My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (30 page)

“Wait a minute!” Mother screeched. I jumped. “Are you saying you
cheated
on Edward?”

“Cheated on him? No!” I said. “Well, no, not really. I mean, I didn't cheat, but I did meet this other man that—”

“Heavens!” Mother declared. She looked like she was going to faint. I turned to Dad for help, but he looked concerned about Mother.

“Mother, don't get the wrong idea. I'm not with this man. I just realized that Edward wasn't the right person for me and—”

“Leah,” Mother said sternly, “there is always something to make us think the grass is greener on the other side. Don't you understand that Edward really is a nice find? I've known Edward for as long as you have, and he's a decent, caring, dependable man, Leah. Dependable. Not everyone can say that. Don't take that attribute for granted. Why do you need all this other stuff you're talking about? A man who brings excitement to your life? There are a lot of people who just wish their husbands would come home with a decent paycheck! And Edward makes a very good living. He always will. He's respected, he's intelligent, and he's willing to marry you, Leah. Are you going to throw all that away?”

I felt like a knife had sliced right through my heart. My mother's words stung as much as anything had in my life. Edward was “willing” to marry me. Did she think so little of me that she didn't believe I could find another man to love me? I felt my face turn red.

“How can you say that?” I said, tears rolling down my face.

“I just want you to be happy, Leah, and you have a tendency to not want to be happy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you're just one of those people in life—and maybe it's because you're the artsy type, I don't know— who want to be downtrodden. It's like you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and when it doesn't, you take off your boring navy flat and throw it to the ground, just for good measure!”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wanted to scream and cry and slap my mother. I actually wanted to slap her. But I could see in her eyes that she wanted to slap me just as much.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad move. It was about time he came to my defense. He never was good at standing up to Mother. He could lead a filibuster but could hardly win an argument with his wife.

Mother glanced at him, as if ready to smack down any remark he was about to make. And then we both noticed at the same time. Dad had spilled his broth, and it was dripping down across the pillows and onto the floor. And he was grabbing his chest. And wincing. Mother screamed.

“Go get the phone!” she ordered me, and I ran into the other room, trying to find the cordless phone. I got it and ran back into the room. Dad was slumping to the side, still grabbing his chest. “Call 911!”

I quickly dialed and told the operator what was happening. My entire body trembled as I watched my mother cope with the situation in front of her. Dad was still conscious, but he looked like he was in a lot of pain.

“They're coming, Mother, they're coming,” I said as she glanced at me, her eyes filled with terror.

“This is all your fault!” she yelled at me, and with that she began crying. I'd never, not once, seen my mother cry.

Chapter 25

[She tears the page.]

O
n the same dirty padded bench in the same stale hallway, Mother and I sat, waiting, at the hospital. She stared forward, indicating she did not want to talk, so I didn't push it. The doctor had informed us that Dad would be fine, and in fact was probably experiencing non-life-threatening muscle spasms, but they were checking him out anyway.

Waiting gave me a good forty-five minutes to assess my own mental state of being. I had always taken pride in the fact that I was able to self-assess, and so this seemed as good a time as any to do it.

I tried to step outside myself and figure out if I was insane. This was not an easy task, because most insane people don't know they're insane, but I talked myself into the fact that being the extremely self-aware person that I am, I would probably notice at least a few red flags before others started to intervene.

So, was my parents' reaction to the news their weird and freaky quirk, or was the very fact that I was calling off the engagement a sign of my own weird and freaky quirk? I asked myself the tough questions, like: Was I really that lucky Edward was marrying me? Did I really not have that much of a chance to find true love and happiness after he was gone?

I tried to gauge whether or not my conflict resolution class was the problem. Perhaps it was trying to render me into a person I wasn't capable of being. Maybe there were people in life who were meant to be peacemakers, the ones who always said yes when they meant no, the ones who always agreed when they disagreed, the ones who always put others' feelings in front of their own.

I stared at the squeaky-clean white tile underneath my feet. That's how my life used to be. Squeaky clean. Problems, sure. But still, nice and tidy. A tad on the antiseptic side. I felt numb and wondered whether I would snap out of it any time soon. I knew there was a very good chance I could walk down that aisle, family and friends on either side of me, smiling broadly as they do at weddings, and I could feel nothing. Oh, sure, I would nod and gesture as if I did, but I knew there was a real possibility that I might not feel a single thing.

Either way, insane or sane, I had definitely hit the lowest point of my life. And it seemed that no matter what choice I made, the outcome was not going to be good.

My thoughts turned to Cinco, and I wondered if there was really a chance for two people who were so different to be together. I wondered if my infatuation with him was only because he was my antithesis. Was it silly to throw away a two-year relationship because of one that had spanned only a few weeks, if that? Besides, it looked as if the relationship was already doomed. He'd called me on lying. Who would want to be with a liar?

And then, to my utter surprise, Mother spoke. She didn't look at me, and at first I wondered if she was really talking to me or just talking out loud. But I sat very still and listened.

“It was a year before I met your father, 1967. I was working on my master's and there was a . . . a . . .”

I leaned forward, anticipating.

She glanced at me before continuing in a much more hushed voice. “Well, a freshman,” she finally said. “His name was Howard. He preferred Howie, but I called him Howard because it just sounded more dignified. Anyway, he was studying . . .”

I rocked forward again, trying to help pull the words out of her mouth.

“. . . opera. Yes, that's right, opera, of all things. He had this voice . . . this unbelievable voice. I can still hear it in my head after all these years. I was smitten with him, and he with me. We were an odd couple, that was for certain. My goodness, I was six years older than he. But nevertheless, we dated for almost a year before I met your father.”

