Life Without You (2 page)

“And it’s just going to get worse, you know,” I teased her, thinking of my sister’s three children and a fourth one that was soon to follow. We were running into the final countdown on her due date.

“Don’t remind me,” she moaned in mock resignation. “Burp cloths, bibs, towels, and even
more
eensie weensie sets of clothes. With all this technology, you’d think we’d have robots to take care of all this stuff like they did on
The Jetsons
.”

“Be nice, wouldn’t it?” I asked with a smile, knowing that she didn’t really mind. Charlie was being a wife and a mother and raising a family that she adored. She was happy with her life, even if it did require copious amounts of laundry detergent sometimes.

“I did have a reason for my call, other than to discuss my laundry woes with you, you know.”

“I thought as much,” I replied, playing dumb, not sure I wanted to hear where she was going with this.

She sighed, loud and long. “Okay. We really, really think you need to take a vacation, Dellie. A real one, one that lasts more than a weekend. More like a month,” she said.

I got up from my chair, feeling the tense muscles in my legs protest slightly. I’d been sitting way too long, glued to my chair in hopes that some stray thought might jump-start an actual burst of legitimate productivity, afraid that if I got up and away from my computer that I would miss the golden window of opportunity, should one present itself.

Alas, so far, all doors and windows, golden or otherwise, had not been forthcoming. Now seemed as good a time as any to get up from my throne of idleness and move around a little.

I started to pace.

“And I know you say you can’t take time away from work and you can’t afford it, but hear me out,” she pleaded.

“Hearing,” I said dubiously.

I paused in my pacing to peek out my living room window through a slight break in the blinds. As per usual, the neighbor one unit down and to my left was giving the entire apartment complex a visual feast, sporting an ill-fitting white wife beater tank top stretched over his sizable beer gut to barely meet the top of faded madras shorts.
Madras
.

He’s dressed up today
, I thought absurdly.

“Getting away for awhile, even just to be in a new place, would be good for you. It might even get you out of your creative funk. And don’t say you’re not having one—you told me last week when we talked that you felt like the stuff you were working on was…less than inspiring?” she said, obviously searching for a kinder word than I had used in our previous conversation.

I raised an eyebrow.

“So since you’re so convinced you can’t actually put work on hold for a bit, take it
with
you. That’s one of the nice things about your job, remember? You can take it anywhere you want to go,” she barreled on.

“Aren’t you forgetting about the money thing?” I asked, sure I was going to bring this idea crashing back to reality. “And what about interviews?”

“You do those over the phone most of the time, and you know it,” she retorted. She was determined to make me come around.

“Not always, Charlie. Sometimes I actually have to go to meet these people when I write an article. And besides, maybe I’m too busy with things to just pick up and pack up and go.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I could tell she was trying to muster every ounce of patience she had in her. And, as the mother of three small children, she had patience in spades.

“I
know
you have a lot of jobs going, Dellie, and I’m really proud of you for that. We’re
all
really proud of you,” she said gently. “But you need some time away from here, some space. Some fresh air, if you want to put it that way. It would be good for you to get out of your routine for a bit.”

“I happen to
like
routine,” I said, far from convinced by her argument and wanting desperately to get off the phone.

Charlie sighed. Clearly, this was not going the way she wanted it to.

Tough cookies.

“I know you do. But you’re also a slave to it, Odelle Simms.
It
controls
you
, rather than the other way around. You realize that, don’t you, Dellie?”

I glared down at my toes in frustration, feeling misunderstood and wishing I could glare at her in person. We may have lived only forty-five minutes from one another, but it was at times like this that those forty-five minutes seemed like light-years.

“If nothing else, maybe you could find some more people to write for—new magazines that would like to work with you?” she suggested, forced pleasantness creeping into her voice.

She was tiring of this argument as much as I was.

My mouth clamped shut, biting back my protest. I hadn’t actually thought about that. New contacts, new markets to reach. It was starting to sound interesting. Maybe she was onto something with that one. Still, the whole idea of this was overwhelming; there were far too many factors to weigh in, complications that could potentially tangle me up into a bigger mess than I already felt like I was in.

