Dear Emily (9 page)

She hadn’t done anything, though. She returned home and burrowed into the basement with her seedlings, her books, and her memories.

And now this strange dinner and gift-giving session. What did it mean? Everything Ian did was suspect. He was giving her everything he promised, everything she said she wanted. She hadn’t been able to work up any excitement when the cars arrived. The furs would probably stay in their boxes until Ian hung them up. Mendenares said she had to force herself to look at things squarely and to be honest with herself. And she was trying to do that. Ian was not a kind, generous person. In her heart she believed Ian was paying her off, and as soon as his
debt
was paid, he was going to leave her.

She smelled his shaving lotion before she saw him. It was the first time, to her knowledge, that Ian knew she was living in the basement, the first time he’d actually come down the stairs. She looked up from the pile of books on the card table she was sitting at. He was angry but trying to control it.

“Emily, I think we need to talk.” He looked around uncertainly. “Let’s go upstairs where we’ll be more comfortable.”

She’d learned a thing or two from Mendenares. She couldn’t give Ian any kind of an edge, because as soon as she did, she was lost to her emotions. “I’m comfortable right here. In case you haven’t noticed, I live down here.”

“I’m not blind, Emily. If you want to do something stupid like live in a cellar, that’s your business. It’s the same stupid principle that made you sign away your rights to the clinics. This is a magnificent house, a comfortable house. If you want to live like a mole, feel free.”

“I am and I will. What do you want to talk about? If you want to
really
talk, then let’s discuss that scene where you left me at Jacques’ Restaurant and then let’s talk about the clinics. In my opinion we do not have a marriage. If we did, you would never have left me and gone to the Cayman Islands by yourself. That was one of the cruelest things you’ve ever done to me and you’ve done quite a few. The list is long. I let you do it to me, though, so I’m as much to blame. You know it too. Giving me all those things is your way of trying to make yourself feel good. I thought it was a joke, a game we were playing when I made out that ridiculous list. I don’t want
things,
Ian. I want a husband and a family. That’s what I signed up for and you said you did too. I know you’re a doctor, I know you have weird hours, but if I was important to you, you’d find a way to at least call me once a day, have dinner with me, bring me a flower once in a while, something to show me you care. You don’t do any of those things.”

“Are you saying this house is to make
me
feel good?”

Emily stared at her husband, pleased that her heart was beating normally, pleased that she saw his eye twitch, a sign that he was upset.

“Oh, you bet. You have the biggest, the best bedroom. You don’t want me in it, but you were gracious enough to assign me one across the hall. When was the last time we slept together, made love? I remember the day, the hour, and what went on before and afterward. Women remember things like that. I don’t like the yellow room and I resent that you would think I would. Take away the surprise element, Ian, and what do you have? I would rather have known about the house, done the decorating myself. And how do you know I couldn’t do a good job? You don’t know a goddamn thing about me and that’s really sad. You broke my heart. You really did and I cannot forgive you for that. I’m still angry about those clinics.”

“Those clinics netted a hundred and forty thousand dollars last month,” Ian said coldly.

“How many babies did you kill for that, Ian? How many men jerked off in a bottle to store in your freezers? Give me a number, Ian.”

“Don’t go noble on me, Emily. Women have a right to choose. I’ve always believed that. Jesus Christ, you don’t even go to church, so don’t start that morality crap. You believe they have a right to choose, too.”

“If you truly believed that, Ian, I would know it in my heart and then I could live with the clinics, but you don’t believe it. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re in this for the money, and nothing you can say will ever convince me otherwise. You kill babies for money and then you buy me presents to try and ease your conscience.”

“That’s not true,” Ian bellowed.

It was true, she could see it in his face, read it in his eyes. She felt no satisfaction, only a deep sadness. Suddenly she wanted to wipe the look off his face, kiss away the look in his eyes. He still had a hold over her. “Take back all those presents and go outside in the garden and bring me one of the tulips, pick me a dandelion, a green weed. I don’t care what it is as long as you pick it because you want to give me something from your heart. Did you know dandelions are herbs?”

“No, I’m not taking back the gifts. I promised them to you and I never knowingly break a promise. The tulips are too pretty to pick and I think you know that. I didn’t see any dandelions in the lawn when I came home. And why in the hell would I give you a weed. And no, I didn’t know dandelions are herbs. I guess I wasn’t in class the day they discussed dandelions.”

“What else do you want to talk about?” Emily asked as she tapped her pencil on the table.

