Mr. Me

For the past two and a half weeks I have been biting my lip so hard that I may need a blood transfusion by the time I'm finally healed from my surgery. My darling husband has graciously taken off work to care for me during this time, which has been a huge blessing. The only thing is I've had to catch myself from, let's just say, suggesting how he should go about doing things.

Let me give you an example. Laundry. Oh boy, does he do laundry. He is constantly washing up clothes. He is awesome on staying top of my most hated chore. For that I am grateful. However, there is just one little thing. He doesn't put it away. The kids and I are forced to dig through laundry baskets that are, no exaggeration, piled halfway up the wall. It drives me crazy, but I bite my lip.

Now let's talk meal time. Thanks to all my friends we have been blessed with dinners every night. This is a huge help to both myself because I am forbidden to do anything but lay on a couch and my husband because he already is taking on so much extra. So it shouldn't be such a big deal for him to clean up the dishes after dinner, right? Wrong. He eventually does clean up but it's usually right before we sit down to eat the next nights dinner. After dinner my lip begins to throb from the biting to keep my complaints silenced.

I know he is trying his best, and really do appreciate him. I know there are many husbands out there that wouldn't be willing to use all their vacation time to take care of their re cooperating wives. I am lucky. I know that. But here is the thing, he took vacation time so that he could easily do my job. I'm not keeping score or anything, but if I was here is a taste of what it would look like-

The amount of times my kids have been late to school because I over slept- me- 0 (out of the 9 years they have been in school) husband- 2 (out of the two weeks he's had to get them off to school)

The amount of times my kids have missed and entire day of school for a dentist appointment- me- 0, husband- 2.

(My lip is now bleeding because I am biting so hard. I want to scream SCHOOL IS NOT OPTIONAL!)

The amount of times lunch is packed for the kids each week to save money- me- 5, husband- 0.

The amount of times McDonald's is served over a holiday weekend- me-0, husband- 4 (even with meals being delivered every night my kids are still getting healthy doses of junk food)

The amount of school projects completed in time- me- too many to count, husband- 1/2 (I still needed to do most of it).

The amount of times the house needs to be vacuumed due to a large hairy dog- me- 1x every other day, husband- 0 (he hired a cleaning lady!)

I think you get the point. He's not all bad.. he is painting our middle son's room. A room he's been telling me he was going to paint since my step son moved out three years ago. It only took him three days to go buy the paint, one day to "prep", one day to take a break, four days to paint four walls and two days to reassemble.

I understand that my job is hard, heck I do it everyday plus work part time! But I will tell you this, the first time he even looks at me sideways for not having the laundry done, or having dinner ready, my lip will come unbit and he will go down! After all he's doing my job with help and he can't keep up.

I can say I do get a little satisfaction from knowing that I'm a better mom than he is....I guess that's why he is called dad.

Home Salon

Rewind about thirteen years ago. I was 22, newly married only for about two years. Money was tight and one of the things I did to cut corners was do my beauty maintenance at home. One day I had the bright idea to wax my legs...something I had never attempted before, bad idea. I bought one of those kits that boasted "no paper necessary, just peel was off". Sounded easy enough. Of course I thought why not make it easier and ignore the directions that say small section at a time and do both legs at once, bad idea #2. Needless to say after several attempts to peel, wash, cut, soak (with lighter fluid none the less), I worked about 3/4 of it off my legs. My legs were blue from my jeans for weeks.

Lesson learned, right? No. Over the years I've had several home salon mishaps and I keep going back for more.

Fast forward to present. With me being confined to the couch and unable to do anything, a couple of my besties went in on a cleaning lady for me. My husband thought it was such a good idea he hired her to help me through my recovery. Most women would jump for joy, but honestly I feel a little silly. Sure, I know I'm not supposed to do anything, but I can't help but feel guilty. So in an attempt to ease my guilt I decided to dye my hair myself, with the help of a friend, to contribute in my own way to the hiring a cleaning lady.

