The Other Woman (13 page)

One jar of energy a day.
I mull over her words.
One jar…

Later that night, when I’m in my bed staring at the dark and thinking about revenge, Arena’s words sound like a dripping tap in my mind.

I steal out of bed, tiptoe into the TV room, and rummage through her kids' things for coloring pens and paper.

Using a neon-green pen, I draw a picture of a jar on a blank page. Using a neon-orange coloring pen, I write the words,
Energy 500 ml
.

I creep back upstairs and pin the picture on the wall at the foot end of my bed.

When I jump back into bed, I turn off the light and the neon colors glow in the dark. And just like that, at that very instant, I stop thinking about revenge.

Well, not quite. I wish I could report that that’s what happened, but it didn’t. Thoughts of revenge do not disappear from my idle mind, but I find myself making a concerted attempt to switch the channels of my mind – from plotting and planning and creative revenge, to daydreaming (or
night
dreaming) about how good I look, what job I have managed to secure, and most of all; how I am so over Bradley.

“I’m so over you, Bradley,” I mutter to the four walls.

“I no longer love you.”

“I’ve met someone else and I’m totally in love with him.”

“You had your chance and you blew it, Bradley. Tough.”

“Sorry Bradley, but I have moved on. I suggest you do too.”

As you can imagine, with all the pain I am going through, I am not in any way convincing. The words sound rehearsed, contrived, and peculiar to my ears. But I’m so desperate to move on that I continue.

“I no longer love you, Bradley.”

“I no longer love you, Bradley.”

“I no longer love you, Bradley.”

I brush away my tears and continue. “I no…longer...love y…you, Bradley.”

“I love you so much, yet you hurt me like this? How could you do this to me?”

Okay, the last sentence is not part of the plan, but it just slips out from me like a hiccup. I can’t help it and I cry even more. By the time I fall asleep, the sun is rising, and my pillow is soaked from my tears.

****

RIVAL

I need a job. As soon as possible. I was nineteen, working in an interior decorating business and studying part-time when I met Bradley.

Within six months we got married. Since he wasn’t earning much, we struggled to make ends meet. I put my studies on hold and took on a second job in the evenings as a nanny to three children. The mother of the three children was so happy with me, she doubled my salary, gave me a “company” car, and persuaded me to quit my interior decorating job.

I loved working with children, and I often wondered if I should have been a school teacher.

Anyway, I don’t feel confident to work with children right now, not with the medication I’m on, so taking a job as a nanny is out of the question.

Talking about medication – it’s a huge problem. It's sedating, and I struggle to wake up every morning. So applying for a job is proving a daunting task.

What if I never find a job? What if I find a job, then prove to be useless at it? Who will employ me if I declare that I was institutionalized for mental illness?

Obviously my stress is visible, because Arena addresses it. “Wait a while,” she says as we drive to a home décor store. “No need to stress yourself out now with finding a job. Later, for sure. But now, focus on having some fun, Rival. Pretend you are on holiday in the Caribbean. Ever been to the Caribbean?”

“No.”

“Well, every day you wake up and say, what kind of fun am I going to have today? How will I amuse myself today? Get it? Pretend my home is the Caribbean. Your job, moving out, all that you think about…it will all happen in time.”

“If you say so,” I mumble.

She smiles. “I say so.”

Arena’s planning to redecorate her TV room and I’m merely accompanying her.

As I watch her choose paint swatches, fabrics, rugs, and lamps, I find myself growing increasingly agitated. I don’t like what she’s choosing, but I keep my comments to myself. After about an hour in the store, she slumps into a couch and runs her hands slowly over her face.

“What?” I ask. “Are you feeling ill?”

She shakes her head. “This is all so…so overwhelming. I’m lost.” She lets out a short laugh. “Maybe I should enlist the services of an interior decorator and save myself all this trouble.”

“Okay,” I say as I scan the place and take in all the beautiful pieces in the store.

“What ’bout this?” I point to a fabric swatch. “It’s durable fabric, yet attractive and…” I move to pick up a black and silver cushion. "Three of these…no,
two
of these, long one in front, short one at the back.” I whirl around the room in search of a rug. My eyes fall on a dark grey and black striped one. “And this rug?” I run around placing stuff, grouping and layering items, then presenting it to her. “The walls can be grey, light grey that is, but a feature wall can be really dark for this gigantic clock slash wall feature?”