“Us.” He walked over to the table and reached down for her hand. “I want you to move into my room. I’ll order a king-size bed since we’re both restless sleepers. We need to start working on that baby. If I broke your heart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m a doctor, do you think I can fix it for you? Will you let me try? Do you still love me?”

Emily thought her heart would burst right out of her chest. It was the first time Ian had ever said he was sorry about anything. Maybe this time he meant it. She wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. “I’m willing to try, Ian. I love you. I will probably always love you. Do you love me?”

“Of course. How can you think otherwise?”

“Because I need to hear the words, Ian. If you loved me, how could you go off and leave me sitting at Jacques’? And go away without me?”

“I don’t know how I did that, Emily. It was a knee-jerk reaction and I was miserable. All I did was think of you and the business. I couldn’t wait to get home to apologize, and when I did, you didn’t want any part of me. I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything. I was wrong and I admit it. What did you do while I was gone?”

“I drank myself into a stupor every night.”

“We really messed up, didn’t we?”

Mendenares’s face flashed in front of her. “You did, Ian, I didn’t.”

“Guilty!” Ian said cheerfully. “God, I’m glad we settled all this. Come on, let’s move your stuff upstairs. I’ll help you. Then, if you are agreeable, we’ll take a long, hot shower together and do our best to make a baby.”

Emily smiled. It was a start. You always had to start somewhere. “Did you do the dishes? You cook, you clean, I’ll watch you.”

“That’s fair,” Ian said, bolting up the stairs to the kitchen. Emily watched as he dumped the dishes, the condiments, the silverware into the trash barrel on the deck. “Done!”

In spite of herself, Emily giggled.

It took four trips before they were ready to strip down in the shower.

Emily thought she could feel her heart start to mend when Ian said, “Let’s get started on that kid who is going to look like you or me or both of us put together.”

Her heart was mending, she was sure of it as she stepped into his arms under the pelting water.

T
he house on Sleepy Hollow Road took on a new life, albeit Emily’s life, over the following years. The days were busy days, the nights busier still with homework and the few hours Ian allotted to their “togetherness” program.

On the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday, Emily decided there was no such thing as pure happiness in a marriage. There was, she told herself, fulfillment and even contentment. Either you accepted or you rejected it, which was just another way of saying you went with the flow or you fought it. Emily opted to go with the flow, an expression she’d heard on television.

She’d finally given up on the idea of getting pregnant. It wasn’t even something she could fault Ian for. They’d worked at it arduously, playfully, angrily, determinedly, to no avail.

Today was going to be a bad day. Emily could feel it in her bones.

“What’s wrong, Emily?”

“I’m thirty-nine today. So tell me what are we going to do this weekend to celebrate this momentous day in my life?”

“We’re going down to the shore house and take the boat out. I bought you a Sunfish for your birthday. They delivered it yesterday.”

Two whole days with Ian. They were going to celebrate her birthday. Maybe it wasn’t going to be a bad day after all.

“We should have done something special to celebrate your birthday, Ian. Why didn’t we?”

“Because I hate growing older. I don’t even want to talk about it. Jesus, next year we’ll be forty. Half our life will be over. The chances of us living to eighty are pretty slim, if you want my opinion.”

“I plan on living to be a hundred. So there, Dr. Thorn.”

“Plan on being a widow then, Mrs. Thorn. So there.”

“Swear to me, Ian, that we aren’t going to go through that midlife crisis syndrome you read about in all the slick magazines. Swear to me if either one of us feels something is awry, we’ll talk about it. I’m really serious, Ian. I’ve read some real horror stories. Okay?”

“Sure,” Ian said, snapping the lid of his suitcase. “Listen, Emily. I have a confession to make. I don’t know if I’m ready to take that Sunfish out in open water. My stomach goes into knots the minute I start to think about it. I don’t honestly know if I’ll
ever
be ready to take it out.”

Emily burst out laughing. “Why did you buy it, Ian?”

“Because it was on your goddamn list, that’s why,” Ian said, his eyes wild.

“I think you should sell it. Maybe someday we’ll take a cruise. That will be boat enough for me.” How endearing, Ian admitting to a mistake, letting her see his vulnerability. This was the best birthday present. To think it took living thirty-nine years for Ian to show this side of him.

“I guess we can go then. God, I feel like a hundred pounds has been lifted from my shoulders.”

“Ian, can I say something here, something that’s important to me?”

“Sure, fire away.”

“The feeling you’re experiencing right now, I never had that. The relief, the weight taken off my shoulders. So many times I wanted to blurt things out, to tell you how I felt, but I was afraid of your reaction. I’m not talking about the dumb mistakes I made over the years. It’s okay now, we can’t go backward, I just wanted you to know. Life is too short to dwell on the bad things, and, Ian, there were a lot of bad things.”