Truth be told I have dyed my hair for years on my own. In fact just before thanksgiving I became a brunette for the first time, but as any "blonde" will tell you, it's hard to stay brunette. No offense to any brunettes out there in cyberland. I have a lot of friends who are brunettes. I'm just a girl who likes blonde. I'm sure your thinking, so what's the point. I'm getting to it.

The reason I dyed my hair brown in the first place was because it was just getting too long for me to do myself. You see, about two years ago I went to see Mamma Mia, the movie, and fell in love with Meryl Streep's hair. I decided then I must have it on my head..thus the growing began. Dying it brown did help and I thought I had found the perfect solution to my problem, that was until Mamma Mia was broadcasted on television. Meyrl Steep's hair was blonde. A spark started inside and I needed my blonde hair back.

Two days ago one of my besties came over to help me not only save money but look like Meyrl Streep in Mamma Mia. I told her to get one of those frosting kits, the one with the cap where you pull the hair through. Sounded simple enough. I would just sit there while she helped my tranform into my Meyrl Streep image.

I had done the cap thing once, in seventh grade. A girl whose mother was a hair dresser swore to me that she knew what she was doing. The only thing I can remember from the experience is that it hurt. It hurt real bad, but in my infinite wisdom I thought that it would be better this time. I was clearly wrong.

At eight p.m. the torture began. At first it wasn't bad, a little tug here and little tug there. I could handle it after all I was saving money that could go towards the new cleaning lady. By nine p.m. it was a different story. As I felt and heard my hair being pulled from my head my friend said, "We are almost halfway done."

All I could muster out of my mouth was, "Almost halfway?"

At this point I was too far into it to turn around. I convinced myself to keep going. I kept going even after my husband said I looked like a doll that a little girl hadn't taken care of and my children kept walking by with strange looks on their faces. I kept going even when my friend's voice turned from confident to skeptical.

An hour later my hair was completely pulled through the cap. It was ready for the dye. My friend slathered it on and the waiting began. As my hair processed I wondered what would happen when it was finished. Would I have any hair when this was finished? I didn't know. All I could do is laugh. After all this was my bright idea.

Just before I washed out the solution Pumpkin Head helped ease my fears by telling me that my hair looked like yarn and that I should of left it along. He is now written out of my will.

After another hour of rinsing and working the cap off of my head, I was able to see the finished product. I ignored the small pile of hair that was left in the bottom of my shower and apprehensively looked in the mirror afraid that I would still resemble that unwanted doll. By God's grace I did not. In fact my hair looked great. However, the next morning as I was carefully washing my aching head I made a promise to myself that I would close my home salon once and for all. I know they say pain is beauty, but I think that saying should be saving money is pain, beauty is worth the cost.

It's Been Awhile.....

I'm ashamed. I haven't blogged in quite some time and I can report that I have a really good excuse. Not only have I been adjusting to working a "normal" job, and having a junior higher (which by the way just complicates life 100x more) I have also been having to buck up and force myself to deal with my "pain".

No, my "pain" is not one of my kids, all though I do think that they sometimes have contributed to it..but my pain is exactly that- pain. I've had it for years and over time it progressively became worse. So bad in fact I couldn't go on ignoring it, I had to do something about it. Living on pain meds was not an option I would accept, I was looking for something more permanent. Fortunately, there was a solution, unfortunately that solution required surgery, but it was the best option. Last week I bit the bullet, and went under the knife. I'm happy to report that as of today I am very happy with my decision and am looking forward to the future- pain free!

So here is to the first post of many to come.....get ready. A writer is about to emerge!

To Facebook or not to Facebook? That is the question.

About three years ago I got turned on to facebook. It was slow at first, and to be honest the only reason I signed up in the first place was to spy on my teenage step son. However, my spying took second seat after I dove deeper into the site.

I started getting requests to "friend" people, and being the open armed person I am, no one was denied. Through that I learned about cool apps that let me play scrabble with my best friend two hours away or a farm where I could grow virtual vegetables. It was fun and seemed harmless. Sure, I'd spend two to four hours a day logging onto the social network when I should have been writing my book, but it was fun. At one point I was even calling it research....yeah right.