I tried not to breathe. I didn't want to distract Mother in any way. She'd never opened up like this, and I didn't want to stop it now. I figured I knew what was coming, a lecture about how although she liked Howie, my father was the better man for her, but I listened anyway, just for kicks.

“Of course, your father was any woman's dream, as you know. He was studying law, but anyone who knew him knew he had a future in politics. His entire family served in politics, and he was expected to do the same. Not only that, but he had a charisma for it, you understand. Everyone knew he would do great things. I was captivated with him from the moment we met, and my family was too. Pretty soon I knew that I would not marry Howard, but that I would marry your father.” She paused, and I sighed. Then she said, “But I never stopped thinking about Howard.”

I turned to her. “What?”

She looked at me. “It's true. I never have, actually. From time to time I think about him and wonder what he's doing, wonder if his life took him the way that he dreamed. He was a dreamer, oh, what a dreamer. He lived his life in the clouds most of the time. But we really had such a good time together. I never have felt like that before or since.” She cleared her throat. “Your father is a good man, and he's done great things. His greatest pride and joy, of course, is you girls. And he's been a good father; there's no disputing that.” A
but
hanging in the air was never spoken. It didn't need to be. I could see it in my mother's eyes. She regretted losing Howard. My stomach churned at the thought, but my thoughts were interrupted by the white doors swinging open and a blue-clad doctor walking toward us.

Mother stood, and any hint of the conversation vanished from the air.

But not from my heart.

They wanted to keep Dad overnight, and Mother sent me home, telling me I had better things to do with my time than sit in a hospital room. I wasn't sure what she meant by that, but it was certainly true on more than one level. I managed to get four hours of sleep but was awoken once again by the phone ringing. I couldn't manage to get myself out of bed, but J. R.'s voice came through loud and clear.

“Leah, you really must call me back. This is the second message I've left, and that's one more than I'm accustomed to. Thank you.”

I rolled my eyes and groaned, praying sleep would find me again. But underneath the heavy pile of covers, all I could do was listen to myself breathe, so I finally got up.

And I marched straight to my computer. I was going to finish this play if it killed me.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Immersed in my play, I barely heard the phone ring. The answering machine picked up. It was Edward. “Hey you.” That was his newly engaged phrase. Hey you. He'd never used a phrase like that in his life. I guess it was the closest I would get to a pet name with him. It made me smile a little. “Just wanted to check in. Cynthia said you hadn't called her, so I wanted to make sure I gave you the right number and everything. I'll be home at 5:30. Call me then.”

I grasped in my hand one hundred and three pieces of paper that held my play. I'd been working all morning and all afternoon. But there was nothing to show for it. The play was a mess. It had gone from what I thought was a pretty decent play about an unromantic woman to a jumbled collection of scenes that now made no sense.

At precisely 4:32 p.m. I burst into tears. I sat in my chair, my shoulders popping up and down, and cried harder than I'd cried in my entire life. I was a failure. In every sense of the word, I was a failure.

And before I could stop myself, I was ripping up the first ten pages of my play, listening to the sound of tearing paper with complete detachment.

Whoa, now. Wait just a minute, lady. What do you think
you're doing?

I rarely conversed with Jodie, except to tell her to shut up, and that was only a recent behavior I'd acquired. She liked head time, but never stuck around much for an answer; plus, I knew it would be considered ultraweird if I was ever found talking out loud to her. Speaking aloud to your characters might be an endearing trait only if you're a very rich playwright, but it's probably endearing only if you're dead and people find it out after the fact.

Seriously, you've lost your mind. You're actually ripping
up the play?

“Yeah.”

Let's just stop and think about this for a second, okay?
Before you do something really irrational. Understandably,
you're under a lot of pressure. Anyone can plainly see that. But
let's not get carried away, all right?

“I know what I'm doing.”

You know what you're doing? Think this through. You're de
stroying something you've worked months to create and cultivate.

“I'm destroying a relationship that took two years to cultivate. Frankly, this seems kind of mild.” I heard silence for a long time and then . . .

You realize what this means for me.

“Yes.” I ripped up another ten pages.

Listen, please. Think about this. You're going to regret it.
You're going to rip up the pages, and then you're going to smack
yourself on the head and be horrified at what you did.

I ripped up another stack and another, letting the tiny shreds fall to the ground. It looked like a blanket of snow around my feet. It took another three or four minutes, but soon, every page I had was torn to pieces. I sat in my chair, hardly breathing.

Okay, fine, you've proved your point. I know that probably
felt good. You know it did. It made you feel a little powerful,
didn't it? We all need to feel a bit of a power surge now and
then. But who are you kidding? Obviously, there's an electronic
copy on your computer and a backup copy on the CD in your
laptop. So stop kidding yourself and get on with the business
of finishing this play like the good, dependable playwright that
you are.

I rose and calmly went to the laptop. I turned it on, ejected the CD, and snapped it in half. I heard Jodie gasp. Then I went back to my computer and pulled up the file.

Wait! What are you doing? Have you lost your mind!
You're actually going to delete the last copy of your play? That's
insane, Leah. I mean, really whacked out. Certifiable. Begging
for Prozac. Seriously, go get a prescription. It will make all the
difference in the world.

My finger hovered over the Delete key.

Listen, go dump Edward. Really. If that's what it's going
to take to keep this play alive, go dump the fellow. I mean, you
at least got a nice laptop out of the deal, right? You know me,
I'm the last unromantic left on the earth, so I'm going to have
no problem with it. If you're going to delete something, delete
him, not me. Not me.