Becoming Mona Lisa (5 page)

“Yeah.”

“You still love me?” I asked bravely, my voice barely audible.

“Yes. I still do.”

“I wasn't meeting a man at the Sheraton,” I said, and Tom looked at me again.

“A woman?” he said, and although he sounded sad, I could see his man-gears turning.

“No.”

“Then what, Mona?”

“I was booking us a romantic getaway.”

“Who?”

“
Us.
You and me,” I said, and my Tom started to laugh. I laughed, too. Whatever psychotic episode had occurred, I was pretty sure it had passed. I relaxed, no longer afraid Norman Bates might pop out of my shower.

“You scared me,” Tom whispered, and I sighed loudly.

“I'm sorry.”

“I like your hair,” he said, and I smiled.

“You do?”

“Yes,” he said, reaching out to touch it. I couldn't remember the last time he had touched me, and the contact felt foreign.

“You thought I was banging Thurman?” I asked, and Tom sighed.

“Not until you told me you'd only seen one penis today,” he replied as the corners of his mouth turned into a weak smile.

“I would think you'd give me credit for having better taste than that.”

“Do you have good taste?” he asked.

“I married you, didn't I?” Tom chuckled weakly, then fell silent. We sat quietly for a moment in the ugly bathroom, like two uncertain people at an important crossroad.

“What happened to us, Mona?” he asked, reaching for my hand.

“I don't know.”

“Can we come back from this?” Tom looked at me and I shuddered. I wanted to lie to him, but I couldn't. He deserved the truth.

“I don't know.” Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. I felt a sob lodge in my throat, cutting off my airway.

“Mona, are you all right?” Tom asked, kneeling in front of me.

“No.”

“What can I do?”

“Tell me this isn't over,” I pleaded.

“It has to be.”

“Oh, Tom,” I whimpered, trying not to fall apart.

“It can't stay like this.” I saw the tears in my husband's eyes, and hated myself because I knew I'd put them there.

“I know,” I said, with resignation.

“What do we do?” Tom asked, and I looked at him.

“Do you want a divorce?” I squeaked. “Whatever you want, Tom. I'll do that for you,” I offered, wondering how it was that I had not yet died.

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” I whimpered.

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have to try and fix this,” Tom said, and my airway opened with a start. I began to cough, then sob uncontrollably. “It's okay,” he whispered, rubbing my back. I cried for a long time, as I held tightly to my husband's hand.

“Is that why your clothes are on the bed?” I asked, once I could speak.

“Yeah.”

“Are you leaving?”

“I thought I was.”

“And now?” I asked.

“I'd rather not. Besides, what would I use to pack my things? Every box in this house is filled with Fangerhouse stuff.” I was pressed against Tom's side. I felt the warmth of his body, the vibration of his chuckle.

“Please don't go,” I whispered.

“I'm not going anywhere. Okay, that's not exactly true. I'd like to go to dinner.”

“You could eat?” I asked him.

“I was on my way to Taco Bell when I saw you. All I've had today is a brownie.”

“A Little Debbie?” I asked, smiling a gentle smile.

“Yeah.”

I sighed, and leaned my head against my Tom's shoulder. He was kind, and predictable, and loved me – and I'd very nearly lost him.

Five

Communicating isn't defined by talking.

It's also defined by listening.

I was in the bathroom restoring order to Denise's fabulous makeover, when Tom knocked on the open door.

“Hey,” I said.

“I made coffee,” he said, and I turned. “Don't worry. I did it right.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

“Come have a cup with me. We need to talk.”

I sighed.

We'd already talked. I knew we were making progress, but I needed to take small steps. I took a few toward the bathroom door, and followed my husband in the direction of the smell of Folgers.

“I poured a cup for you.” Tom offered me a cup that said
Henry's Septic Service.
It had been Ida's, and looked ancient.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling weakly. I took my typical perch near the window.

“Where did you want to go to dinner?” Tom asked, taking the chair across from me.

“I don't know. Olive Garden?”

“Near the Sheraton?”

“Can we get past that?”

“I'm sorry about the whole bathroom thing. It's not like me to behave that way,” he said gently.

“I know. You scared the hell out of me.”

Tom chuckled, and I felt myself relax. “I did a number on that wallpaper,” he admitted.

“I saw that.”

“I did something else today.”

“What?” I asked.

“I made a phone call.”

“Oh?” This was a game Tom and I had played for years. He'd say random sentences that revealed little or nothing, and I'd chew my nails to the cuticles while trying to figure out what he meant.

“I guess I could tell you to whom,” he said, and I smiled.

“That would be lovely, Tom. If nothing else, it would certainly move the conversation along.”

“I called Bathman & Robin. Ever heard of them?”

“I have, but I'm pretty sure you're saying it wrong.”

“I'm not. Bathman & Robin. They're bathroom miracle workers.”

“Oh, like those companies that remodel your bathroom in one hour?” I asked.

“I think it's a day, Mona, but your optimism is refreshing.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “So, why'd you call the crapper superheroes?”

Tom laughed. “Well, I wanted to do something for you, and I know you hate that bathroom.”

“That's nice of you,” I said.

