I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (32 page)

Jeff continued, “I think it's necessary that families bring in items from their past lives to their new homes, but it's not sufficient. Items don't make the difference. Loved ones make the difference. Once the board saw how Hallie benefited from her family, they were more open to the idea than they had been in the past.”

“Well, that and the fact that you were financing the entire project and defraying costs,” Alec added.

Jeff said to the others, “It's not as easy as it sounds. It's going to be a long time in coming. Alec and I are still fleshing out the details.”

Looking from Jeff to her mother and seeing nothing but generosity, devotion, and kindness, Tig said, “I'd like to say something, too. But, after I say this, I want to turn on the TV and watch the Ironman, eat cake, and nap. Is that understood?” Thatcher wagged her tail. “I'd like to get our DNA tested, Jeff. I'd like to know if I've got some of that bigheartedness gene you seem to have so much of.”

Wendy put her hand on her sister's shoulder.

Jeff flushed. “I'd like that. And Tiglet, it would be an honor.”

Suddenly her throat filled with emotion, and she waited for it to pass before she said, “But if it turns out we don't have the same genes, and I'm filled with stingy, confused DNA, I hope you won't give up on me.”

Jeff blinked and said, “I'd no sooner give up on either of you girls than give up on your mother. You'll see.”

Even after eight months of negotiations, interviews, and show restructuring, Tig looked about, delighted at the buzz around her. Tig lifted her headset and crossed the stage past the large banner with
It Ain't Business, It's Personal
painted in red, the new name for the show that was previously called
Is That Fair?
She waved to Macie, who said, “I'm leaving the bottled water on the console. Did you meet the new sound guy?”

Tig smiled at a tall man in olive-colored cargo pants and a
Doctor Who
T-shirt who held two orange extension cords in arms inscribed with the words “peace, love, bliss, share” woven throughout a vine of tattoos.

The decorated arms reached forward and grasped Macie's torso, folding her to him and the cords. “I'm not just the sound guy.” He kissed the near white part in her hair and widened his eyes playfully.

Macie blushed, stepped closer to Tig, and whispered, “Julie's in the audience.”

At the edge of the stage, Tig motioned for her old boss and current therapist, Julie Purves, to come forward. “Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn't have missed this for the world. Thanks for the ticket.”

“I just can't do conservative counseling anymore. I need some time off from it.”

“You don't have to apologize, Tig. There is no such thing as perfect therapy.” Julie squeezed Tig's hand and said, “This is your time-on for good behavior. Knock 'em dead.”

“Come here, Tig; I want you to meet the others,” Jean Harmeyer called above the din of sound technicians doing their jobs testing microphones and acoustics. Tig moved through the bustle in the studio and touched Jean on the shoulder. Jean said, “You've worked with Diane Trevor, our sex therapist, and Jim Larson, our very own divorce lawyer, but I don't think you've met Sam McDonald, communications expert.”

He looked just like a therapist should. Open, relaxed, and dressed in Dockers. Tig said, “As the resident speech-impaired couple's counselor, I can say with confidence that we really need you.”

Sam McDonald shook Tig's hand. “I understand this new and improved show is your brain child. I have to tell you, it's a dream come true.”

“For me, too. This is the way therapy should be done.”

“A holistic approach. It's about time.”

“Rumor has it no one person can be everything to everyone. Why should we try to do that in therapy?”

Diane Trevor, a middle-aged woman in a colorful pantsuit, said with a Long Island accent, “I've been saying that for years. I can teach y'all how to get off, but if you can't talk to each other after, my job is only half done.”

Tig said, “This should be some program. Sam, I know you haven't been able to rehearse, but just jump right in. We like a natural feel.”

Sam nodded and Macie said, “Take a seat, they want to do a sound check.”

Tig collected her notepad, not noticing the man in the shadows off to the side of the velvet stage drapes. As she reached for a pencil, his voice startled her.

“Dr. Monahan?” Newman Harmeyer approached Tig, a docile, almost apologetic smile on his face.

