Hard Choices (2 page)

“Yeah. I can see that,” said Danny. “I can’t remember the last time you two did anything together.” Danny didn’t know the half of it. Scott and I hadn’t even had dinner together since he’d left. With no one to pretend for, we hadn’t bothered. As for anything else marital about our relationship… well, that part was long dead. And it wasn’t that I had lost interest in sex; I had just lost interest in Scott. Again, though, not something I needed to share with my kids.

“Listen, Mom, do you want me to come home?”

“No! Don’t use your leave! Danny, listen, your sister is coming up for dinner tonight, and she’s going to spend the night. Let’s Skype tomorrow at our normal time. Kyle can come over, too,” I looked at Kyle who nodded emphatically, “and we can all talk. Tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great, Mom. I’ll Skype you tomorrow at eleven, OK?”

“OK. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you. Bye.” I hung up and handed the phone back to Kyle.

“Becca’s coming up for dinner?” he asked.

“Yeah, she’ll be here in about two hours.”

“Will you make fried chicken?” he smiled sheepishly as I laughed.

“Yes! But I will tell you the same thing I told your sister: do not tell Danny! Deal?” We fist-bumped on it, and I headed back into the kitchen to start dinner.

***

The kids and I had a spectacular dinner together. I realized during the hour we sat around the table, laughing and visiting, that the only thing I really cared about was whether or not a divorce would affect my relationship with my children. I think that’s what they needed to know, too.

We didn’t talk about anything heavy. Didn’t mention their dad. Didn’t talk about what I “was going to do now.” We just enjoyed each other.

The kids helped me with the dishes, then Kyle took off and I retreated to my room with another glass of wine. I had just clicked on a repeat of
Law & Order
when I heard a knock on the door.

“Mom? Can I come in?”

“Only if you want to watch Benjamin Bratt be all broody and gorgeous.”

“Moooom,” Becca rolled her eyes as she came through the door.

“Seriously, honey, if you want to have ‘The Conversation,’” I used air quotes and deepened my voice, “it’ll have to wait until the morning. I know you need help processing this, but I’m sorry, kid. I’m just not up to it right now.”

Becca nodded her head and said, “Fair enough. Think you’ll be up to it tomorrow?”

I sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll be up to it, but I tell you what: we
will
all talk about it – me, you and your brothers – and I will listen. If I have nothing to say about it… well, then I have nothing to say, OK? I’m not even sure how I feel about all this, but I can listen.”

“Thanks, Mama,” Becca’s use of her childhood name for me made my chest ache.

“I’m cold. Come warm me up,” I held my arms out, and my grown daughter, all five-foot-seven of her, slid into my arms and rested her head on my chest.

Becca looked a lot like me: same height, same light green eyes, and same wavy, light brown hair. I wore mine only shoulder-length, though, because I felt it looked more professional. But Becca’s was almost waist-length, like mine had been when I was her age. I sighed and brushed her hair with my hands, pulling my fingers through her thick waves. Suddenly, I really missed running my fingers through my own hair.

“Becca, would I look weird if I grew my hair out? I mean, sometimes older women with long hair – “

“God, Mom!” she laughed. “You’re not ‘older.’ Molly’s hair is still really long. She looks great.”

“Yeah, but she only ever wears a ponytail. Do you think I could pull it off and look professional?”

She sat up and looked at me thoughtfully, pulling my hair out and down. “Yeah, I really do think you could, Mom. Get some sassy layers, and it would look really flattering.”

I smiled and kissed her forehead. “Thanks, honey. We’ll have to see if I have the patience to grow it out, though!” We both laughed. “Now let’s shut up, and drink in the beauty that is Benjamin Bratt, ’nkay?” she laughed as I reached for my wine glass.

“He is pretty hot.” Becca sat up suddenly and looked at me with an expression of horror. “Oh man – you’re not going to turn into a MILF or… a cougar or… whatever… are you?”

“Rebecca!” I managed to laugh and cough out my indignation in one shot. “I’ve been single about twenty-four hours. Can you cut me a break? Jeez. NO! I am not going to hit on all your male friends, your boyfriends, or your brothers’ friends, OK? Give me some credit!”

“Oh, OK, sorry,” she mumbled as she lay back on my chest.

“Now, seriously, Benjamin Bratt, Becca!”

She giggled and snuggled closer. I gave her a squeeze and counted my blessings.

***

I woke up feeling very different than I had the morning before. Saturday morning, hours after Scott had announced he was leaving me for another woman, I’d felt shocked and numb, more than anything. Throughout the morning, I’d rolled through humiliation, disbelief, anger, bemusement, and finally, as I’d told Molly, relief.

