Cheating to Survive (Fix It or Get Out) (6 page)

He arched forward and squeezed her bicep through the tight lavender fabric. “I can see that.” He stood and towered over her as if to heighten his experience. “I could show you a thing or two, Heather. Let me know when you’re interested.”

The wad of gum slid down her throat.

“At the gym I mean.”

“Of course.” Heather froze. An inferno radiated across her body, burning through her clothes. Dr. Silvatri exited and his overly confident, but delicious ass, strutted down the hall. Before sweat erupted, she removed her lab coat and dumped it on the chair.

Chapter 5
Catherine

Catherine snatched the second row in church with Emily, Colton and Bentley. Peter mounted in the back, muttering to his friends, tossing tales about their week. Emily brushed her doll’s long blonde locks with her pink brush. Her two sons pinched each other, abrupt jolts and lurches ejected from their pews.

“Stop it, you two,” Catherine whispered. They both glared at her, Bentley made a quick disgusted snort, Colton snickered and flapped his hand at her in dismissal.

The waterfall above the holy water basin trickled and splattered, relaxing the members, the choir song eased and trailed off, the priest launched his sermon despite her family’s apparent disrespect. She strained to see Peter to get his attention and some help with the boys. His back provided Catherine with her answer.

“As we look at our family, God is looking for a man who builds his wife’s self-esteem, and builds the confidence in his children. A man who will teach his sons to respect their mother and in turn respect their wives…”

Bentley and Colton took turns kicking each other’s sneakers, each thrust delivered harder than the last. Catherine’s cheeks burned, her ribs squeezed together.

“…God understands we have things we need to do—work, play, hobbies, they all need our attention. We say we’ll get around to our family some other time. Husbands, love your wives, nourish and cherish them just as Christ loved His church…”

Bentley knocked Colton’s sneaker off after smashing the heel numerous times. The sneaker, now free, rolled under the pew in front. Catherine clutched Bentley’s arm to stop him, but he whipped it away in one quick snap. Her knees locked together, hands gripped her elbows, as she gazed down. Peter’s voice intensified, his tone loud, piercing, penetrating.

“…being profoundly loved by someone gives you strength, but we mistakenly assume that if our partners love us they will act in certain ways…”

Colton reached for his sneaker but Bentley took his foot and shoved it into Colton’s backside propelling him forward. Peter’s conversation amplified, impaling Catherine’s ears, loud, louder, his laughter sharp and stabbing, painful. Her chest pounded, feeling naked and exposed.

“…focused attention is needed. Marriage is a real thing, to be valued, appreciated …”

Colton’s head slammed into Emily’s knee twirling her small body. She rotated on her silky dress and fell off the pew. Peter’s voice rose higher and sharper. The shrill, the obvious laughter— she knew others were now laughing at her, judging.

“…then the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone, I will make him a helper, his partner...”

Emily and her doll dropped to the floor, the pink hair comb launched into an elderly woman’s shoe. Thunderous hilarity echoed from Peter and his friends as they snickered and mocked her, stabbing her repeatedly. The stone slab walls echoed his hysterics and elevated them to the stained glass ceiling. Sweat mounted under her dress, her heart raced.

“…for this reason a man shall leave his parents and be bound to his wife, and the two shall become one...”

Catherine’s’ hands drifted from her elbows, to her chest and up her neck. She clutched her throat; tears suffocated her lids and distorted her vision. Emily’s wails parroted Peter’s blistering howls. Catherine thrust her hands over her ears, no longer able to take it.

She rotated her head to the back of the room to find Peter all alone, his hands by his side, a puzzled expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” he mouthed.

She was losing it.

Chapter 6
Victoria

Victoria’s wet boots flicked the rain onto their welcome mat. Her side of the garage was clogged with Ed’s ladders and assorted tools, forcing her to park in the driveway. Ed’s side sheltered his prehistoric truck.

The doorknob slid under her wet grasp but the only thing waiting for her was Ed, on the couch watching reruns of
The A-Team
. She removed her raincoat and waited for him to explain his early arrival and the relocation of his tools. Nothing.