“Newman Harmeyer.” The last time she had seen Newman was during a mediation appointment where she, Newman, and Jean had met to discuss a future that might include all of them. “It's good to see you again. Did you come to wish your wife good luck on her maiden voyage?”

“Yes, I did.” He nodded. “To watch her, and to say thank you to you. She wouldn't have talked to me if you hadn't insisted and refereed our conversation.”

“I wanted to make up for my unprofessional behavior. I wasn't fair.”

“But you were truthful.”

“Everybody needs a come-to-Jesus moment. How's the progress these days?” Tig asked.

He weighed his hands up and down, and said, “Good and bad. I screwed up for a bunch of years. You don't fix that with a phone call and a few dinners.”

“No. You don't. But it's a start.”

“Why'd you do it? Why'd you meet with me?”

“When you called saying you wanted to talk, I was skeptical. But there was something missing in your voice.”

“Pride?”

“Or arrogance. You'd given your swagger a rest. There's not much room for swagger in an apology.”

“I was an idiot. Once Jean was gone and I had to listen to Tiffany's final exam schedule—man, a light went on. She wanted me to be her Facebook friend.” He closed his eyes and shuddered at his own stupidity. “I was a world-class stereotype. Jean was right to leave me.” Newman looked over her head to watch his wife finish with the last-minute details before the show went on the air.

“You look good, Newman.”

Suddenly self-conscious, he touched his waist. “Thirty pounds. I'm running again.”

“Well, make yourself comfortable and check out what your amazing wife has done here. She swept this together in just a few weeks.” Tig squeezed Newman's arm and turned to join the others.

Macie rushed over and said, “Did you call Pete?”

Tig said, “I was too afraid to talk to him.”

“Coward.”

“I sent him a letter.”

“You did? Good. What did it say?”

“I sent him the poem.”

Macie furrowed her brow. “Nothing else?”

“The flier for this show. I sent that, too.”

“Have you heard anything? An e-mail or a text?”

“No.”

“How long?”

“Almost two weeks now.”

Macie said, “You will. I'm sure of it!” Pulling a lint brush out of her tool belt, she quickly rolled it over Tig's shoulders and upper back. “You look great. Rested.”

“Except for the Pete thing, I feel pretty good.”

“You'd better, the show starts in minutes. Get out there and solve some problems.”

Tig took her place, smiling warmly at the other counselors, who sat nearly motionless, looking expectant and a little fearful. Jim Larson clicked his pen until Tig gently removed it from his hand. Sam McDonald appeared paler and younger than he had just moments before. Only Diane Trevor had a hungry look on her face and seemed ready to discuss the sexual options of primates as far as their bandwidth could carry.

The audience was heavily weighted with women over men, but the auditorium was almost filled to capacity. After the cancellation of
Is That Fair?
there had been raucous and impassioned commentary on the music radio channels, regional talk shows, and newspaper columns. People wanted a relationship referee. People wanted Tig.

The music in the theater surged and Macie's voice announced introductions, raffles, giveaways, and the cost of T-shirts and tickets. Once the calls started coming in, the first hour sped by. When a woman called complaining about a lack of spark in her marriage, the counselors jumped at the chance to discuss creative sexual toys, time management, and bargaining communication skills.

Sam McDonald began by saying, “Spark is overrated. Tender body parts can get singed. True intimacy happens after the spark quiets and you can begin to actually hear what the other person is saying—who they are, how to meet their needs.”

Diane Trevor jumped into the conversation, saying, “And after you've discussed your hopes and dreams together, nothing says spark like a butt plug.”

The surprised laughter and thunderous applause from the audience spurred Jim Larson, the legal eagle, to offer: “A butt plug is cheaper than a divorce, I hear, and with almost the exact same feeling.”

Tig added, “But a divorce is probably less expensive than a perforated colon, so proceed with caution.”

Diane finished the levity with the old joke, “Just remember, if you smoke after sex, you're probably doing it too fast.”