I remembered a short story I’d read in college, “The Story of an Hour,” by Kate Chopin. An 1890s housewife hears that her husband died in a train accident. In the course of an hour, she goes from grief to exhilaration because she’s finally free. At the end of the story, the husband walks through the door – he’d taken a later train and missed the accident – and when the wife sees him, she drops dead of a heart attack. Of course, people thought it was a shock of
joy
that killed her… but it wasn’t.

I wasn’t
quite
there, but my twenty-two-year marriage had dissolved, and all I could ultimately muster was an overwhelming feeling of relief? Shouldn’t I feel rejected? Hurt? Angry?

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a crock of shoulds. Screw it. I was done lying to myself and everyone else. I
was
relieved it was over. There was no getting around that. I had to admit, if only to myself, that I was even a little grateful to Scott for being the brave one and walking out.

I rolled out of bed, and was surprised to see that Becca had never gone to her old room. She’d slept in my bed with me. I smiled to myself.

I tiptoed out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen. Even on Sundays, I could never sleep in. My coffee was ready and waiting for me at 5:30 am, seven days a week. Whoever invented coffeemakers with timers on them… well, there must be a special room in heaven for that particular genius.

Sundays were my day to get out for at least an hour-long run, weather permitting. I looked out the window and saw a steady snow falling. Treadmill today. Oh well.

Not long ago I’d joked to Molly that I had to run off all my sexual tension, since I didn’t have another outlet. As I pulled on my running clothes and downed my coffee, it dawned on me: maybe I wouldn’t need to run so much anymore. I kind of shocked myself when that thought popped into my head. I’d repressed my sexual needs for so long, it was strange to be honest with myself. I tried to remember the last time Scott and I had had sex. Hmm, well it was long enough ago that I’d gone through several batteries in Big Ed, as I called my favorite toy. And it wasn’t memorable enough to have left an impression.

Maybe being single wasn’t going to be so bad.

Monday morning I arrived at work at my normal time. I’d enjoyed my morning workout, my morning coffee… and my morning solitude. Getting ready for work without Scott underfoot – without
anyone
underfoot – had been ridiculously satisfying. I felt so good, I’d found myself humming in the shower. Then, when it dawned on me that no one could hear me, I gave up humming and started
belting
P!nk’s “So What?” It felt so appropriate. When I got out of the shower, I felt charged up and ready for the day.

My boss, Robert, usually rolled into the office around nine, when I’d already been there for a half hour or so. Robert was Molly’s brother, and he’d recruited me to come to work for him years ago.

Once Danny was in school all day, I’d gone back to college with a vengeance. Right out of high school, I had gotten about a year under my belt at the community college. Then I’d met Scott, gotten pregnant, gotten married, and popped out two more babies. But I made a promise to myself: I would finish my education. All through the baby and pre-school years, I survived the boredom and drudgery of diapers and macaroni-art-projects by telling myself, “I
will
get my degree, and I
will
get myself a great job!” I didn’t even have a clear picture of what I’d be doing; I just knew I’d be in an office, making good money, and using my brain. My mother had toiled away as a waitress for forty years. It paid the bills, especially after my dad died so young, but I swore to myself that I would not end up like that.

It actually made those tough years easier. Whenever I approached the edge of the “oh god is this really my life?!” abyss, I’d remember that it was just for a little while.

Scott had been dubious, but when I showed him what a college-educated woman earned versus one with a high school diploma, he’d gotten on board. It had taken me just three more years, going full-time all summer, to finish up my degree through the state university’s extension. Scott had managed his work schedule around my school schedule, recognizing that it was the ticket to a lot more money coming in.

I graduated from college when my kids were still in elementary school. That’s when Molly’s brother Robert, an accountant with a small but successful business, had stepped in. He’d asked me to lunch one day.

“Lyssa, I need help,” he’d said matter-of-factly.

“With what, Robert?”

“I need an office manager, and I can’t find one who is remotely competent. I’ve known you for a couple of years now. I’ve watched you bust your ass to get through school. I called a couple of your professors. They told me you bust your ass
and
you’re quick, smart and efficient. Come work for me. It’ll be flexible hours, so you can be home with the kids after school. School vacations off. If one of your kids is sick, no problem. What do you say?”

Honestly, at first I thought,
I didn’t kill myself to get through college to be an office manager,
but Robert’s firm was growing, so I’d taken a chance, gone to work for him, and never looked back.