“God, Emily. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s history. C’mon, let’s start to celebrate my birthday. I want it to be a great one.”

“I’ll make sure of that, Emily,” Ian said, smiling.

But before they were halfway there…

Emily opened her eyes and returned to the present…and the Federal Express letter that lay before her. “I’ve had enough of Memory Lane. I’ve had enough of you, Dr. Ian Thorn. Enough!”

She lumbered up from the sofa and made her way into the kitchen. She wished for more sticky buns, anything to stuff in her mouth to make the pain go away. On her way to the refrigerator she passed the open doorway to the downstairs bathroom. She must have left the light on earlier. Surely the hag staring at her from the mirrored wall wasn’t herself. She was so uncertain, so disbelieving, she walked into the bathroom and looked at herself. No, this wasn’t Emily Thorn. The only thing reminiscent of Emily Thorn was the bush of wild hair. Frantically she rummaged in the vanity drawer for a pair of scissors. She couldn’t find any. She ran to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, and ran back to the bathroom with a pair of kitchen shears. She started to chomp and slice at her hair. Ian had always said he loved her hair. “Fuck you, Dr. Ian Thorn,” she blubbered. When she couldn’t hold her arm up any longer, Emily quit cutting. She looked like something out of a horror movie. She still didn’t look like Emily Thorn, wife of prominent physician, Dr. Ian Thorn.

If it wasn’t Emily Thorn in the mirror, then who was it? Emily leaned closer. Once it had been Emily Thorn, but years of abuse had turned her into this creature who was forty pounds overweight, had bags under her eyes and three chins. When and how had her complexion gotten so bad? Grease and sweets was the answer. She stretched her lips so she could look at her teeth. Good teeth. Pedigree teeth. Didn’t breeders check dogs’ teeth to see if they were fit? Well, hell, she was no pedigree. She was nothing but an ugly stray whose husband didn’t want her anymore.

The person in the mirror started to cry. That was Emily Thorn. Emily Thorn always cried when things went wrong. Emily Thorn was speaking so she had to listen. “I wasted my life. Wasted it. I have nothing to show for it, but this…this…whatever I’ve become. I gave away my life, the best of my years for a smile, a pat on the head, and 120 white shirts. I just up and gave it away. And there’s no way for me to get it back. I’m forty years old. Where do I go now, what do I do?”

Emily turned out the light and sat down on the toilet seat. The Emily Thorn in the mirror went away immediately. Emily clenched her fists and beat at her fat knees until she howled for mercy. If she kept up this abuse on her person, she was going to cripple herself.

She didn’t like the dark, had never liked the dark, but hadn’t she been living in the dark for a long time? There were no mirrors in the kitchen, she could go back there and be as miserable as she was here in this windowless bathroom.

In the kitchen again, with the bright sunlight shining through the windows, she fired up a cigarette and chain-smoked for almost an hour before she reached for Ian’s letter. The last thing she was ever going to get from Ian. She brought it close to her face. A tear splashed downward. This letter was written to the Emily Thorn in the bathroom mirror, the one who had wasted her life. She stared at the letter. How many times would she read it? She knew the contents by heart, mouthed the words aloud as she read the letter yet again. Even now, in this, the last thing she would ever get from Ian, he was placing all the blame on her. He was blaming her for his leaving, saying she pointed out to him certain things he never would have thought of himself. “Liar!” she screamed. “Dirty, low-life liar! Lying sack of shit!”

Dear Emily.
“You bastard, the only time you ever called me dear Emily was when you wanted me to do something for you.”

“Eat shit, Ian,” Emily sobbed.

Emily ripped at her clothes as she stumbled her way into the dark bathroom. She flipped on the light to stare at the Emily Thorn in the mirror. “You are fat. No, you are obese. Look at those rolls of fat. There’s absolutely no sign of a waist line. Your boobs are almost to your belly button. Ponderous. Look at your upper arms, at your neck, all the skin is loose and flabby. You can’t even look down and see your pubic hair because of the rolls of fat. Gross.”

The Emily Thorn in the mirror said, “This is the person Ian saw every day. This is the person he didn’t want to live with anymore. Can you blame him?”

“No, no, I can’t blame him for that,” Emily whispered. “If he’d said something, if he’d talked to me, really talked to me, treated me like a real person, I would have made the effort.”

Forty years old, fat and ugly. Unloved. Dumped. She was now an official
dumpee.
A fat ugly woman who had wasted the best years of her life in the name of love. “Oh, God!” she moaned.