“Don’t put a limit on your dreams, Dellie,” Charlie said, breaking in to my rampant thoughts. “You got enough of that from your husband.”

The words felt like a slap in the face. A bucket of ice water.

My nose stung with looming tears.

“Don’t let him win this one,” she whispered. I could hear the tears in her voice, even with the phone line between us.

How did she do this to me? I wondered as water pooled in my eyes and trickled slowly down my cheeks.

“Charlie, I—” I sniffed, hearing my voice crack.

“Just think about it, please? Promise?”

I nodded into the phone, still staring down at my toes but no longer seeing them.

“Dellie?”

“I promise,” I squeaked back.

I knew, as I hung up, that this was one promise I would not easily break, as unsettling as the idea was for me. It was impetuous and adventurous, something I hadn’t allowed myself to be for a long time—even before I’d taken the walk down the aisle to start my short-lived failure of a marriage. This was one promise, one idea, that would haunt me for days, torturing my wakeful hours and whispering to me in my sleep.

Don’t limit your dreams, Dellie,
I heard a voice whisper.
Let go and dream them.

Chapter Two

“My sister thinks I need a vacation. A
long
one. Like, a
month
-long one,” I said to my friend Bette a week later over lunch.

She looked up from the plateful of fries she was attacking, one eyebrow arched.

“And this surprises you,
why
?” she asked around a mouthful.

I put down my sandwich to reach for a sweating glass of water, not thirsty but feeling a bit unsettled and trying to figure out as many ways as I could to stall. It was a mystery even to me why I had brought up the subject at this point. I had danced myself right in front of the firing squad, so I guess I deserved her pointed question. Not that it really was all that pointed or unreasonable.

In fact, it was more than logical.

For most people, it might have even been a simple question. But right then, I was so confused about what I wanted and how I felt about the whole thing that the most uncomplicated inquiry could send me off-kilter.

I left the glass where it sat, puddling moisture on the tabletop, and traced a finger down the side, keeping my focus fixed on it. Anything to avoid her green-eyed gaze.

I shrugged.

“Come on, Dellie. Really,” she said, exasperation thick in her voice. “How long have I been telling you the same thing? You work too much, and you don’t do anything with anyone anymore.”

My eyes shot up to her face, a protest ready to spring from my lips. “Yes, I—”

“No, you don’t,” she cut in, poking a fry in my direction and shaking it for emphasis. “You don’t. Every time I ask you to come do something with me, you tell me you have work to do.” She pouted, her lipstick still perfect even though she’d eaten her way through half a plate of fries. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like doing things with me.”

“No, Bette,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not it at all, and you know it.”

She dunked the French fry in a pool of ketchup before popping it into her mouth.

“Well, then you’re going to have to show me. Otherwise, I will not be convinced,” she said, shaking her head. “In the meantime, back to the vacation thing. Your sister thinks it.
I
think it. And I
know
your parents think it.” She tilted her head to the side, her jewel-like eyes boring into me. “So why do you seem so…
defensive
about whole idea? Most people would just say, ‘Yes, I agree,’ or ‘No, go to hell,’ and move on.” She finished chewing and swallowed, pausing thoughtfully. “But you? You act like we’re telling you we think you need to move to Uganda or something.”

I shot her a look.

She shrugged again. “Okay, maybe not Uganda. But something risky or life-altering. We’re talking about a
vacation
,” she emphasized. “A break, you know? Something most people enjoy and recharge with.”

“Uh-huh,
most
people,” I shot back, picking up my fork to poke through the lettuce in my salad, in search of peppers. “And when was the last time my life resembled most people’s?”

“So maybe a vacation could be your reset button, and you could start having a
somewhat
normal life?” she posed.

I speared my salad, giving up on the peppers and shaking my head.

“A vacation isn’t a magical cure-all, Bette. And there are things that I can’t just leave here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, many things.”

Bette ran a hand through her very thick, very raven hair to tuck it behind a heavily pierced ear.

“Name
one
.”

I opened my mouth, ready to start my verbal rundown.

“
Besides
work, Dellie.”