Besides the games, pointless quizzes and notes about fun facts of friends there was one other cool feature that kept me logged on for hours....cyber stalking. I mean come on, let's be honest. How many people have you "friended" just so you could see if their life sucked more than yours. Facebook is they only place around where you can judge people all you want and not get called out on it! It's awesome to see that your ex married ugly or that girl who bullied you in high school got fat. Face it, we are a society that lives for others misery. If that weren't true, Real Housewives or Teen Mom would not be on the air.

Don't get me wrong, I love connecting with old friends and classmates. I'm really not that cynical, I am very happy to see people from my past succeeding in the world. It's great to learn of what has become of people. I love looking at pictures of their kids and their life. It's fun getting to know them again. I love to read about cute things their children say, or stories about their days. Facebook is can be extremely entertaining.

However, I have discovered there is a down side to knowing too much about old friends. I'll give you a prime example. A couple of summers ago I ran into an old classmate. She and I had been friends in high school and it was the first time I had physically seen her since graduation. She looked fabulous and her kids were just as adorable in person as they were on Facebook. Our reunion though was extremely awkward. We had absolutely nothing to say to each other because we already knew everything about each other. Strange, but true.

That run in got me to thinking, by connecting on a social network am I losing social decency? Sometimes I think about unplugging completely. I miss talking with people face to face. Half of the time when people want to tell me something it is through a text, email or Facebook. What happened to a phone call? What happened to going out to lunch? What happened to socializing?

I've heard about this epidemic (and I do me epidemic!) with teens. I've heard that teens will be at a party together, then leave early to go home to text each other. What? Huh? Are you kidding me? Perhaps this is why young people can't communicate. In an age of instant communication we have lost the ability to socially communicate. The scary thing is that with this new way of communicating we are losing something very important...compassion.

It's so easy to say things in print through a machine rather than saying something to someone in person. Sure I can criticize "friends" on Facebook, but can I take theirs? I post what I want others to perceive. I only try and post pictures that hide my weight gain over the years, I only write about things that I feel are safe and can't be judged. Am I real? Am I me? By being socially connected am I losing a bit of my humanity?

Right now I'm not ready to take the step to unplug myself. Especially with my kids beginning to enter the cyber socializing world. I do want to log on less and get out more. I think I'll need to take baby steps with this one.

A New Definition of Worry

Pumpkin Head started junior high school this week. For him, it was an exciting new adventure, for me it was a repeat performance of the first day of kindergarten. It's funny that both milestones left me feeling exactly the same way.

Back in 2003 my baby went to Developmental Kindergarten (he has a late birthday, wasn't quite ready for the real thing). He was so excited to ride the bus, to go to school everyday, make new friends and have a bit of independence. I too was just as excited for him, I knew that my social butterfly would love school and completely flourish, which he did. However, like most moms, I expected that first initial day might bring on some tears. I could see it, him wrapping his arms around me and me pulling them off while telling him everything would be fine. It would be the first time he would be off on his own, separation anxiety was just part of the territory. I knew it was going to be rough.

When the day finally arrived I braced myself as the bus pulled up in front of our house. I knew it was going to be ugly, and boy was it! The bus driver opened the door and Pumpkin Head ran onto that thing faster than I had ever seen him move before. It was like he couldn't get away from me fast enough. There were no tears, no "Mommy, I don't want to leave you" pleas, there wasn't even a wave good bye, he was out! I don't think I ever cried so hard in my life. I could barely see the road as I followed the bus to make sure it delivered my son safely to the school. Heartbreaking, just heartbreaking.

Fast forward seven years and there I was again bawling my head off as I watched (from my back porch) my baby board the bus this time to take him to junior high. I didn't know I was going to react like that! I thought I was cool with him growing up, but what I have learned is, I'm not cool with it, not at all!

Here's the thing, it's like I've entered another realm. The next half. No longer will I be worrying about him getting hit by a car, I'll be worrying about him getting in a car. I won't be worrying about him making friends, I'll be worrying about the kinds of friends he has made. No more worrying about if he likes the sport, it's will he make the sport. I won't worry about him ingesting chemicals, now I'll just worry about him taking drugs. It's another game and I am no longer the star player. I'm on the sidelines watching him make the choices I hope I've taught him to make.