“You did something nice for me.”

“Yeah. I sent you into a frenzy because you thought I was banging the neighbor.”

Tom smiled. “Your motive was honorable, Mona.”

“I suppose. So, back to this bathroom business.”

“I'd like this to be our house.”

“It is.”

“You know, I don't think so. You inherited the house, and we moved in, but I've always felt like we live in Ida's house. It would be nice to make it our own.”

I pondered this for a moment and took in my surroundings. What would it take to make it our own? Where would we even start?

The kitchen could have been retro, but instead, looked tired and outdated. The table and coffeepot were ours, but everything else was Ida's, except the coffee mug. The mug appeared to belong to Henry.

“You have a point, Tom.”

“I think the bathroom has to be first in line for a makeover.”

“Now that I've gotten mine,” I said, and Tom smiled. It was the longest conversation we'd had in as long as I could remember. We hadn't begun discussing us yet, but I was comfortable talking about the house. It was safe.

“What happened to us?” Tom asked.

“I don't know.”

Tom looked at me for a long moment. There was more he needed to say, and I forced myself to breathe while I waited to hear it. “I lied to you,” he said, and the room got quiet.

“You didn't call Bathman & Robin?” I asked, earning myself a weak chuckle.

“Okay, I didn't lie. I didn't tell you something. Something important.”

“What?” I asked, with some hesitation.

“My dad left me a trust fund. My mother didn't know. I've been meaning to talk to you about it, but I hadn't decided if I was going to.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked, although I already knew.

“I figured I could use it to start over if our talk went badly.”

“You've been thinking about the
talk
?” I asked, feeling myself tense as we approached the serious subject of our defunct marriage.

“I have.”

“Are we having the
talk
now?” I asked him.

“I think we're starting.”

“And we're not getting a divorce?”

“I'd rather not,” Tom said. “I'd like to try again.”

“Me, too,” I whispered.

“Without lies,” Tom said.

“No lies.”

“I should have told you about the money. Half of it would have been yours anyway.”

“You looked into divorce?” I asked, feeling myself go pale.

“No. I just assumed.”

“Oh.”

“I've only known about the money since last Thursday. My mother called me and asked me to stop by. You were working that night, so I went to see her. My father's lawyer died a couple of months ago. His son found some papers in my father's file. It was the paperwork for a trust fund he'd established.”

“Your dad left you money, and you'd like to use it to remodel our bathroom?” I asked.

“Among other things.”

“Exactly what are we talking about, Tom?”

“Enough for a better life. We could go back to school, Mona.”

“We could?”

“Yeah. We could do something with our lives. Do you want to stay at WalMart?”

“It's not my dream job.”

“I know. Selling cars isn't my dream job, either.”

“I know. It hurts me every time I see you get in that car.”

“It hurts me, too. It's pretty ridiculous, isn't it?” Tom asked, and I smiled.

“What would you like to do, Tom?”

“I've been thinking about that, but I've been fairly single-minded lately.”

“Why is that?” I asked my husband.

“I told my mother we haven't had sex in four years,” he said, and I gasped. There was something so wrong about our lack of intimacy, which was exacerbated by saying it out loud.

“Oh, God,” I said, sounding as horrified as I felt. “You told Doris this?”

“Yeah.”

I said nothing for a minute or two. I was too ashamed. “It's been five years, Tom,” I admitted, and my husband looked at me.

“Five?” he whispered, and I nodded. “Wow.”

“I know,” I said.

“Is that normal?”

“No. Nothing about the way we've been living is normal.” For a moment our eyes locked and held, as if we hadn't seen one another in a very long time, and I suppose we hadn't.

Tom finally spoke, interrupting the silence. “I took tomorrow off of work.”

“How come?”

“Bathman & Robin are coming.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“Yeah, and I bought this today,” he said, reaching into the cupboard beneath the sink, and pulling out a small, nondescript paper bag. “It's Jack Daniels.”

“Jeez.”

“I know. I was pretty hurt. I was tempted to crack it open in the car, then thought better of it. The only thing worse than driving that piece of shit would be getting busted for drunk driving in it.”

“That's a damn good point,” I said, and he laughed.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.

“I'm off, too.”

“Wanna get drunk tonight and have sex?” my husband asked, and I shivered. I was married to this man. Of course I should be sleeping with him. So, why did it frighten me?

I pondered this only a moment.

Intimacy was terrifying. If I did this, if I let this man into my heart again, and we couldn't find our way back, I'd be destroyed.

Screw it!

Even if we didn't sleep together and he left, I'd just about die, so why not!

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good. Go get yourself cleaned up, you look like hell!” Tom ordered, and I laughed.

I did as asked, returning to the bathroom by way of the bedroom, where I stopped to grab the payload from Kohl's.

“Tom?” I called, from the bathroom.

“What?” he responded, sounding like he had something in his mouth.

“Are you eating?”

“Fudge Round.”

That's my Tom.
“Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want to.”

“What?” he said, from right outside the door.

“How much money are we talking about?” I asked, holding my breath. This was the Holy Grail of taboo topics in the Sigg's household. Unless someone was dying, and had to buy an organ, no one discussed money.