Wife-In-Law (20 page)
T
rying to move on with my life while living across the street from my ex and my wife-in-law was like trying to climb out of a pit with my feet stuck in bowling balls. I wanted to lay the past to rest, truly I did. But how could I, when every time I saw Greg’s car parked in Kat’s driveway, I was reminded that he had come between me and my best friend?
rying to move on with my life while living across the street from my ex and my wife-in-law was like trying to climb out of a pit with my feet stuck in bowling balls. I wanted to lay the past to rest, truly I did. But how could I, when every time I saw Greg’s car parked in Kat’s driveway, I was reminded that he had come between me and my best friend?
Lord knows what lies he’d told Kat to make her stop speaking to me. Probably that I’d put Mama up to crashing their wedding, which Kat would have known wasn’t true, had she been in her right mind.
Not that it mattered. The truth would come out eventually, and Kat would finally realize what she’d gotten, God bless her.
As for Greg’s claim that he’d “gotten right with God,” the fact that he continued to sabotage my relationship with Kat told me he was only using his so-called conversion as an excuse to keep Kat all to himself. My heart ached when I thought of what it would to do to her when she found out he was the same manipulative, lying cheater he’d always been.
If only he really had turned his life around. That would be so wonderful, not just for Kat, but for the girls. But my mama didn’t raise no fool, so I remained skeptical and focused on minding my own little red wagon.
All by myself, for the first time in my life.
Emma had gone back to Alaska and was seriously dating Bill the rich computer whiz. Amelia and my grandbabies were healthy and busy with their lives and work. I couldn’t even count on Mama for a distraction, because her meds had worked so well on her trip to Branson with Claude that they’d decided to tour the American West, then go to Amelia’s for Thanksgiving. Mama sent postcards, but never bothered to call. As much as I had once resented her interference in my life, living without it left a huge, ironic void.
Ever since my father left us, I’d prayed somebody would rescue me from taking care of Mama, but now that it had happened, I was strangely resistant. Maybe it was the devil you know. Or maybe it was the fact that once Mama was squared away, I had no more excuses for not dealing with my own issues.
I was responsible for no one but me.
So I cranked up my makeover business and did more charity and church work, despite the fact that my married women friends now regarded me with subtle suspicion, as if divorce was contagious. Or worse, as if I might go after
their
husbands.
their
husbands.
Now, that was a laugh.
Men their ages wanted younger women, and the
last
thing I wanted was another man to take care of.
last
thing I wanted was another man to take care of.
When I mentioned the chill from my married friends to a divorced acquaintance who worked with me at the thrift shop, she invited me to a twelve-step divorce recovery group. I was so bored and lonely that I took her up on it, and I’m glad I did. Over the next few months, I went to three meetings a week and learned that there were lots of other women who’d been through what I had. I heard my own story over and over, which freed me from thinking my situation was unique. Far better women than I had been dumped too.
After working my steps and going to meetings, I finally had the tools and the courage to examine my marriage realistically and see how my fear of losing my home and security had caused me to enable Greg’s selfishness and duplicity. Thanks to my support group, I didn’t feel guilty about it, just relieved to see the truth at last and recognize its causes. Best of all, I finally realized that I wasn’t responsible for anybody’s happiness but my own. Not my girls’. Not Mama’s. Not Greg’s. And not Kat’s.
So I took responsibility for my life and started over, in earnest, and things got better.
I began having lunch and going to movies and outings with some of the women in my support group, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I had to hide who I really was. We kept each other’s confidences from our meetings as a sacred trust, and were bonded by our common ordeal.
Not that it was all roses and revelations. The little girl in me often wished I didn’t have to take responsibility for getting what I wanted all the time, but when she did, I just gave her a metaphysical hug and told her it was going to be all right. And I still missed Kat like I would my two front teeth, but the ache grew smaller. So did the awful feeling I felt when passing their house.
I spent Thanksgiving in L.A. with Amelia’s family, Mama and Claude, and Emma and Bill, which turned out to be a surprisingly fun experience. Emma and Bill were clearly smitten. The grandbabies were even more precious than ever. And Mama and Claude acted like randy teenagers—which amused Amelia and Emma greatly—then announced they were wintering in southern Arizona.
In the past, I’d have argued that they couldn’t just leave their houses unattended for all those months, but thanks to my twelve-step program, I wished them well. Still, my old self couldn’t resist suggesting they have somebody turn off their utilities back home and winterize their plumbing. Claude’s chest inflated with pride when he said he’d already done it, which earned him an adoring look from Mama.
So much for taking care of Mama.
Afterward, it was hard, going back to Sandy Springs alone. So I consoled myself by booking a flight to Fairbanks to spend Christmas with Emma.
Once I got there, I ended up seeing more of Bill than my daughter, thanks to his more flexible schedule, which was great. I liked him immensely. But when January fifth rolled around, I was ready to leave the bone-chilling cold and head back home.
All spring long, I prayed that Bill and Emma would just go ahead and elope. But for the only time in her life, Emma did exactly as I’d asked and waited two years before meeting Claude and Mama in Las Vegas for a double ceremony, which, I can tell you, was quite an event, complete with an Elvis impersonator. After the wedding, Claude and Mama headed for New England in the brand-new RV Bill gave them for a wedding present, and Emma—my crazy, unconventional, stubborn, talented Emma—moved into a penthouse at Park Place on Peachtree and started working for her master’s at Georgia State while her new husband designed electric cars at Georgia Tech.
Coming back to my house after their double wedding, I found it sterile and empty, so I made a life-changing decision and bought a ficus tree and three potted plants to warm things up, microbes be damned. And I broadened my friendships on a much healthier basis.
All in all, life was good.