We made a great team. Together, we’d built up his practice and had built a clientele of very successful people. Scott hadn’t been disappointed. In less than three years, I was making more money at my job than he was as the produce manager in a local supermarket. He kept working nights, so we could juggle the kids, and, looking back, I realized it had been the beginning of the end for our relationship. It should have been an alarm bell to me back then that we barely saw each other… and didn’t really miss each other.

While starting my career had stoked my ambition, it seemed to quash Scott’s. The more money I made, the less he thought about his own career. He’d stalled in his mid-level supervisory position, stymied by his lack of education and utter lack of motivation. But he seemed happy. He’d rather spend his energy enjoying the 128 hours of the week he
wasn’t
at work. That was OK with me… to a point. When he’d started over-spending – that is, spending
my
hard-earned money on expensive toys I had zero interest in – I’d put my foot down. We split the bills in half, opened separate accounts, and that just fed into the slow, inexorable trek toward separate lives.

This bright, sunny Monday morning, I heard Robert greet the receptionist and make his way down the hall to my office. Briefcase in hand, wearing his expensive suit like a model in a Ralph Lauren ad, he leaned against my doorway.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course, Robert,” I said, surprised. We were never that formal with each other, unless there was a client around. Robert often had big rollers through the office. I’d had to fire one young receptionist who’d thought working here was her ticket to the Academy of Trophy Wives. After that, I made sure to hire level-headed, ambitious people. Our current receptionist, Jean, was a very professional 50-something who had retired from teaching and just wanted to keep busy. She was an exceptional gatekeeper.

He closed the door behind him, and sat in my guest chair. I leaned back in my office chair and grinned at how uncomfortable he looked.

“Don’t tell me,” I said sing-song, “let me guess! Your sister called you and told you – “

“Nah. Saw it on Facebook myself.”

“You have a Facebook account?” I couldn’t keep the shock out of my voice. Robert was very, very reserved and not interested in social media at all.

“Well, Alan does,” he explained. He and Alan had been together for more than twenty-five years. They were one of the most stable couples I knew. Everyone loved them. Even Scott had gotten over his initial prejudice and had welcomed them into our family circle.

“Alan is Facebook friends with Scott?” I asked incredulously.

“Not anymore,” he said flatly.

I stared for a second then burst out laughing. “Who de-friended whom?” I asked.

“Alan called Scott and told him that dumping your wife on Facebook is tacky, classless, and cruel. Scott took it personally,” Robert shrugged. As reserved as Robert was, Alan was just as forward. He and I got along great.

I slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a hoot of laughter. It was a good bet my impending divorce had not made its way around the office yet, and I had no intention of making it a spectacle. Well, more of a spectacle.

“Oh my god, I love that man,” I said through tears of laughter. Picturing Scott’s face as he was being taken to task by sophisticated, urbane Alan the Architect… it was too much. Even Robert cracked a smile and chuckled with me.

“Hey,” said Robert sobering up, “Are you oh – “

“OH MY GOD! DO NOT ASK ME IF I’M OKAY!” I said sharply. “Sorry,” I took a deep breath. “My kids keep asking me that like my dog died. It’s getting depressing. Yes, I am fine. The kids are fine. Becca came up Saturday night, and she and I and Kyle had dinner. Kyle, oddly, took it hardest and sobbed in my arms,” I said, shaking my head.

Robert nodded. “I’m not surprised. Still waters run deep, you know.” As his best friend’s uncle, Robert knew Kyle really well.

“Well, I was surprised!” I admitted. “We Skyped with Danny Sunday morning, and I let them pepper me with questions. Jesus, Robert, it was so uncomfortable. Like being pecked to death by ducks! ‘What are you going to do now, Mom?’ ‘Are you going to sell the house?’ ‘Do we have to meet this Sarah person?’ ‘What are we going to do for holidays?’ I think I said, ‘I don’t know yet. But we’ll figure it out’ about thirty-six times yesterday,” I breathed deeply.

Robert just smiled in understanding.

“When Molly asked me how I felt, do you know what I said?” I asked.

“My guess would be ‘free,’” said Robert without irony.

My eyes about popped out of my head. “How the hell did you know that?” I was genuinely surprised, but I shouldn’t have been. Being incredibly shrewd about people was part of what made Robert very, very good at his job.

“Lyssa, you outclassed that guy the second you finished school.
You
were just getting started with your life; he had already maxed out his potential.”

“Owwwwch.”

“Well, it’s true. Would you have married him if he hadn’t knocked you up?”

“Maybe. I was pretty stupid when I was 19.”