What I wouldn't give to go back in time and have him be little, to have them all be little again. Back in the day, older women would always say to me, "enjoy this, they grow up fast." Of course, this was always when one was spitting up, one had just pooped and one was having a melt down in the check out line. I would always think, "yeah, right." Were they ever! All I can do now is cherish what I've got left because before long I'll be saying to them, "enjoy this, they grow up fast."

Hello Again

I haven't posted in quite some time but I have a good excuse. Two words- Summer Vacation. Apparently during this time of year I not only lose privileges to my computer, but also to any complete thought my brain might produce.

Don't get me wrong, I LOVE summer. No outrageous homework projects, no demanding schedules, just me, my kids and the pool. I also get to spend time participating in my favorite summertime sport- tanning. Yes, I love summer. It is the one time of year that I don't have live by my calender.

Summer always goes by too fast and come the beginning of August I feel the impending doom of the school year starting. My heart feels a little too heavy during this time. The end of the carefree days of summer, the knowledge that the next time it comes my kids will be that much older and of course, the fading of my tan, this is what makes cheerful attitude dissipate.

I hate this feeling of sadness, the only thing that keeps me from going into a total funk is the knowledge that it won't last long. You see, something always happens right around the second week of the last month of summer. Just when the tears fill my eyes and begin to flow steadily down my cheeks grieving the loss of free time and fun, they dry up. It's like a switch as been flipped, and suddenly I'm in back to school mode.

It happens instantaneously, this mental shift. It's the point where the stars in the sky align and that one fight between my kids happens at the exact same time. That is when in one split second I go from embracing my children as if holding them will keep summer longer, to shoving them out the door and asking if perhaps school could start a few days early.

I am there. It happened today. The one fight (which was their millionth of the summer) had happened, and the stars were in place. I am ready for them to go back to school! Not just go back, but run back! I've had enough sleepovers, swim time, even enough tanning. I'm done. I'm sick of my house always being a mess. I'm sick of hearing the complaints of how bored they are when there is one day we decide to stay home. I'm sick of them keeping tallies on each other on how many play dates or sleepovers each other has had over the past three months. I'm so done with summer. Bring on fall, bring on sweaters, bring on the crisp cool breeze. Bring. It. On.

Today I stand before you, a new woman. I have reclaimed my computer and I have collected all the ads for back to school savings. No more lazy days of summer for us, we are in full blown back to school lock down.

Summer, I will miss what we had though. Holding on tight to the memories that were made, the memories we will cherish all our lives. It was a great ride. Thank you for this time with my kids. I know that soon enough they will be sharing their summers with their own children, going through the same experience. Now there is only one thing left to say, goodbye summer, until next year, adieu.

