Halfway There, page 2
A woman who had let herself go. When was the last time I had my hair cut? The wispy ends of it were dry and split. Gray lined the brown. And it was thin. So thin compared to my youth when I could barely put my fingers around it.
Look at the state of my brows! Shaggy caterpillars that only narrowly missed joining. Just call me Bert.
My shirt probably wouldn’t even make the repurpose bin if donated. It was little better than a rag. In my defense, I’d not expected to get up this morning and get dumped on. But at the same time, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d bought myself something because it looked pretty. It had been a while since I’d bothered trying to doll myself up to look attractive.
For that I blamed Martin. He didn’t care, so neither did I.
And now look at me. The old lady in the mirror had a trembling lower lip and her skin was blotchy.
It would have been easy to start crying again. Just as easy to forget my previous vow of not giving up and go straight for the pills Martin kept in the upstairs bathroom. Wash them down with some booze and then a nice soak in the tub and I wouldn’t have to deal with this…nightmare.
My gaze strayed to the stove again. I knew all the ways I could go. Easy, painless methods, unlike what I’d have to deal with today, tomorrow...
Scratch. Scratch.
It came from the living room. The strange noise drew my gaze to the back of the house. A curtain covered the sliding glass door because Martin hated sunlight in the morning. For once, I didn’t actually mind it, as the gloom suited my mood.
I heard it again, a strange noise coming from outside. I crossed the room in an instant. Yanking the curtain aside, I saw a little furry face. The ears on the smoky gray fluffball were bent. Its fur was matted and wet as if it had spent time in the rain. It had one blue eye, one green, the mismatched set gazing mournfully at me. It raised a paw, and its sharp little claws dragged on the screen.
How had a kitten gotten into the yard? The fence was too high for it to climb.
“Meow.” The cry emerged soft and muffled.
I still slid open the door and then pulled mesh along the metal track before kneeling. “Hello there, little one. Where did you come from?” I saw no collar. Nothing to identify whom it belonged to.
I reached out and stroked a finger over its head. It trembled. Poor little thing.
“What am I going to do with you?” It probably belonged to someone. Maybe they’d come looking for it.
“Meeee-uuu.” The long, plaintive sound tugged at me, and I scooped the wet thing, cradling it to my own damp chest.
“Don’t cry,” I soothed, the gesture and comforting of the trembling body reminding me of my kids when they were little. A time when I used to be if not happy, then content. Back when they still loved and looked up to me.
The little head bumped into my chest. I stroked a finger over its damp head, and the kitten broke into a ragged, rumbling purr.
“Let’s get you warm and dry.” I brought the kitten into the house, ignoring the inner voice that said Martin wouldn’t like it. He hated animals. Forbade us from having any.
Martin could stuff it.
“I wonder if someone is looking for you,” I murmured, bringing it into the kitchen.
I only briefly thought of going and asking door to door if someone had lost it. The thought of facing that many people…I couldn’t do it.
Instead, I created a small poster and stapled it to the fence out front with its peeling paint. It had been years since Martin gave a hoot about anything pertaining to the house. Probably too busy giving his attention to another woman.
Jerk.
With my civic duty done, I made a quick trip to the store, bought everything I needed for the cat and myself, paid for it on a credit card. Then I went and gassed up, where the same card was declined.
I frowned at the machine. Perhaps it had malfunctioned. I went inside and the cashier gave me a bored look as it was declined again.
A good thing I had a few dollars to pay for my gas. I got back into my car, hot with embarrassment, which turned to fury once I got off the phone with the credit card company. Martin had cancelled my credit card.
Glancing at my phone, I wondered if it would be the next casualty. I had no doubt vindictive Martin would try to take everything from me. He’d leave me with nothing.
Then what would I do?
Starting my car, I found my spine and yanked it out of hiding.
If Martin wanted a divorce, I’d give him a divorce, but I was done bending over backwards for him.
He wanted a fight. I’d give him a fight.
2
“I can’t believe the judge is letting you stay in the house,” Martin hissed.
It was a few days later, after my lawyer—who assured me Martin would be paying for her services—got a court order that said it was mine to live in until the divorce was final. My lawyer also got me back a portion of the money Martin had cleared out of the joint account, which was good, because my puny paychecks didn’t go very far. I’d not yet asked for more hours. I’d been too busy digging out every single piece of paper I could find to give my lawyer, Mrs. Salvatore—who specialized in ensuring spouses didn’t get screwed during separations.
I could thank my new kitten for finding Mrs. Salvatore—"Call me Rosy”—given I’d almost thrown out the flyer with her name and number on it. My little furball had attacked the piece of paper when it fluttered to the floor on the way to the recycle bin. The headline had grabbed me with its bold statement. You deserve more.
I did.
One phone call to the lawyer and some of my anxiety had lessened. Today, winning in court, a bit more eased. I still had a home.
Martin didn’t like losing, though. “You’ll regret not leaving.”
I’d regret even more letting this man tell me what to do. I angled my chin. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to stay in it forever.” I hated it with a passion and couldn’t wait to abandon it. “Once we sell it and I receive my half—”
“Half? I paid for it. It’s mine!”
