I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (16 page)

Tig paced backstage through the obstacle course of soundboard equipment, ropes, and old metal folding chairs. Jean Harmeyer fiddled with her headset, and Macie tried to clean the back of Tig's dark blouse with a lint brush. Tig said, “It's been six weeks. Clementine is still crying all day and Wendy is a mess. She barely gets dressed and almost never showers. If she isn't nursing, she's running that damn pump at all hours of the day and night. We've got enough frozen milk to feed that baby into high school. Wendy looks like Skeletor.”

“Colic. Mine had colic, too. Nearly killed me.” Jean picked at her French manicure. “Nothing you can do but wait it out. I was lucky. It only lasted three months, but my neighbor's kid screamed for a year.”

Horrified, Tig said, “A year? Wendy will never make it. Shit, I'll never make it!” Tig looked at her watch, counting the minutes before the next broadcast. “It was almost easier living with my mom. Sure, half the time she put the dish soap away in the fridge and I worried she'd wander away and never return, but at least she was quiet. The only time the baby is quiet is if she's nursing.” Tig scratched her forehead. “Maybe Wendy will wander away and never return.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you wanted her here.” Jean patted Tig on the shoulder.

“I like a lot of people in theory.”

Macie strolled over to hand Tig her headphones. “When my sister was nursing, she fed her a bottle every now and then. Just to give herself a break.” Macie's black hair was parted in the middle and braided. She wore burgundy fingerless gloves and a frilly black, almost transparent shirt displaying a red bra underneath.

Tig looked her over. She said to Jean, “Is scary girl over here right? Can you do that? The La Leche legions won't come and get you?”

“I did it. But I sure didn't talk about it.” Smiling prettily she said, “Breast is best, y'know.” Looking at the clock and the crowd, she said, “The show is catching on, Tig. Ratings are good, the execs are happy. Looks like you've got a new career.”

Tig gave Jean a halfhearted thumbs-up and said, “Awesome.” She slid her fingertips under her eyes, making sure no residual makeup or fatigue hid there, and got ready to give her last bit of energy to the show.

Jean clapped her hands. “Okay, troops, let's make this a good one. Not too many surprises, just good radio.”

Tig waited for the lights to go on and off, followed closely by a voice: “He loads the dishwasher like a total moron.”

Tig touched her headset and raised her eyebrows. “That's your complaint? Dishwasher loading?”

“How hard is it to load a dishwasher? Glasses on the top. Plates on the bottom. It's not rocket science.”

“So, tell him you'll load the dishwasher and then you get to do it the way you want it done.”

“Oh, no. That's just what he wants. He wants me to take it over, like everything else in the house.”

“As I see it, you have three choices. Do it yourself, give him free reign to do it any way he wants, or figure out what's really bothering you.”

“That's it? That's the big advice I get from the relationship expert? Glad it was free.”

Tig turned her head to the gasping crowd. “Well, there is another option.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Splash some water on your face and get on with your life. It's clear your problems have nothing to do with the dishwasher. It might have something to do with calling your husband a very disrespectful name, or that you have a tantrum if your glasses get washed on the bottom shelf. Either way, figure it out on your own time.”

Tig gestured to Macie to disconnect and turned to the crowd.

“It's brutal at our house right now. We have a colicky baby and I'm exhausted. But even if I wasn't so tired and short-tempered, I think we can agree that calling names, mandating behavior, and manufacturing small issues to cover larger ones is never okay in a relationship. Sometimes it's hard to see when we are doing it, and sometimes all we need is a little reality. And that's exactly what we're here for on
Is That Fair
?
”

The theme song played, and the audience applauded and tapped their feet to the music. Tig knew she had just described herself. But the show was off and running, and she didn't have time to reflect.

“Is this Dr. Monahan?”

“Yes, how can we help you today?”

“My husband is having an affair.” It was a simple statement made in a girlish voice.

“I assume this is not okay with you, since you're calling,” Tig said quietly.