Short Story

The Truths We Keep

“I can’t remember what I said,” an empty voice jetted out of the receiver.
Even in my sleep, I knew who it was on the other end of the line. My blurred vision told me it was just after three in the morning. I groggily lifted myself upright in my bed and cupped my hand around the phone in an effort not to wake my husband who was sleeping soundly beside me.
“Liz, hang on a second,” I whispered as I eased my way out of my bed and into the bathroom.
My body jolted awake the second my feet hit the cold ceramic tile. Carefully, I shut the door and with the help of the moonlight peeking through the blinds, I found my way to the furthest corner of the bathroom. There I stood in the darkness and took one last deep breath before I held the phone up to my ear.
I could hear Liz’s quiet tears as she tried to remember the last words she spoke to her husband, Mark. This wasn’t the first time she had woken me in the middle of the night panicked like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Liz, it’s going to be okay,” I lied.
“Tegan, I can’t remember. I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I just can’t…”
Her words were lost through her cries which had gone from controlled moans to hysterical sobs.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said and then hung up the phone before she could respond.
These late night calls had become somewhat of a ritual this last year, although over the past few months the calls had become less frequent. From my estimation, we were down to about two a week. Liz hasn’t slept through the night since Mark passed away. Even the sleeping pills and anti-depressants can’t dull the pain enough for her to get a good night’s rest. She is showing some progress though. Now she doesn’t call every night. She is starting to calm herself down, but there are some nights, like tonight, when she needs assistance.
On the nights that she is fortunate enough to find rest, it is often disturbed by the vision of a police officer at her door. That image alone is all it takes to startle her back to reality and out of sleep leaving her to relive the last memory of her husband.
I slipped into the clothes I had hanging on the back of the bathroom door specifically for occasions like this and proceeded to make my way out of my home and over to Liz’s. As I tiptoed past my husband I paused and studied his peaceful face. Liz recently told me that she couldn’t remember what Mark looked like when she shut her eyes. She said that she felt like her memories were trapped in a thick, dense fog.
Since Mark’s death Liz had become a shadow of her former self. Once the glue that held everything together, now she was broken glass that had been trampled on during a stampede. I honestly don’t know if I will be able to pick up the dust and put her back together again.
Mark had been her whole world. She lived and breathed for him. I had always admired the relationship they had. They were so connected, on more levels than anyone else I had ever known. I remember thinking that once they had kids that things would probably change between them. After all, when you have children your attention usually shifts to them and unfortunately the husband is usually the one who suffers, but not with Liz. It’s not that she didn’t love her four children, she was always a model mother, but Mark was always number one. He appeared to be just as enamored with her. I always envied them, before anyway.
As I pulled into Liz’s driveway I noticed that almost every light was on at the house, except for the children’s rooms. She’s become afraid of the dark since the accident. It’s silly that a grown woman would be that way but we all deal with loss differently. This was just one of the many new habits Liz has picked up since Mark’s death.
Recently my daughter asked me what kind of power I would want if I were a superhero. That was an easy question to answer. Undoubtedly I would want the power to read minds. That would have been very useful to have, especially last year. If I had known that Liz would have turned into this fragment of herself, I may have made different choices. Maybe things wouldn’t have happened the way they did. Maybe we would all be sleeping now- me, Liz, Mark, all in our own beds. Sometimes I think he knew and that’s why he was driving so fast. He was trying to get home to keep her from shattering.
I froze for just a moment before I opened the door to her house. I needed a second to prepare for battle, because after all that is what this is. This entire situation has become a war. A war to bring Liz back. There have been battles won, but more losses than I can possibly count.
“Liz?” I said, as I peaked through the doorway.
Across the foyer, phone still in hand, I see Liz lying on the floor trembling.
“It’s okay. I’m here Liz.”
Seeing her there like that reminded me of an abandoned bird. She looked so weak, so frail, I was almost afraid to touch her. I gently placed my hand on her arm and began to stroke her long blonde hair. The color was drained from her face and her once sparkling blue eyes were now dull and gray. She had lost weight off her already slim body and now she was just a pile of bones.
She turned her head towards me and stared. Lately, when she looks at me it’s as if she’s trying to place me. Like when you see someone you haven’t seen in years, someone you know has played a role in your past life. Their face has all the warmth of a friend like one you know you can trust. If only you can remember how you know them. You rack your brain, flipping through it like a rolodex, until there is a spark of recognition. With Liz this process seems to take longer and longer even though I see her every day.