Before I knew it, three years had passed since Kat became my wife-in-law, and I was more content than I could ever remember—content enough to wish that Kat and Greg really could be happy.
But one Sunday afternoon on a particularly gorgeous day in May, my phone rang.
“Elizabeth?” asked a vaguely familiar female voice. “This is Anna Ordman from Service League.”
Oh, her—the cattiest woman I’d ever met.
Instantly, my defenses went up.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” she oozed out.
“Well, I have to leave in a few minutes,” I lied, “but we can talk till then.”
“I was just wondering if you’d heard anything lately about your
ex,
” she said with alacrity.
ex,
” she said with alacrity.
“I don’t really think about my ex much anymore,” I told her firmly. “Much less care what he’s doing.”
I could sense her annoyance that I didn’t want to play along. “Well, do you care about
Kat
anymore?” she challenged.
Kat
anymore?” she challenged.
I had a bad feeling about this, but concern for Kat kept me from ending the call. “What about Kat? Is she okay?”
“She might be for now, but that’s going to change,” Anna teased.
Bitch. She was enjoying this
way
too much.
way
too much.
“Why?” I demanded.
“Because your ex is cheating on her,” she gloated, “just the way he cheated on you.”
I felt as if somebody had thrown me against a wall. All the air went out of me.
No!
“Are you there?” Anna asked.
I breathed in, then let out a heavy sigh. “I’m here.” Damn, damn, damn.
“Is this just gossip?” I asked. “Because I know better than to trust the grapevine, and so should you.” She
was
the Buckhead grapevine.
was
the Buckhead grapevine.
Anna let out a huff. “What do you want, pictures?” she snapped. “I happen to have it from several very reliable sources that he’s been seen going to the Ritz for afternoon delights with a blonde half his age, who dragged him by his tie into the elevator, whispering hot nothings for all to hear. Word is, she’s a Falcons cheerleader.”
A groan escaped me, along with, “Oh, God. Poor Kat.”
I could
kill
Greg Callison!
kill
Greg Callison!
“I must say,” Anna told me smugly, “you’re being very charitable about this, considering what Kat did to you.”
“Kat didn’t do anything to me,” I defended. “She was lonely and vulnerable, and Greg took advantage of that. For her sake, I’m devastated. Assuming this is true.”
“Oh, it’s true, all right.”
“Did you see them?” I challenged.
“No, but several other people did,” she snapped.
That was the trouble with rich-bitch housewives like Anna. They didn’t have enough to do, so they spent their time gossiping about everybody else.
“Then it’s simply hearsay,” I told her, even though I knew better.
“You want proof?” Anna retorted. “I’ll get you proof.”
Idiot woman.
Oh Kat, oh Kat, oh Kat.
I hated this. Hated it.
When I didn’t say anything, Anna tried to rattle my cage again. “I heard you still considered Kat a friend,” she said. “That’s why I called. Though, personally, I think it serves her right, but I thought you might want to warn her. God knows where that cheerleader’s been. Kat could get AIDS.”
Three years of twelve-step work told me it was time to put a stop to this. “My ex’s behavior, good or bad, is none of my business anymore. Neither is Kat’s marriage. She and Greg will have to work this out, but I’d appreciate your putting a lid on this, if you can.”
“Oh, right,” Anna scoffed. “You can’t put the fire ants back in the mound after somebody stomps it. This thing is out, and Kat’s going to hear it from somebody. If you really consider her a friend, you should be the one to tell her. Wouldn’t you have wanted her to tell you about his secretary, if she knew?”
She had me there. If this was true—which I knew it was, as much as I wished it otherwise—Kat deserved to know. She really could get AIDS.
It occurred to me that Greg might be HIV positive, himself, which spun my brain around like Linda Blair’s head in
The Exorcist.
The Exorcist.
But this wasn’t my business. It was Kat’s.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” I said, “but I really have to go.” Dangerous as it was to confront her, I mustered up my courage to finish with, “I really don’t want to hear any more about this. As I said, it’s not my business.”
“We’ll see if you still feel that way when I get proof,” Anna retorted, then hung up on me.
Furious, I blocked her number on my phones, then collapsed into a chair at the breakfast table and planted my elbows, head in hands.
Just when I was finally feeling whole and happy and content with my life as it was.
“They drag you back in,” I imitated Al Pachino from
The Godfather,
gripping the hair at my temples.
The Godfather,
gripping the hair at my temples.
Damn, damn, damn.
All of the pain and betrayal that I’d worked so hard to leave behind caught up with me and attacked like a screaming tiger, as bitter and wounding as it had ever been.
So I went to a support group meeting every night for the next week and worked on detaching from the whole, sordid mess. But I knew that this would end up in my lap, in spite of everything, and it did.
My doorbell rang at two in the afternoon ten days after Anna called me.
Fresh from a shower and change after working in my garden, I looked through the sidelight curtains to see her standing there, dressed and jeweled to the nines, with a large tote and a look of smug satisfaction on her face.
I seriously considered sprinting back to my bedroom and hiding till she went away.
She rang the bell again three times. “I know you’re there,” she shouted, her strident voice amplified by the porch ceiling. “I saw your car in the garage.”
That didn’t mean I was under any obligation to answer the door. But I knew she wouldn’t give up.
Just damn.
I opened the door with a scowl. “Hello, Anna. What do you want?” No way was I going to ask her in.
She pulled a large manila envelope from her thousand-dollar designer tote and shoved it toward me. “Proof,” she said in triumph. “With pictures.” She straightened, with a lofty, “Do you want to give this to her, or shall I?”
Hell.
I knew I should steer clear of this, but I couldn’t leave Kat in Anna’s talons. Anna would enjoy watching Kat suffer.
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