If You Could See What I See (37 page)

26

A
aron was hospitalized again and again over the next few years.

I wanted to leave him, but I didn’t know when I could. If I could.

It sounds so harsh. Your spouse is hospitalized because he won’t treat his bipolar depression and all you can think about is leaving. But my mind had crumbled under his onslaught.

My health was in shambles. I could not gain weight, the scale still tipping at 115 pounds. I had more trouble swallowing. I had to force myself to eat three meals a day and not get up until the food was gone. I had hives. I had a persistent stomachache and, often, splitting headaches. I had insomnia. My hair had thinned.

I cleaned obsessively. We were broke, my savings run through. I made some money off my films, but this is not a business where a lot of money is made. What I made paid for our living expenses. I sold off what I could, including my nice car, so I could pay off Aaron’s medical debts. I bought myself a clunker. Aaron refused to sign off on his titles so I couldn’t sell his Corvette or his motorcycle.

Worst of all, I remember sitting on a rock at Trillium Lake on Mount Hood after Aaron had been arrested for speeding and arguing with a police officer. He was back in the clinic. I was thinking that I would rather jump in the lake and drown than live with him anymore. I threw that thought off, but a week later, as I drove over a bridge in Portland, I wondered how hard I would have to hit the rails to go over. My hands actually moved about a quarter of an inch on the steering wheel. If I moved it a few more inches I could die, be away from Aaron, and be with Josephine. Two minutes later I pulled over into a parking lot, my sobbing uncontrollable, my head on the wheel.

I wanted to leave Aaron, but I was afraid he would kill himself.

And yet . . . is that a solid enough excuse to stay in a marriage that is killing
you?

 

Cassidy and I went to dessert class because she had not had anything to drink, including screwdrivers, her favorite, or pot, which she smoked to “loosen me up.”

We learned how to make lemon mousse cake, orange petit tarts, Baked Alaska, strawberry cheesecake, and a chocolate mint mousse over the course of the weekly classes.

Cassidy loved it. The teacher loved Cassidy. She asked the right questions and was absolutely enamored with the whole process. She chatted with the other class participants. She was a bright light, friendly, a happy cook.

“That was the best night, Aunt Meggie,” she gushed as we ate spaghetti and garlic bread together in a restaurant nearby after the first class. “I can’t wait until the next class. I’m also going to qualify for hors d’oeuvres class with you.”

“Excellent. No drinking, no pot?”

“Nope. I don’t even think of pot as an herb anymore.”

“You’re so darn smart, I’m surprised your brain isn’t on fire. How’s Calculus?”

“It’s rockin’! I have an A. I’m taking AP Calculus next year.”

“Good for you.”

“Yep.” She grinned. “We have to get the recipe for this spaghetti sauce. It’s delicious. I’ll go ask the chef.”

She skipped off. I stared out the window. It was starting to snow. I used to love the snow because then I could go to Mount Hood and fly down it on skis . . .

Cassidy had the recipe in hand when she returned.

“I’m going to make this for Mom on Saturday night. She loves my Italian food. I’ll make her garlic bread, too, and I’ll make her the lemon mousse cake that we made tonight. She’s gonna love it.”

Cassidy is a dear, thoughtful, brilliant, and extremely naughty hellion girl who loves her momma.

 

I woke up to icy, snowy roads.

I pulled on boots and walked to work. I do not drive in the ice or snow because I’m afraid I’ll kill someone. On my way to work I saw several cars spin out and a number in the ditch.

I called Lacey and told her to stay home. I did not need that hugely pregnant sister of mine outside.

“I’m coming. You know we have work to do for The Fashion Story—”

“We’ll e-mail, call, and Skype. It’s not for almost three weeks. I’ll send smoke signals. Stay home.”

“I’ll wait till the roads clear some and then I’ll be in.”

“Please, pregnant lady, you’re making me nervous. Don’t.”

“I’ll see you at work,” she said.

“No, you won’t. Stay home.”

“Good-bye. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Put your feet up.”

 

We had our employees-turned-models practice strutting up and down the runway in the factory across the street later that afternoon. About half had made it into work. Eric Luduvic had built our long, wood runway and painted it pink. Some of the models understood the walk, and others didn’t.