I know what the night has in store for me. I’ll calm her down enough to get her to lie down and for me to drive home to get a few hours of sleep. Then I’ll be back here in the morning to make Liz function. Take a shower Liz. Dry off Liz. Get dressed Liz. Please eat something Liz. Move your feet Liz. Take a breath Liz. Day in and day out, I’m here moving her like a puppeteer.
Finally the moment of recognition! I can see it in her eyes, a small glimmer of her former self. But just as quickly as it appears, it fades away.
“Thank you,” she mutters to me.
“Let’s get you a nice hot cup of tea. That will help make you feel better.”
I help her to her feet and lead her into the kitchen. As soon as I enter through the doorway, I stop dead in my tracks. I’m shocked at what is laid out before me.
On the oven is a frying pan with burnt eggs caked on it. There is a full pot of coffee on the counter. A breakfast set for two is on the table. A man’s jacket had been carefully draped over one chair. Seeing this scene, I knew I had just stepped back in time. This was the setting of the final occasion she would see Mark alive. Although I wasn’t there the last morning they spent together, I had seen it before. Liz has recreated this moment time and time again. The doctors told her to stop doing this, and as far as I knew she had.
“Liz, what is this?” I demanded.
“I thought if I just did it again, I could remember. If I went through the motions the memories would come flooding back, but they don’t. The only thing that comes back is the party. That stupid party! That’s all I was thinking about that morning. I didn’t hear a word Mark said to me. And the night before, the same thing. The party, the party. That’s it!”
The weeks leading up to the accident were filled with plans for Mark’s fortieth birthday bash. She was planning a surprise party for him which would have taken place the Saturday following his death. Instead of candles being blown out that day, a casket was shut.
“It’s funny how when there’s a big event on the horizon all the little things just fall through the cracks,” she spoke with no emotion.
She staggered to the table and lifted the jacket from the chair and brought it to her nose. I watched her inhale what was left of the scent of her husband.
“I don’t know if I told him that I loved him. I told him everyday, but I can’t remember if I did that day.”
She clutched the jacket to her chest and began to rock back and forth. With a distant look in her eye she began a play-by-play explanation of her morning, “I woke up and came downstairs. I started the coffee and then I set the table. I then took the egg carton and the butter from the refrigerator set it there by the stove. I put a tablespoon of butter in the pan and let it melt. Then I cracked three eggs into the…”
“Liz, stop! This is over the top. You can’t keep doing this! Do you know what will happen if your doctors find out about this? They will commit you Liz. Do you understand? They will lock you up in hospital somewhere, away from your kids. You won’t see your children anymore! Do you understand what I am saying? Locked away, Liz! I know you don’t want that. You might not see it now, but I know you don’t want that. You can’t keep doing this to yourself! This is ridiculous! You have to snap out of this!”
I could see immediately that I had hurt her, but for the first time I didn’t care. I just kept thinking about those four children sleeping upstairs and how in all of this they not only lost a father, but also a mother.
Liz was holding Mark’s jacket so tightly that her hands were turning red.
“How dare you speak to me that way,” she snarled. “You can’t even begin to comprehend what I’m going through!”
She was right, I couldn’t. I still had my husband. I still had my sanity.
She glared at me and asked, “How would you feel if your life was ripped away from you?”
That stung.
“But you still have your life, Liz. You’re just choosing not to live it.”
“Tegan, I don’t have a life without Mark. He was my everything. Don’t you get that? Without him I have nothing.”
She collapsed into a chair at the table and put her head in her hands.
“You don’t understand,” she went on, “he was the only one who really loved me. He took such good care of me. You know what I was like before I met Mark. He was the one who saved me.”
It was true, before Mark she was a mess. Her father had left when she was young and her mother raised her. However, her mother wasn’t a typical mom. She was more concerned with her own life and treated Liz like an obstacle she needed to overcome. She didn’t care what she did or who she did it with. Liz was left to fend for herself and took advantage of it. She was a wild child and I was her sidekick. I’d watch her drink herself into a stupor and then after she would black out, I would carry her home. She did drugs, she slept around and she was out of control. When she met Mark though, everything changed. He encouraged her to change into a better person, someone I was never able to help her become.
“Liz, I’m not saying Mark wasn’t a huge influence in your life, he was, I know that. I’m just saying you were ultimately the one who made the changes. The fact is you did change and you are who you are today because of the changes you made. You aren’t who you were years ago. You are stronger now. Even without Mark you’re still strong. You have to believe that! You have to move on with your life. If not for yourself, you must do it for your children,” I pleaded with her.
