool, a fancy typewriter with a TV screen. It was not my friend. I didn't want it to make friends with other computers or the fruit loops who spent day and night surfing the net or the web—which both sound like traps to me, and I was looking to escape the matrix I was caught in. My little laptop was the means to an end that I spelled j-o-b, not f-u-n. Amber and J.J. tried to show me how to chat and instant message. That balloon popping up in the middle of what I was doing annoyed me. If you needed to reach me, what's wrong with the damn phone?