My mouth slammed shut as I thought.

Bette crossed her arms as she settled further into her chair, a smug look on her face.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“For one thing, my apartment. I can’t just leave my apartment empty for that amount of time.” I shook my head, knowing that I probably sounded like I was grasping at straws. “Maybe it would be different if it was a house, and I had a neighbor I trusted to look after things. But in
my
apartment?” More headshaking. “Not really the best idea. Somebody might break in, and then what?”

“What am
I
, chopped liver?” she asked, looking slightly hurt.

“No,” I replied, puzzled. “But you’ve lost me. You live an hour away from my place, so it doesn’t really put you in the best position to keep an eye on things. And besides that, you’ve got work and Steve and—”

“And Steve could use a shake-up of his own,” she broke in, reaching again for her dwindling pile of French fries, now undoubtedly grown cold.

I watched her, a knot of apprehension growing in my gut. “What do you mean?”

She chose a fry and bit into it forcefully, funneling her aggression to the helpless spud.

“Let’s just say that Steve isn’t exactly keeping his priorities straight, and I think we could use some distance for awhile,” she replied. She swallowed. “Not forever, but…he needs to be reminded of some things.”

“
Things
being?”

“
Things
being that he has a wife who loves him and a marriage that he’s supposed to be committed to.” She sighed, looking sad.

I stared at her in dismay. “Is he cheating on you?”

Bette shook her head.

“No. Not yet. Not out-and-out cheating,” she said. “But there’s something going on with some woman he works with.” She blinked at the tears that I could see collecting in her eyes. “He just seems so distant all the time, like when he’s with me, he’s not really with me. And every time I try to talk to him about it, he pretty much just shuts down and changes the subject, says he’s got a lot going on at work and he doesn’t want to get into it. So I think a little time apart might do us some good,” she sniffed.

I plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and held it out to her. I’d never seen Bette get so emotional before, so this was new territory for me. Normally, she was the tough, show-no-fear type. The ball-crusher. And now she was showing a softer side that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

“So…?”

“I could stay at your place,” she said simply, regaining her composure as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with the napkin. “I’ll pay you a month’s worth of rent, and I promise to keep it spic and span.” She smiled. “No wild parties, I promise.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Why does that phrase not reassure me?” I asked.

She spread her arms, shoulders raised toward her earlobes as she gave me a look of innocence. “I have no idea,” she replied. “Who on
Earth
do you think I would invite to a party?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Aren’t you running for some new position in the League?”

She cocked her head sideways, still managing to appear angelic, somehow. Her eyes widened in a look of guiltless surprise as authentic as the color of her irises. And those babies were courtesy of 1-800-Contacts.

“Oh, that’s
right
. The vote’s coming up soon.” She shook her head. “You know, with everything else that’s been going on, I guess I forgot all about it.”

“Uh-huh. And your granny’s famous pecan pie is really a Sara Lee.”

“Don’t go dragging Granny into this, or you’ll regret it,” Bette growled. “Uh-uh, no ma’am,” she cautioned. “And especially don’t be insinuating that she
buys her pies
.” The last three words were whispered, eyes huge with the scandal of it all. “Uh-uh.”

For a minute, I thought she might actually genuflect and cross herself—even though Bette came from a family as un-Catholic as kosher wine.

Not that she was Jewish, either.

In fact, Bette’s family hadn’t stepped foot in a church of
any
kind since 1977, when the preacher at her parents’ church had railed against the evils of television from the pulpit. The man was positively off his rocker; but ever since then, the Martin family had eschewed Sunday morning service in favor of a soul-strengthening, artery-hardening Southern-style breakfast at the diner on the end of their street. At the time, Mr. Martin worked for the local ABC affiliate, so television kept a roof over his children’s heads and put food on the table. The negativity spewed from the lips of the preacher was unforgivable, and they’d never gotten over it. No matter that the man had long since retired or that there were any number of other churches in the area from which to choose. Mr. and Mrs. Martin had been soured on the church because of one pastor’s misplaced condemnation, and now they judged the institution as a whole by that measure. Sad and ironic, but true.