She strolled into the living room. Two cans of Budweiser stood like soldiers next to the TV guide. The ashtray held three cigarette butts but the odor was evident before she entered the room.

“What’s for dinner?” Ed asked.

“Why are you home?”

“I got laid off.” He fidgeted on the couch but kept his eyes fixed to the screen. She bent forward and blocked his view of Mr. T. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table and grumbled. “What!”

“What do you mean you were laid off?”

“Exactly that, do you need an Encyclopedia?”

She hated when he used that phrase. Little did he know they invented computers for the home and the Internet. Google much? Victoria marched into the kitchen. “I bought you new underwear, I’ll put it on the table.”

His silence ripped through her.

“I picked up a colorful pack of briefs this time. Red, blue, black.”

Ed’s concentration left the TV screen long enough to view the plastic package in her hand. “I don’t want that, white is fine. Why are you trying to change me? I am who I am.”

She tossed the underwear back in the K-Mart bag and then retreated to her bedroom, tripping over the overflowing laundry basket. Victoria lifted it to start a load but Andrew’s clothes weighed it down. Was he home from college? Did he get a ride?

She opened Andrew’s door to find him asleep, comforter wound around him like a ‘pigs in a blanket,’ his shades drawn to block the bright spring day. Did she smell Cheese Doodles? The door clicked behind her.

Sara’s room remained empty, abandoned. Between high school and work, not to mention all the senior parties, Sara spent an insignificant amount of time at home. Even with them both home, their rooms remained lifeless.

Once the washing machine hummed and rocked, Victoria removed her charcoal pantsuit and then retreated to her office to work on the information for the
Long Island Perspective
Magazine
. The screen provided no insight, no support.

She returned to the living room and sat next to Ed on the still springy cushion on the other end of the sofa. “Ed, I need to advertise for the fundraiser and thought I could brainstorm with you.”

“What fundraiser?”

“The Long Island Cancer Prevention 10k Race,” she shouted.

“Why are you yelling? Look, I don’t need this, I lost my job and it’s always about you.” He lurched out of his hollowed cushion and wandered into the kitchen. “I guess cooking me dinner is out of the question.”

“It’s only four-thirty.”

“All these late night parties and I’m stuck with leftovers.”

“Parties? I’m on the Board of Directors. I coordinate events in addition to my regular full time job.”

“Sorry I lost my job. Throw it in my face why don’t you? Don’t you even care about me?” He threw his head into his hands.

Victoria’s heart oozed. The sorrow in his eyes sparked memories of her father. “I’m sorry, I’m being inconsiderate. Let me start dinner and then we can talk while we eat.”

“I don’t wanna talk to you, I just want food.”

After dinner, Victoria cleaned the dishes while Ed snored away in their bedroom. Seven o’clock and he was already down for the night. She clicked off the kitchen light and retreated to the living room.

The room, although well lit, filled with darkness as the still air thickened and suffocated her. Warm beer and cigarette odors lingered, choking her thoughts. Ideas drained and left her body, and replaced themselves with worry and fear.

A game of Candy Land, Sara and Andrew playing in the middle of the brown rug fighting over the blue gingerbread man, resurfaced. Although Andrew leaving for college proved difficult, Sara venturing out every night with her friends broke her heart. Every mother wished their children success and happiness, but their concurrent departure caused muscle aches and migraines.

The anguish inside her needed to go.

Her head pounded as she searched for ideas to bring life to the cancer fundraiser, but surrounded by this emotionless fog, inspiration concealed itself. Victoria shoved her yellow notepad aside. It remained empty and laid fallow like her. She tilted into the sofa and wound into a cocoon.

Heartache submerged deeper into her core and took over every cell. Hidden, locked away, she refused to reveal her collapse to anyone. She kept her sobs low in the event Sara returned without warning, refusing to let her see her in this state.

She promised her father she wouldn’t settle for less than the best. Excellence in all achievements, but Victoria’s enthusiasm and motivation washed away with each passing year. Tears saturated the pillow, visions of her father’s cachectic body and frail hands surfaced while her creativity sank further into the hollow gorge within her.