“I…loooove…it!” she whispers, her voice trembling with excitement.

“Yeah? Thrilled that she likes it, I recommend more stuff, make suggestions, and spin around looking for lamps, drapes, and art décor pieces.

Suddenly she is really quiet.

“What?” I ask, feeling a little nervous at her staring. Maybe she didn’t like what I was choosing?

“Rival, you are amazing at this. How—”

“I used to work for an interior decorating business once.”

Her eyes widen. “Why aren’t you doing this full time? As a business? Making a living out of it, then?”

I lift and drop my shoulders. “I do like doing stuff like this. I did my whole house myself. I consulted with an interior decorator, and she wanted a list of things my family does and other stuff and I thought, I know my family best, I know what I like, what
they
like, and I’m going to do it. So I did. Then everyone started to ask me for help when they saw what I’d done.” I slump into the couch next to her. “Who’s going to give me a chance to decorate their house with my CV, Arena?”

Her eyes drop to the floor, and we sit in silence for a few moments.

“Tell you what,” she says, “You do my TV room on a budget of fifteen grand…and I will pay you three grand for your trouble. How’s that? Me as your first customer?”

“Absolutely not!” I say thrilled at the prospect of decorating her TV room. “I will not accept payment from you,
but
…you can give me a reference.” I bob my head. “That will help me get some jobs.
If
people are willing to give me a chance. But if they know you’ve employed me, chances are they may probably
want
to take a…
chance
with me.”

“Of course. Hey, I have an idea. My brother, Ritchie, he was thinking of selling his property, because…he…well, let’s just say he doesn’t
like
his main bedroom. But I think he shouldn’t sell. I think he should just redecorate the room, give it a total make-over, even a new color paint and, you know, ward off all the ills he claims it has. You could do it for him. I will make him
pay
you.”

I am so excited, I actually clap my hands. “I could have
your
TV room done in about…ten days.”

“Eh, let’s make it
thirty
days. If you finish it in ten, that would be good. But no pressure, okay? We’re still in the Caribbean, remember? Fun comes first.”

“Okay.”

I start on the TV room that same day and work feverishly, sometimes into the night, loving every moment.

“Slow down!” Arena says. “You’re not on a deadline.”

It’s so much fun that I can’t slow down. In fact, I immerse myself in my task at hand, think of nothing else while I work, and can’t wait to get back to my job when I’m away.

So much so, that I finish Arena’s TV room in fifteen days. She gave me thirty days.

The question is: Will she like it?

When it’s time for the reveal, I stand with my fingers in my mouth, bracing myself for her look of disappointment, gearing up to accept whatever her response may be.

“Ohmygod!” she cries, her hands on her cheeks. “I looooove it. Ohmygod! This is wonderful.” She picks up her phone and starts dialing. “Care Bear? You have to see what Rival has done! You have to come home, babe. Now!”

I beam as I absorb my success. Arena is one satisfied customer.

We had already taken before-shots, and now that the room is complete, we take after-shots, and even a couple of videos for my CV.

Bear’s car screeches into the driveway. “You did this?” he asks, a look of disbelief on his face as his neck swivels around the room. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” I say, hands behind my back, swinging from side-to-side. “Not bad for a crazy person, right?”

His laugh is nervous. “Hey, I didn’t say that.”

“Well, feel free to,” I say. “It’s okay.”

We all laugh.

“I have to show you Ritchie’s house,” Arena says as she dials her brother.

As she does, I wonder how I can ever pay Arena back for her kindness. It’s because of her belief in me that I am able to do something I absolutely love doing. She wants me to pay it forward. I can do that. In fact, I look forward to it.

****

RITCHIE

“Decorating my home? Rival?” I look at Arena in disbelief. “Are you—”

“Yes, Ritchie, Rival.”

I squint at her. “Bradley’s…”

“Yes,
Bradley’s
Rival. She’s okay. Trust me.”

“No way, Arena! She’s not decorating my house.”

“Ritchie, you—”

“Arena, she looked pretty loopy to me the last time I saw her in Dunhill. She was like, really thin, her hair was sticking out, her eyes were bulging, and she huddled under her covers like a zombie, man.”

“She’s okay now, Rich! Clawing her way back to sanity, but she’s together. Seriously.”

“She’s a druggie, Are—”

“She needs a chance. We can give it to her. Trust me. If it doesn’t work out, you lose ten grand, that’s all.”