Maybe in his mind, but according to the law, I was still entitled to at least half of it. And given Martin had been spending his nights with his girlfriend—another kick in the face—the judge had no sympathy for him.
“I’ll have your things boxed and placed on the front porch.” No point in mentioning the fact there might be a little spit mixed in.
Now that I’d had a chance to really mull things over, I’d gone from crying to fighting. Not to save our marriage but to salvage my part in it.
I’d come into it with a small inheritance from my grandmother, who’d died while I was away at college. After I graduated and we married, I was the one who paid the down payment on the house, and while I didn’t contribute to much of the mortgage afterwards, my role at home was recognized by the courts. I was entitled to half, which angered Martin to no end.
“I should have killed you.” The spittle almost hit me in the face.
“Is that a threat?” My heart raced, and I almost trembled with fear, but I wouldn’t let him intimidate me. It turned out standing up to him was easier than expected, if ugly.
So very ugly.
A good thing I had Grisou to keep me company. I’d chosen that name for my kitten because the French Canadian endearment reminded me of my grandmother.
Thinking about her reminded me of the discovery that I still owned her cottage. Kind of. It was held in a trust that passed down to me after her death. I’d completely forgotten about it. I’d only gone once after she died. Martin said it was too far, and he hated the rustic nature of it.
It was a strange offer that arrived in the mail with an offer to buy it that inadvertently reminded me of its existence. My lawyer had immediately researched it and was confident I’d get to keep it. Something about a legal trust and some clause saying it had to stay in the family. Meaning Martin couldn’t touch it. Even if I died, it would go to Wendy and Geoff.
I wondered how it fared. Probably not too well given how long it had been since my last visit. Guilt filled me at the thought. I’d spent happy times in that cottage with my grandmother. It was even my home in high school after my dad disappeared—presumed dead—yet, I’d abandoned it.
So many things I’d given up for Martin, and for what? Other than the children, who barely spoke to me, what had I gotten out of it?
Low self-esteem. An extra hundred or so pounds. And the loss of my youth.
At forty-six, it was too late for a do-over. If only life came with a mulligan like it did in golf.
Arriving at the house I’d shared for much too long with Martin, I parked in the driveway and grimaced. I didn’t want to go inside. I hated everything about it. The taupe color of the walls. The set of leather furniture in the living room. Martin’s idea, not mine. Cold in the winter and sweaty in the summer. I preferred something with fabric that I could sink into, like the big chair my grandmother positioned by her fireplace. From it, she used to tell me stories while I drank hot cocoa, fantasy tales about how the woods were home to fairies and other impossible creatures. About the monster in the lake and the elves that roamed the woods.
I’d loved her fiercely and still remembered how hard I cried when, after my mother died, my father moved us far enough that it became hard to visit. I went from seeing her all the time to once or twice a year. Then Dad didn’t come home, and she was the only person I had left. Not that I cared. By the time I went to live with her as a teenager, I was a moody thing, prone to depression.
She left everything to me. Her only granddaughter.
Funny how I couldn’t stop thinking of her lately. Her and the cottage. I recalled the tranquility of the woods surrounding her place and the gentle sound of waves lapping the shore of the lake.
It had been too long since my last visit. Way too long. I doubted it was still the same.
As I entered the house, Grisou came bolting out of nowhere and flung himself at my calf. Four legs and too many teeny-tiny claws clamped onto my pants, penetrating fabric and digging into skin.
Ouch. I winced, but I didn’t shake my leg to fling him off. I’d learned my lesson. He would only cling tighter.
Instead, I gave him my sternest gaze. “What did I say about climbing my leg?”
“Miii-ooo.” His happy sound as he inched up me until his head butted into my chin. He instantly started to purr.
How could I be mad? I couldn’t. On my darkest day, he’d appeared like some kind of guardian angel and saved me. Or at least gave me something to smile about.
I rubbed at his ears, and he purred so lustily his whole body vibrated. I laughed, a sound that was less and less rusty by the day. “You are such a cutie.” I forgave him the pinpricks on my leg.
With him clinging to my shoulder and neck, I headed for the kitchen. After the afternoon I’d just had, I needed a drink.
Whereas only days ago I would have gone for the soda in the fridge—the sweeter, the better—I now aimed for water. Ever since Martin dumped me, I’d been resisting the temptation to eat my anxiety away. It hadn’t worked for more than two decades.
Time for a change, even if it was painful—like the hour I’d spent plucking my brows. Not something I’d recommend. My skin still hadn’t forgiven me.
My phone rang, which was startling given I’d only gotten it a few days ago. As expected, Martin had cancelled the other line. So far, only the kids and my lawyer had it.
It wasn’t them calling.
I frowned at the number. Unknown. Just like the call I got the day Martin left me. Probably a telemarketing scam. Like that guy who told you he worked for the IRS and you’d better send money or the cops would be knocking down your door. Maybe I should answer and given them Martin’s number to call instead.
Tempting.
I ignored it.
It went to voicemail, and the notification went off. I’d check it later. First, I changed clothes and got on the treadmill, which had been gathering dust in the basement for years.