“I can’t. I need him…,” as she continued to praise her husband my mind began to wander. I could feel my blood begin to boil. I heard words like wonderful, strong, loving, trustworthy. The more she spoke the angrier I became. If only she knew the truth about her husband, would she be the same? I had a decision to make. I could calm her down, put her to bed and be back here to repeat the same thing tomorrow or I could tell her the truth, right here, right now. Maybe if she knew Mark wasn’t the saint she claimed him to be she would be able to pull herself together.
Before that night, I would have agreed with everything she believed about Mark. From what I could see, he was a great father and husband. He was supportive both financially and emotionally. He treated Liz like a queen, buying her gifts, putting her needs first, and for all intents and purposes, worshipping the ground she walked on. That’s why it was such a huge shock when I saw him that night.
I had plans to meet a colleague for dinner at LaBella’s Restaurant. I was running late, as usual. When I finally did get to the restaurant, I was frantic. This explains why I didn’t notice that I had parked next to Mark’s Volvo or that I walked right past him to get to my table.
It wasn’t until I finally settled down and was able to relax that I noticed him. I was glancing over the menu when something caught my attention. It was a familiar laugh. It only took me a second to place it… Mark. I turned my gaze towards the direction of the laughter to find not only Mark, but also a beautiful brunette woman not even closely resembling my best friend. I felt as though I had taken a bullet in the chest. In an instant the room began to spin and the sounds around me became distorted. A cold sweat swept over me, sending shivers down my spine.
My associate noticed something was wrong and asked if there was anything she could do. I shook my head and took a sip of water to help compose myself.
“Excuse me,” I said.
I was on autopilot. I felt myself push away from the table then allowed my feet to carry me over to Mark. Soon I was standing there, looking into the eyes of the man I had trusted with my friend.
I could tell he was stunned to see me. He shot a look across the table to the other woman and I watched the smile fade from her face. I stared him down for an eternity then leaned over and softly spit daggers at him.
“You have from the time I order, eat, and pay my bill to tell your wife.”
Then I coolly turned and went back to my table where I sat back and watched him leave the restaurant in a frenzy.
Of course, I couldn’t do what I said. After Mark left I apologized to my coworker and headed for my car. I drove to a nearby park where I silently watched the clock work through three hours before I proceeded to drive to Liz and Mark’s home. When I arrived, I was surprised by the sight of a patrol car parked in the driveway. Instead of finding my friend saddened because of her husband’s betrayal, I found a stranger in the shell of a woman who resembled my lifelong friend.
Mark had been killed in a car accident. Due to driving at excessive speeds, he had lost control of his car and wrapped it around a tree. He died instantly, taking his wife’s spirit with him.
To say I didn’t feel responsible would be a lie. Everyday since the accident, I have been ridden with guilt. It’s what I wake up thinking about and fall asleep dreaming of- how I took my best friends life from her. Everyday I watch her deteriorate and think if it wasn’t for me she would be delusionally happy.
Now as I stand in her kitchen I am faced with a choice. Should I or shouldn’t I? If I tell her, I will single handedly shatter the memory of her marriage. If I keep quiet, I will be sentencing the both of us to a life no longer livable, me with my guilt, and her with her pain. Either way she will be destroyed. So, do I ruin the past or the future?
“Liz,” I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She turns her head up to me, and at that moment, I see defeat written across her face. She is done. She shifts her weight and lets her body melt into mine. I gently lift her from the chair and guide her to her bedroom.
As we move down the hallway, I am startled by Liz’s oldest son. She doesn’t notice him as he slips out of his room and heads downstairs. I continue to guide her to her room, all the while listening to the fourth grader clean up the remnants of his mother’s breakdown in the kitchen. Here we both are, doing our part to keep up the illusion that she is getting better.
Once in her room, I help her into bed and get her settled in for what is left of the night. She closes her eyes, emotionally exhausted, she sleeps.
On my way out, I pass a picture of Liz and Mark. It was taken on their last trip together. They were on a cruise. He is staring straight into the camera and she is gazing up at him with a content smile gracing her lips.
I couldn’t help but wonder could she really see him? I certainly couldn’t, but I was on the outside. Do we only see what we want to see? I know the answer… we do. I tell myself that I’m helping her, when in fact I’m just enabling her to ease my own guilt. She convinced herself that her husband was perfect and then hid behind him to cover up her own insecurities. If she knows the truth will she see it, or will she only see the story she has told?
I turn back to her and lightly kiss her on the forehead, “Sleep well, Liz. I will be back tomorrow.”