After the initial laughter and banter, the caller discussed her disillusionment and boredom, her fears of watching her life pass by.

Tig shook her head. “Some of that is a problem of expectation. I blame Hollywood for that. The definition of life should be long periods of monotony and body maintenance punctuated by occasional moments of glory and despondency. At least we'd know what to anticipate.”

Jim Larson burst out with a “Hear, hear!” and then looked around in embarrassment.

Tig continued, “Why do you think movies and fiction authors invent vampires, lottery winners, and soulmates? I'll tell you why: because watching someone brush their teeth, shop for sandwich meat, and change the toilet paper roll is as mind-numbing for the observer as it is for the observed. Problem is, we live the toilet paper life, not the vampire life.”

Diane Trevor jumped in, “But we expect the vampires.”

Sam McDonald nodded and then, realizing it was radio, said, “And sparks that last forever.”

The caller spoke up. “You mean I should expect less?”

There was a resounding “no” from the panel. Tig said, “Not expect less. Look harder. Appreciate more from the less. Revel in contentment, acknowledge the sweetness in smallness of life.”

Sam added, “The new love, the big bonus—recognizing the excitement in these things is for beginners. You have to be a connoisseur to see the glimmer in your husband's snoring.”

Diane Trevor piped up. “Remind me what glimmers about my husband's snoring?”

Jim Larson laughed. “Well, at least he's home and not out snoring it up with someone from the office.”

Sam McDonald said, “Be one with his deviated septum.”

With that, the
Applause
sign lit up and the
On the Air
sign flashed off, signifying a commercial break.

The group of specialists looked at each other in wonder and laughed.

Jim Larson said, “Well, hell. That was fun.”

Tig smiled and said, “I told you. The time just flies by. We probably only have time for a few more calls.”

The audience sat quietly waiting while on stage waters were filled, people stretched their legs, and questions were answered about future shows. Macie drew the names for the raffle winners, and the music surged forward again while the
On the Air
sign flashed. The experts sat up, looking less fearful, more eager.

Macie signaled the presence of a caller and Tig said, “You're on the air.”

“The love of my life loves me in theory, but not practice.”

Tig froze. She stared at the speakers and answered as if in a dream. “No, that's not true.”

The audience members put down their phones and iPads and waited, knowing that the show was nothing if not full of surprises.

“It is true. If I'm with her, she prioritizes just about everything and everyone over our relationship. But if I leave and try to carve out a life elsewhere, she wants back in.”

Tig focused over the heads of the audience. “She's flawed.”

Macie bit her lip and shushed Jean, who was vigorously tapping her on the shoulder.

The caller continued. “No. She's not.”

“She's not?”

“I realized we ultimately want the same things. That we are actually fighting about wanting the same thing. Someone to count on. Someone to be there.”

In front of all these people, on the air, in the studio, Tig flashed on the poem in her mother's things, the loneliness she'd felt reading the words and letting them wash over her. She recalled how she'd wanted to tell Pete about it, how sure she'd been that she had lost the kind of love in that poem, by not giving in, moving to Hawaii.

Now Pete continued, “I missed talking to you about my research. I found myself wanting to hear what you think. The students are fine, but I need you. You help me.” The audience began to realize this was a personal conversation with their own Dr. Monahan.

Tig said, the previously unnamed irritation building in her chest, “Here's the thing. I've been without you for a while, and one of the things I realized was that you need me more than I can need you. I can't be weak with you. I can't fall apart. You need me too much. You expect too much. That's why I like you better when you're not around. You're work for me, not a partnership. It still may be love, but it's exhausting love.”

“Tig, don't do this.”

“There is no doubt in my mind I will always love you, Pete. But I also see it might be the kind of love I used to need. One for everyone else, but not for me.”

“Can't we stop this old fight, just start new?”

“Don't you see? I don't want a new start. I have a lot of half-started starts right here in Wisconsin. I need to get to the ends of these. Look at what I've started here. How could you ask me to leave it?”