“‘Stupid at 19’? Isn’t that redundant?” he said wryly.

“Ha! No kidding!” I laughed. “God, Robert, you and your sister have an amazing knack to get right to the heart of things.” I shook my head. “The only thing – the
only
thing – I wish about all of this, was that Scott had shown just a modicum of class about it, rather than acting like a teenage douchebag and announcing it online.”

Robert raised his eyebrows and looked at me over his glasses. “Well, this is
Scott
we’re talking about. Let’s not have ridiculous expectations here.”

I chuckled and rolled my eyes.

“I think,” said Robert standing up and picking up his briefcase, “that you are closing out the
least
interesting chapter of your life.”

“Hey! That chapter includes my kids!” I said indignantly. I get defensive whenever I feel like people are denigrating motherhood. Yes, I’d wanted an education and a career. But my kids were a huge
part
of that, not a distraction. I wanted to set a good example for them: get a decent education, and you had a lot more choices in life. I had no regrets about having them young. And when I was honest with myself, no real regrets about Scott. We’d raised a family together, and done it well. All three kids were turning into interesting, successful adults. No failures to launch. No spoiled brats. We’d raised three kids who were adults I genuinely liked and was proud of.

“And you did a fantastic job with them,” Robert said, echoing my thoughts. “You made your life uninteresting to make theirs stable. That is admirable,” Robert said earnestly, “and now it’s over. They’re raised. They’re gone. They still need you, of course, but they need to see you blossom. That’s a hell of a gift to give your children.” I thought of Robert and Molly’s mother, who’d sort of faded away after the last of her eight children had left home.

“You know what, Robert? You’re right,” I nodded emphatically. “This
is
my time. And I don’t have to apologize to anyone for taking it!” Robert stood up and held out his hand to shake. I stood up too, took his hand, and he said, “Welcome to the rest of your life,
Ms.
Masters.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller,” I shook his hand emphatically.

Interior windows of my office looked out on the reception area, where I saw Jean looking at us quizzically. I dropped Robert’s hand and said, “Uh, Robert? It’s a good bet no one in the office knows yet,” I deliberately kept my personal and professional lives very separate, “and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Of course, Lyssa,” Robert was no gossip, but I wanted to be clear. “But can you please text Alan? He’s going nuts. He didn’t want to bother you over the weekend, though.”

I laughed again. I was laughing a lot the last few days. Nervous tension, or giddy relief? My bet was the latter. “Of course, Robert! I wouldn’t leave your husband hanging!”

“Thaaaaank you,” he said as he exited my office and closed the door.

I picked up my phone and texted Alan: “
If you ask me if I’m OK, I will kill you.
”

I could almost see Alan rolling his eyes when he saw that. He answered almost immediately, “
So you’re sure you’re really OK? You’re sure? Because I just want to know you’re OK…”

I laughed out loud. Even in texts, his sarcasm came through. “
I’m fine, weirdo! I’m actually – dare I say – relieved?
”

He answered immediately again, “
Yeah, we figured.
”

“
HAH! Neither Robert nor Molly were surprised when I said that!
”

“
Guy’s a douche, Lyssa,”
I chuckled that he mirrored my earlier language. “
You can do WAY better. You WILL do way better
.”

“
NOT even thinking about that yet
.” OK, so I lied. I
was
thinking about it. A little tiny bit.

“
Let me know when you ARE thinking about it. I work with some hottie single guys…
”

“
Slow down, killer
,” I texted back, “
I’m not even divorced yet
.” Yet. Wow. I was getting divorced. Weird.

“
I love you, weirdo. Heading into a meeting. I’ll catch you later
.”

“
I love you, too. Thanks, Alan.
” Alan was like having a big brother without any unpleasant history.

Robert and I were friends – close friends – but Robert had Molly. When Alan came out, he’d lost a lot of his family. He and I had immediately bonded when we first met. He was a close second to Molly on my BFF list.

Alan had gotten quite a family when he and Robert got together. Molly had had Jared at 18. His father was a worthless loser, and the whole family wanted to get Molly away from him. The obvious solution had been to send her to live with Robert and Alan, who had been together for a couple years at that point. They welcomed Molly, and her baby boy, when he was born. They’d both been in the delivery room with Molly when she’d given birth. She’d stayed home and kept house for them, eventually transitioning into working nights at a convenience store, relying on Uncle Robert and Uncle Alan – who relished it. They loved Jared like he was their own, and they’d been invaluable as the men in his life for him growing up. They coached, did Boy Scouts, went to parent nights. Jared had been lucky enough to grow up with three proud, devoted parents.