“We were high school sweethearts. I've only ever been with him, and he me, or so I thought. For twenty-one years, I was wrong about him.”

The studio fell dead quiet.

“Tell me more,” Tig urged.

“He wants to move out. Says he's in love. She's nineteen years younger than me. Him.” The woman took a sip from a liquid. Swallowed. “We have two children. He wrote a letter to me with bullet points on how I was such a bad wife, it forced him to find someone else.”

There were murmurs in the crowd. Discussions in the back row. Women telling their own stories, stories of their best friends. War stories.

“I don't know why I called. You can't help me.”

Tig almost shouted, “Wait, caller! Are you there? Don't hang up.”

The woman cleared her throat and said, “Go on.”

“You're right. I can't help your situation, but maybe we can help how you think about yourself. What he's done is not fair. He's broken your marriage agreement and decided to absolve himself from all responsibility by making you the fall guy. I can lay your mind at ease today. Your marriage didn't end because of you, no matter what his list of bullet points says. The fact that he would write a list like that tells me all I ever need or want to know about him.”

“But, he said our sex life was . . . .”

Tig interrupted the woman.

“Were you solely in charge of your sex life? No! So cross that one off the list. In fact, I bet you have the list in front of you.”

“I do.”

Tig could almost see the woman obsessively smoothing the sheet, trying to iron the problems out on her own.

“I give you permission to cross out everything on that list that wasn't one hundred percent your duty. It won't take you long to draw a line, with a permanent marker, through every last one of his complaints. When you're done, don't throw it away. You're going to need it to remind yourself that you were not the only one in charge of keeping your marriage afloat.” Tig took a breath and said, “Are you still with me?”

The woman's voice, a little stronger than before, came through the headset. “I am.”

Tig raised her head and addressed the auditorium. “You know, experts say that the incidence of heart disease in the population is one in two. Ironically, that is the exact same proportion of the population that divorces. Affairs, broken relationships, shattered promises: this is the other heart disease, one we don't have any medication for.”

The crowd laughed.

“Caller, I do have some advice to give, if you haven't already heard enough.”

“Go on, it's okay.”

“Get a good counselor, someone who you like and is on your side. Make nonnegotiable dates with that therapist. Circle your wagons, call your friends, and get a good lawyer. With that husband, sounds like you're going to need one.”

There was more applause. Tig continued. “If he comes back and wants to do some repairs, it's okay to try again. I'm not leading the charge for a divorce. There's always room for forgiveness. You know . . . .” She winked at the crowd and added, “Until there's not.”

The theme song built to cover the coming commercial break, and Tig took a breath to relax. She sipped her water and looked at her watch. She was beginning to recognize some regulars in the crowd. She waved at a nice-looking man holding hands with an elfin woman. They had talked to Tig before the show, saying they were using her show as pre-marriage counseling talking points. There was a group of four women who occupied the middle seats and came every show, bringing what looked like sushi, chocolate, and possibly wine. They were like a cheering section, and Tig fully expected signs and body paint before the year was out.

The music surged again and another caller came on.

“I'm the punch line in all my wife's jokes.”

Tig raised her brows. “Can you give us an example?”

“Yeah, we walked into a party and my wife pointed to me and asked her girlfriend, ‘Does this ass make me look fat?'”

There was an explosion of laughter. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Did it?”

Tig laughed herself. “I'm sorry. We just didn't expect it to be that funny.”

“How about this one. We were out with a group of friends and the conversation turned to how no one has time for sex anymore. And my wife chimes in with: ‘We'd have a lot more sex, but there's so much I could do with that ten minutes.'”

More laughter from the crowd, especially, Tig noted, from the central female contingent.

Tig diplomatically said, “She's obviously a very funny woman.”

“Oh, she's hilarious; that's the problem. Everybody excuses a good joke. When we use walkie-talkies on the ski hill or at Disney, my wife insists that my handle is Tiny Dancer. Inevitably, I'll be having a nice conversation with some person, y'know, while waiting in line. And boom, here comes my wife's voice: ‘Tiny Dancer, come in Tiny.' I think we all know what she's referring to.”