“I lose ten grand.
That’s all?
”

“Yes, that’s all!”

“Then I will come after you for my ten grand, dear sister of mine.”

“Fine. It’s a deal.”

I let out a sigh of exasperation. “But…”

“No buts. This girl needs a hand in life and we’re going to give it to her. Re-decorating your main bedroom will be better and cheaper than selling your house and incurring astronomical costs all around. Trust me. I’ll bring her in this evening. Keep an open mind and an—”

“—open wallet, yeah. Ten grand.
That’s
all
. I get it.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve been working on her. Getting her to put on weight, then lose some of it. Ensuring she’s taking her medications – she’s come a long way. I think she will be okay, Ritchie.”

“Mm.” I glance upstairs at my bedroom. I haven’t been able to use that bedroom ever since I caught my wife and her lover having sex in it.

If it’s re-decorated, made to look different, will that make such a difference that I will be able to actually sleep in it? Will I be able to overcome my reasons for not wanting to sleep in it? Might be worth a shot. “Well, I guess—”

“Wonderful!” My sister plants a kiss on my cheek and rushes out of the house.

****

RITCHIE

I’ve had a horrendous night. Turns out Mother Cat, who’s actually a stray cat that has made herself comfortable in my home, has had
another
litter of kittens in our garage, and for some reason, she’s abandoned them. Sadly, one of the kittens has died from neglect.

So with Girly’s help, we’ve buried the dead kitten and brought in the other surviving four kittens. We've bought some baby bottles with tiny teats and began feeding them milk we obtained from the vet.

It’s worked to degree – three of the kittens are thriving. One isn’t. Thinking it needs warmth, I wrap it in a small blanket and stick it inside my t-shirt like my mother used to do to our puppies and kittens when they failed to thrive.

Girly and I took turns all night feeding the kitten my daughters have named Kit Kat, so this morning, I’m exhausted, sleep-deprived, and unable to make it to work. I think I will be devastated if Kit Kat doesn’t make it, and I find myself desperate to save her.

As I sit in front of the TV watching something about Ebola and trying hard not to nod off, Ally, my five-year-old, approaches me.

“Daddy, I don’t wanna go to school today!” she says. “I’m ill, Daddy.”

I sit upright. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“My tummy hurts and…and…and my head, it feels boiling hot and like, I think…” she glances at the TV, “I think I got Ebola, Daddy, and I don’t wanna go to school.”

I narrow my bloodshot eyes at her. “Ally, you don’t have Ebola.” I touch her forehead. “You don’t even have a temperature. You just wanna stay home and take care of the kittens, right?”

“No, no, no, no…”

“Liar. You want to watch over Kit Kat, right?”

“Dadda, you don’t understand,” Ally says, rubbing her knees, “my elbows are hurting and my teeth are hurting and my, eh…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Ally. Your elbows are hurting so you’re holding your knees? Nice one.” I’m too tired to argue with Ally, and I have to give her credit for the Ebola bit, so I look to Girly, who’s busy preparing breakfast, for support.

She also sports red eyes and dark circles around them. Her limp shrug tells me she’s too exhausted to care.

“Fine,” I say. “Just…just don’t think you can do this all the time, okay? I’m not a—”

“Yay!” Ally shouts, lunging at me and kissing my face several times and redeeming herself in the process. “You’re the bestest dadda in the wide world!”

“I’m sure I am,” I sneer.

She throws her little arms around me. “I love you, Dada. With all my heart.”

“Love you too, Ally Cat.”

“Becky!” she yells, “Let’s go play on the trampoline.”

I smile and look at Girly. “How smart is she to use that word Ebola, huh? In the correct context too? Smart, right?”

“Too smart,” Girly says with a snort. “They take advantage of you.”

As I look outside at my two beautiful daughters laughing and jumping on the trampoline, a warm flow circles my heart and Arena’s words ring in my mind: “God gave them to you because no one will take care of them the way you will.”

I smile to myself. But my smile vanishes when I think about Rival. I’m nervous about seeing Rival this evening. Nervous about seeing the zombie. Hope she hasn’t gotten worse. Hope she doesn’t have a massive twitch or something. That’ll scare the kids for sure. Maybe scare even Girly. I doubt that though – nothing can scare Girly.

I spend most of the day rehearsing my response just in case Rival asks about the power of attorney I witnessed.