I huffed and puffed as I quick-marched on it, hating every minute. Those people who talked about the euphoric high they got from exercising? Liars. But I was determined to stick to it. Not because Martin had called me fat but because I was fat and it was time I did something about it.
When we’d married, I’d weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. By the second kid, I was over two hundred and never came back down. Over the years I crept up. Two twenty. Two forty. I got depressed. Two sixty…and my husband left me.
I didn’t want to be a sad, overweight divorcee who stayed in the house and never did anything except collect cats. Although I now understood why you would. There was something very satisfying about having Grisou around.
“Next week, I’m going to learn how to throw axes.” I’d seen a flyer in the grocery store a few months ago. It seemed the most frivolous skill I could learn, and yet, I tingled with excitement at the idea of trying. If the apocalypse came, I’d be ready.
“I am also going to try belly dancing at the rec center and eat at that new sushi place,” I informed Grisou, who’d followed me to the basement and curled up in the blanket on the chair I’d set up for him.
The cat stretched and blinked in reply. It was nice having someone who agreed.
Off went my phone again just as I finished my wretched bout with the machine of leg torture. Seeing a number I recognized, I almost dropped the cellphone as I tried to answer.
“Hi, Wendy.” I tried to act casual. My daughter rarely called me, but this would be the second time this week. The first being the day after I told her Martin and I were separated.
“Hey, Mom. Just calling to see how you were doing.”
The first time she’d done this, I’d gaped in surprise. Now, I had a reply. “Doing fine. You?”
Look at me acting calm and collected. Meanwhile I wanted to jump for joy. My daughter cared what happened to me.
I’m sure Geoff did, too. Hard to tell, given my son took the news of the divorce with his usual aplomb. “That’s cool.” Not exactly encouraging, but at least he didn’t freak out.
When I’d told Wendy, she turned quiet as I babbled, “…it happens all the time to couples who’ve been married a long time. You know. They grow apart. And, um, want to move on.”
“Are you having an affair?” Wendy has asked.
“What? Of course not!” I’d exclaimed.
“Is he?”
At the time, I’d said no, not wanting to be that woman who turned her kids against her ex. But I had a feeling Wendy knew.
“Mom?”
My daughter snapped me back to the present, and I stuttered, “Sorry, I got distracted by the cat. What did you say?”
“Wait, cat? Since when do we have a cat?”
“I found him, and no one has claimed him.” Nor did he show up on any lost pet networks for the neighborhood or have a microchip. I’d checked, worried I’d get attached and that someone would take him from me.
“Hunh. I always wanted a cat.”
“I know.” What else could I say? We both knew why we never could have one before.
Rather than address it, Wendy said, “Weren’t you supposed to attend court today?”
“I did.”
“And?”
How to explain her father had turned into a giant douchecanoe that painted me to be the stupidest of cows? And that the judge saw through his less-than-rosy words to grant me some modicum of support.
“I’ll be staying in the house while things get settled.”
“Ha, I’ll bet the prick didn’t like that.”
The exclamation had me almost gasping in surprise. “Your father was understandably upset.”
“My father is an ass.”
“Wendy!”
“Please, Mom, we both know it’s true. I’ve said it for years.”
She had, and I’d stubbornly rejected the statements and told Wendy to respect her father. No wonder she’d moved away from me.
I found myself blurting out, “I’m sorry for how he treated you.”
There was silence. Had I gone too far?
Then a whispered, “He treated you way worse.”
Tears filled my eyes because, in that moment, I grasped just how much my daughter had seen. How had I ever fooled myself into thinking otherwise? Of course, she saw. It was right there every time Martin opened his mouth and berated me. Every time I catered to one of his whims.
My stupidity hit me like a piano to the head. I’d been so determined to keep the family together at all costs that I’d ignored everything else. In my mind, the kids being shuffled between households was the most horrible thing because I’d remembered it being terrible for me. It didn’t get better when I was stuck with my single dad. Surely having parents who were together was the right choice.
Wrong. In staying, I’d made my children’s lives worse.
“You must hate me,” I stated, the truthful claim raw. I should have protected her better. Her and Geoff.
“How could I hate you when you hate yourself so much already?”
My lower lip trembled, and I might have truly started bawling had Grisou not nudged my hand. My words emerged choked. “I don’t hate myself.”
“Really?” There was a sarcastic lilt to it.
I closed my eyes and sighed. “Okay, maybe a little. I should have been stronger.”
“Kind of hard when someone keeps beating you down.”
“Your father never hit me.” I couldn’t have said why I defended him.
“Abuse doesn’t always come from fists.”
When had my daughter gotten so wise? Please tell me she’d escaped soon enough to not be the weak mess I turned out to be.
“I’m working on getting better.” I didn’t say how much it scared me.
But she somehow knew. “It won’t be easy. Especially since you’re still living in that house.”
“I don’t have a choice. Where would I go?” The moment I said it, I saw the corner I’d backed her into. “I’m fine. I don’t need to move anywhere. Not yet at least.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re planning to live in that house forever.”