No inspiration left.

Chapter 7
Heather

Heather stomped out of Jean’s office after another exhilarating ass whipping. Did Jean twirl a spinner with Heather’s name on it this morning? Let’s attack Heather for no apparent reason, I’m bored and need to feel important.

Another argument with Lance yesterday and now Jean reminded her of some ridiculous thing Heather did three months ago.
“Those that forget the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Did she really think Heather would forget how she reamed her out after the Pharmacy and Therapeutics meeting in January, simply because she answered a question Jean didn’t know the answer to? Sure, Jean looked like an idiot, but she
was
one. How was that her fault?

Heather took a short cut through the kitchen, ignoring the hairnet box on the wall to her right.

“Hey, hey, Heather, don’t look so sad.” Tyrell, one of the cook’s sang to her. He rubbed his eyes like a small child.

“Stop, I’m not crying.” She hid the smile growing on her face.

“Yes you are, boo hoo hoo.”

Heather took a towel from the counter and whipped it at him.

“Ooh, rough, I like it.”

“Knock it off, silly.” She shook her head and grinned.

Tyrell was extremely intelligent and it upset Heather that he worked here. She encouraged him to go to college and find another job, but he worked with his classmates, neighbors and relatives. None of them went to college; he only knew this life, a wasted talent.

Heather charged up the six flights of stairs to her floor. They had their weekly nutrition meeting in fifteen minutes but she needed time to cool down after the bout with Jean. She reached the stairwell door and shook her thighs to release the inferno, then rubbed them, discharging the lactic acid.

She pulled out a chair on Six-North but a nurse immediately approached her.

“Heather, don’t kill me but that lady in 614a wants to see you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, she just said she wanted to see a dietitian.”

Heather groaned. Did it ever end? She shoved her chair back under the counter and then entered the patient’s room.

Unbrushed mat of hair, crusty feet with long yellowed toenails, the room reeked of body odor. She pretended to scratch her nose as she inhaled into her hand. “Hello, I’m Heather, the dietitian for the floor. You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, the food here sucks, can’t I get something real?” Her low scratchy voice let Heather know a carton of cigarettes was her best friend.

Of course it was about her meal. God forbid they wanted nutrition literature and education. Perhaps enhance their health so they wouldn’t be a frequent-flyer in the hospital? Some guidance on what they should do to improve their disease process? You know, diet counseling that her friends charged a hundred dollars an hour for in their private practices?

“What’s wrong with the food?” She had perfected her fake smile after sixteen years of abuse. Heather’s lips curled back to reveal her welcoming, kindhearted, sympathetic teeth.

“It’s disgusting, I can’t eat this stuff.” The bag of potato chips by her beside sprayed its contents across the tray table. Half eaten chocolate muffin. Two-liter bottle of diet Pepsi on the far end.

“What do you want to eat?” She folded her arms across her chest, knowing this was a sign of distancing yourself, but as the odor whiffed toward her distance was all she thought about.

“Normal food.”

“Like what? Give me some examples of what you eat at home.” She knew the answer already. McDonalds, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Taco Bell.

“Just normal food, this stuff’s crap.”

“We serve four hot choices a day, seven days a week. That’s twenty-eight wholesome nutritious hot meals. Grilled salmon, chicken parmesan, pepper steak, lasagna, beef stew, all of this is foreign to you?”

“Yeah, I’m not eating that garbage.”

“If you’ll just tell me what you eat at home I can see if the cooks can prepare something to your liking.”

“Just send me something I can eat.”

Anger and frustration punched each other under Heather’s skin. “If you can’t tell me what you normally eat I can’t help you. Name something, anything, just one dinner item you normally eat.”

She assessed Heather from head to toe, then shifted her eyes to the TV. “Just forget it, I’ll have my family bring me in food.”

Heather fled the room and then inhaled deep gulps of fresh air. Fresh floor wax replaced the gagging odor of crotch and some rotting infection. She leaned against the wall in the corridor and banged her head into the cold hard surface several times. This day could not get any worse.

“Problems breathing?” Dr. Silvatri asked.

Heather’s eyelids flicked open.