“Beatrice looks like she’s trying to grip a squirrel between her knees,” Tory stage whispered. “I like that Dee’andre designed hummingbird wings, but it looks like she’s going to fly off into the great blue yonder. Carly’s scared to death, isn’t she? She’ll need to be slightly inebriated. I’ll give her a gin and tonic before The Fashion Story. . . .”

Lacey called out to the employees, “Less hip, Edith, remember to crack the whip.... More swing, Melissa, leave your arm bare so we can see that dragon tattoo of your mother. . . . Shoulders back, Candy. You’re going to have to work that bustier. Work it, girlfriend!”

“This is going to be the weirdest Fashion Story ever,” Tory muttered, opening those gold eyes wide. “No one does it like this.”

I removed the pen I was clenching between my teeth. “We do, Tory. Lace, Satin, and Baubles does it differently.”

“We’re a lingerie company and we’re not using real models? Have you lost your mind? Is it floating around in your butt?”

“No, I have my mind. And we’re working on how to dress the employees.”

Our employees were not all thin and tight. They were normal women who believed that eating was healthy. They were all wearing their own designs, but we’d added lacy skirts with slits, skin-colored sparkly tights, gauzy veils, creatively tied sashes, silky sarongs, etc., to hide those parts of the body that women like to hide while still showcasing the lingerie.

Hayden would be modeling his creations with tassels. He had already chosen to wear a silver sequined skirt and a bra with silver tassels. I was nervous for him, but he was insistent. “I’m gonna be brave. Plus, I’m proud of the tassels. You like them, too, right, Aunt Meggie?”

I sure did. They were getting several pages in our catalog.

I looked up at the rafters of the factory. The lights would be up shortly. It would allow us to change colors—pink, purple, yellow, orange, a blend, etc. I had found a production company that was loaning us pink, yes
pink,
velvet curtains that we would use at the end of the runway for our employees to line up behind before they hit the runway themselves.

I had spotlights rented, chairs rented, tables with white tablecloths rented. Eric would be our sound technician, and Tory was choosing the music. Lacey would be in charge of running the videos I’d taken of a bunch of our long-term employees as they headed out for their spin on the runway.

“We’re going to go down in history as having the Most Bizarre Fashion Show for Shrink Head Numbskull Crazy Hormonal Women Ever,” Tory said.

“Thank you, Tory,” I drawled.

“It’s a Fashion
Story,
” Lacey said, hand on her stomach, her red curls in a ponytail. “It’s the history of Lace, Satin, and Baubles, Grandma, our family, and our employees.”

“It’s the story of Grandma, who became the story of us,” I said.

Tory rolled her eyes. “Us. Puss. Cuss. Cussy. Pussy.” She exhaled loudly and tapped a red designer heel. “We’re opening ourselves up like a surgeon doing a heart transplant. Only the surgeon is going to use a table saw on the ribs and he’s going to operate with a knife and fork and he’s going to forget to sew the guy up again.”

“Lovely image,” Lacey said.

Tory put two fingers to her temples. “Insane people don’t know they’re insane.”

Lacey’s coffee brown eyes flashed. “All you do is complain, Tory. All you do is discourage. This whole time. Negative, negative, negative. You didn’t have a better idea. You still don’t.” She suddenly bent over and grabbed her stomach.

“What is it! Oh, no!” Tory bent down. “Are you okay, honey?”

Lacey nodded.

“Breathe in, baby,” Tory said. “Breathe in.”

Lacey put one hand on Tory’s shoulder, one on mine. She closed her eyes.

“It’s okay, I’m good.” Lacey breathed in.

“We told you not to come in,” Tory admonished. “I yelled at you. You never listen to me. Now you’re here, making me all scared and nervous and sweaty. My horoscope told me to be brave today, but I’m not brave right now. You go home—”

“It’s only Braxton Hicks,” Lacey said. “Whew. I’m good.”

She pulled us in for a hug. The three of us.

Tory said, “Let’s not get all sentimental. It’s embarrassing,” and hugged us tighter.

I remembered my Braxton Hicks contractions.

I squeezed my eyes shut tight. I still missed Josephine, sweet Josephine. I always would. You take some losses with you forever and accept they’re never leaving. Sweet Josephine was one of them.