Tig smiled in spite of herself. “Has she always done this?”

“Yes, but it's getting meaner.”

“You know, mean humor is easy. I should know. I'm a genius meanie. Kind humor is harder. Challenge her. If she thinks she's so funny, why not try raising the bar.”

“Maybe.” The caller sounded unconvinced.

Tig said, “Have you told her it hurts your feelings?”

“No.” Pausing, he fiddled with the phone. “She'd make a joke.”

“There's your issue then, and I'm here to tell you. That's not fair.”

She peered over her shoulder. Macie and Jean signaled that time was running short. Quickly she added, “And caller, you might want to find out what she's so mad at you about.”

Someone from the audience yelled, “There's gotta be something.” And the group nodded, everybody was on board.

Macie gestured, holding up one finger.

“I guess we have time for one more caller. Are you there?”

“Yeah, like, what I wanna know is, like, can ya get genital warts if you're, like, a virgin?”

Tig's eyebrows raised again. “Yes.”

“God, that sucks. That's, like, so totally unfair.”

“Totally.”

The theme music swelled and loud applause burst onto the stage. Her eyes shining with success, Tig smiled out at the crowd and waved.

Jean's voice boomed through the microphone:

“Don't forget to tune in tomorrow for our bonus broadcast, where Tig will take more calls. Same time, same station, on
Is That Fair?
”

Macie and Jean walked onto the stage and Jean, in a rush of warmth, hugged Tig.

Macie said, “That was a great show, Dr. M. You should go out and celebrate.”

Jean nodded and said, “Not too hard, though; we're back tomorrow.”

• • •

Celebrating for Tig was a trip to the nursing home, where she considered staying the night while Hallie shred tissue after tissue, fretting about veterinarian mistakes long past. In the hall while looking for the nurse, Tig's phone rang. It was Wendy.

“Can you bring home one of those rotisserie chickens and some gas medicine for the baby?”

“The baby's name is Clementine.” Tig could hear her wailing in the background.

“Shut up, Tig. I know what her name is.”

Sighing, Tig said, “I just have to get something for Mom's anxiety and then I'll stop at the store.”

Returning home was a mistake, the only mistake she made all day. Tig stepped over glasses, plates, tissues, and small bundles of dirty diapers on the way to the kitchen. Thatcher welcomed her with unhinged enthusiasm. “It's been that bad, huh?”

Thatcher sneezed twice and pressed her head against Tig's leg. The television in the living room was turned to a Spanish cartoon channel, and all the blinds were closed. Tig followed the sound of the bathroom fan and found her sister and her niece sleeping on the floor next to the bathtub. Clementine sat partially upright in her car seat. Wendy dozed, her head on the porcelain of the tub, the tip of her pinky finger inserted into Clementine's mouth. The baby suckled and slept. Tig frowned. The only way anyone could nap in that position, Tig knew, was if they were fantastically sleep-deprived.

Tig gazed at what should be post-baby bliss and saw her previously beautiful sister wearing the same grubby clothes as she had the last several days. Her hair had grown out of its stylish cut, and the cost of nursing the baby round the clock had sacrificed all of Wendy's pregnancy fat and much of her muscle mass.

On the sink sat the white paper pharmacy sack containing antidepressants Tig knew Wendy hadn't been taking regularly, despite the fact that Tig had taken the liberty of calling Wendy's physician and getting a prescription. Tig picked up the bag and saw it was stapled shut.

“I don't need them, Tig.”

Whispering, Tig said, “I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”

“I'm never fully asleep.” Repositioning slightly, Wendy said, “I don't need those pills.”

“Trust me, Wendy. I think you do.”

“Why? Just because I don't take a shower every day? Just because a few dishes pile up? I challenge anyone to do any better with a colicky, wakeful newborn, who appears to need more food than a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers.” Wendy eased her finger out of Clementine's mouth.