Emily ran upstairs, so winded she had to sit down on the stool in the bathroom until she could breathe normally. She looked awful, felt worse than awful. The thick support bra she struggled into made her wince. Once, long ago, she’d worn lacy bras with an underwire for support. Now, with all the weight she’d gained, it was necessary to wear ugly, cotton bras with wide straps that cut into her shoulders and covered her entire back. Once she’d been able to wear size five bikini panties. Now she was wearing size nine cotton briefs. Two rolls of fat bulged between the top of her panties and the bottom of her bra. In frustration she brought her hands down on the vanity with so much force a bar of soap sailed across the room.

From the hook on the back of the bathroom door, Emily pulled a sack dress with no detail, no belt, and nothing to distinguish it from any of the other sack dresses she’d been wearing the past year. She stuffed her feet into sneakers, bent over to work the Velcro bands into place. She was breathing hard with the exertion.

Emily trundled down the steps, taking them one at a time because of the tears in her eyes. She didn’t need a fall now. At the bottom of the steps she opened the hall closet and pulled out an old raincoat of Ian’s that she couldn’t button. A minute later she was outside, squeezing herself behind the wheel of the Mercedes coupe. This was a joke too. She was so uncomfortable she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to drive.

Well, by God, she was going to drive. She wanted to see for herself, needed to see if the clinics had really been sold off. She needed proof positive the letter from Ian wasn’t some kind of cruel joke or a nightmare that she would wake from momentarily.

The clinic on Terrill Road had a sign on the window that said
UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT
. The one on Mountain Avenue said the same thing. Watchung’s sign said
CLOSED TEN DAYS, UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT
. Her face was grim when she drove down Watchung Avenue, where she made a right onto Park Avenue. She refused to even look at the building where she’d lived with Ian for so long. When she came to the clinic, she pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine. She struggled from the car, her purse hindering her as she inched past the steering wheel.

“We’ll make it easier for you, just hand it over,” a voice said from the other side of the car. Emily looked around to see who was talking to whom. In stupefied amazement she watched as four unsavory-looking youths came around the back of her car. “Give us your purse and we won’t hurt you.” Emily clutched the purse tighter.

“Get away from me or I’ll scream,” Emily threatened.

“Nobody’s going to hear you. Hand it over,” one of the youths said brazenly. “C’mon, or we’ll take the car too.”

Emily saw the knife, the wicked-looking, gleaming piece of steel. The moment when she should have screamed was past. She didn’t know what was in her purse—very little money, that much she did know. A few credit cards Ian had probably canceled. She was about to hand it over to one of the youths when it was snatched from her hand.

“Don’t think about running after us either. You stay planted right here for ten minutes or we’ll come after you. Your address is right inside your wallet, lady. You hear me?” Emily nodded.

A second youth laughed cruelly. “Fat-ass tub of lard ain’t going to be doing any running. Don’t go reporting this to the police or we’ll get you when you ain’t expecting it. We got lots of friends. You understand, lard-ass?” Emily nodded. “Git in that car and sit there for ten minutes. Now!”

Emily did as instructed, her face burning with anger and humiliation, not because she was being robbed and threatened but because of the names they’d called her and the fact that they were laughing at her as she struggled to get into the sports car. She sat in the car for ten minutes before she drove back to her house on Sleepy Hollow Road.

The moment she was inside, she bolted all the doors and put on the alarm system. Would they come back? Maybe, when they saw how little cash was in her purse. She hung up Ian’s coat, saw the camcorder on the top shelf. She’d bought it to take videos of her garden to submit to the Garden Club. She could feel her eye start to twitch when she reached for it. She carried it into the living room, where she placed it on top of the wide-screen television. She turned it on before she backed up to sit down on a brocade love seat that clashed with the green dress she was wearing. She stared straight ahead, her eyes on the camcorder as she recounted the past forty-five minutes. Her voice broke when she described the dialogue between the youths and herself. She stood up, fumbled with the buttons of her dress, pulled it over her head. She closed her eyes and took a deep, searing breath. She turned slowly for the camera’s benefit. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I am Emily Thorn. This is what I’ve become. I did…it doesn’t matter how I got like this. What matters is I did it myself. I am Emily Wyatt Thorn and I am fat and ugly. I am a poor excuse for the woman I once was. My husband has just left me. This is the Emily Thorn he saw every day when he woke up and when he went to bed.” She advanced on the camcorder in her underwear and turned it off. Then she carried it back to the closet and placed it on the shelf. Someday she would look at the video.