 

I had my out.

Aaron had an affair.

It was with a young woman who was “working with him.” I found out when I came home early and found a naked girl named Arianna straddling my husband’s face. She was about twenty-five, with black hair, and a tattoo of a Japanese cherry tree up the left side of her torso.

I didn’t blame her, I wasn’t even angry. In fact, I was relieved. I felt lighter, as if I were being carried off by white feathered wings, maybe the wings of a stork or an angel.

I stood in the doorway of our bedroom and watched for a second. With all the groaning and thrusting, they didn’t even hear me come in.

Aaron was lying on our bed, his head on a pillow, the tattooed girl over his mouth, holding onto the top of our headboard. Her head was back, and she was rocking back and forth, Aaron’s hands on her butt.

For a second I studied the butt.

I used to have a nice butt like that. Full and plump. My butt was too thin now. I could hardly sit in a chair for long without my bones hurting. My pants were loose, but I didn’t buy new clothes because I didn’t care enough to do so. I didn’t exercise anymore because between work and being home with Aaron, who had entered another raving, yet possessive stage, I didn’t have time.

Beneath her my husband was doing his work. He’s good at that when he wants to be. He was completely naked, that penis I didn’t need to see again straight up.

I wasn’t angry at her, I wasn’t angry at him.

I felt like I could breathe normally for the first time in a long, long time.

I watched as he made groaning sounds and said, “Oh, baby. Baby, baby.” It was like watching a film. A bad film. I do not watch porn, but this looked pretty close.

I laughed.

Laughed out loud.

The tattooed girl jumped and whipped her vagina off my husband’s face. She made a screeching sound.

Aaron sat straight up, the tattooed girl’s leg hitting him in the face.

“Oh, my God!” he yelled.
“Oh, my God!”

I laughed again. My heart felt so free. This was perfect.

I could leave.

I could go.

I could start over. I wasn’t trapped because I felt guilty leaving a husband who suffered from depression, an illness in his head, I was leaving because of an affair. It was an acceptable excuse—in my mind—to take off.

“Oh, baby,” Aaron said to me, already crying and pushing his black curls off his face. He hurried toward me, his dick still straight out as the naked woman shrunk back against the corner of the bed.

“Oh, baby,” I mocked him. “Oh, baby.”

I turned and went to the closet and dragged out a huge suitcase.

“What—what are you doing?” Aaron said. “Oh, baby. What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving you.” I turned and smiled at him, I couldn’t help it. Maybe I was semihysterical. I had spent so much time fixing and helping and comforting him, and he had been a lousy, soul destroying husband. I had not deserved that. I deserved better.

As I surveyed my closet, then my dresser drawers while Aaron had a meltdown next to me, I realized that I didn’t have a lot of clothes to pack. I used to have pretty clothes, so many pretty clothes, but in the last years of darkness I had stopped buying them. I decided I wanted none of my clothes. I wanted nothing that I’d had with him.

I packed frames of my family as he whimpered and argued. He grabbed my elbow to stop me, and I wrenched it away. He tried to wrap me in his arms, and I kicked him. He tried to hold my arms down. I stomped on his foot, then picked up a beer bottle, smashed the bottle, and held the jagged edges straight out at him. “Back off, or I’ll use it,” I said. He was shocked. I shocked myself.

I calmly turned and packed the treasured things that were mine before I met him—my favorite books and journals and gifts from my family. He trailed me around, naked, his dick now down and shrunken. He had been so proud of his dick, talking about how big it was, how talented he was in bed.

“I’m sorry, oh, my God, I’m sorry, Meggie. You made me do this. You travel a lot, you don’t call me enough, you don’t pay me enough attention, I don’t feel loved . . .” Then, when I laughed, a bit maniacally, he said, “You have to take some responsibility for this.”

I laughed again and ignored him.

When he could tell he wasn’t getting anywhere with that, he tried a new tact. I was used to that. One argument doesn’t work, switch to another one. He’d twist what he was saying, twist what I was saying. He’d attack, lie, minimalize, blame me, backpedal, apologize profusely, compliment me, cajole, plead, confuse, attack again. Round and round.