An Ex to Grind (33 page)

He poked my arm. "I know what you're thinking, darlin'. I'll be giving up my legal right to the alimony by remarrying, but I figured you'd be happy about that."

I wasn't happy. I was the opposite of happy. But I sat there with this stupid stunned smile on my face.

"The truth is," he barreled ahead while I'd been rendered mute, "I could have kept on living with Leah and not gotten married and held on to those checks you've been writing every month. But number one, I never felt right about taking your money and throwing it away on stuff I didn't need or deserve, no matter what my lawyer said I was entitled to. With the coaching job, I'll be able to support myself. Not in the style of Traffic Dan Swain, but well enough."

I nodded, my mouth hanging open now, like a complete dim bulb.

"And number two," he continued, as if number one hadn't already done major damage, "I really do want to marry Leah. I want to marry her so much that we're gonna have the festivities at my folks' house in Minco. Her family's coming, plus a couple of friends, and we're doing it next month."

Next month. Probably on the very day the alimony was supposed to terminate. The very day I was planning to break out the champagne and celebrate with Desiree. The very day I would now flush my head down the toilet. God, did I hate irony.

From then on, I saw Dan's lips move but couldn't distinguish one word from another. I was too crushed to comprehend anything.

"Hey," he said at one point. "You listening?"

"Absolutely," I lied.

"Good, because you need to hear this. Once Leah and I are married, we'll be moving out of the apartment, probably into hers. You can have 32G back, Mel. No strings. I want you to have it back."

"Uh-huh," I said articulately.

"Regarding Buster, you can spend as much time with him as you want to. Now that we're not lunging for each other's throats, we can forget the legal bullshit. If Leah and I have him on a Wednesday and you want to see him that day, you can just come on over and see him. She's all about what's in his best interests. She loves him. She'll be as good for him as she's been for me."

Well, wasn't that touching. Wasn't that
sweet
. I got to move back into my apartment
and
stop supporting my ex, plus spend unlimited time with my dog. Everything I thought I wanted. As I said, irony sucks.

I made a feeble attempt at congratulating Dan and at thanking him for his various gestures of generosity. And then we kind of ran out of gas and just waited in awkward silence for Patrick to emerge from the examining room.

Eventually, he did emerge, a subdued Buster in his arms, and gave us the results of the tests, the most important of which was the ultrasound.

Buster, it seemed, had a faulty mitral valve, the valve located between the left atrium and the left ventricle of the heart. Very common in older dogs, said Patrick. Very often the cause of fainting, due to periods of inadequate oxygen flow to the brain. Very responsive to treatments.

He went on to discuss those treatments—a blood pressure medicine, less sodium in the diet, a diuretic to reduce blood volume—and he stressed that a faulty mitral valve wasn't a death sentence by any means.

"Buster will live a long time with the proper medications and good overall care," he said. "His ventricle will enlarge, but there's no real threat of a heart attack."

Thank God, I thought as Patrick went into greater detail about my dog's medical condition. He's going to be all right. I'll make sure he's all right. I'll give him whatever he needs and keep him away from whatever he doesn't need, and he'll thrive in spite of his newly discovered defect. Valves and ventricles are nothing to fool around with, but he isn't going to die. He's not.

I glanced over at Dan, who was listening intently to the vet, his expression one of enormous relief that Buster would survive. I was relieved too, of course. As deeply as I'd ever been relieved about anything in my life. But all it took was that one look at my golden boy ex-husband and my spirits went to hell again.

I couldn't escape the reality—the reality that
I
had brought about—that he was engaged; that he was having a quickie wedding in a month; that he was moving on with his life. However much he loved me, and I still believed he did, he now loved Leah too. Leah, who accepted him for who he was, encouraged him to be a better person, and had sex with him in the bathtub as well as in the bedroom. Leah, who was kind to animals. Leah, who had perfect hair and skin and breasts. Leah, who used the word
resonates
. Leah, for whom I had shelled out ten grand in order to plant her directly in my ex's path.

My brain caught the tail end of Patrick's findings and recommendations, and another irony struck me: he reiterated that Buster's heart wasn't in danger of rupturing, even as mine already had.

Buster went to Dan's for the week. In a way, I was glad he wasn't with me. If anything happened to him, Leah was a vet. She'd know what to do.

Besides, I couldn't take care of myself during that period, let alone my dog. I had crashed after all the energy and emotion I'd expended on Dan, and now I was depressed. Not the kind of depressed where you pad around the house in your bathrobe and forget to brush your teeth and let the mail pile up without opening any of it. No, I was depressed in the sense that I cried. Yeah, me. All of a sudden, I was a crybaby. I boo-hooed when I got up in the morning and boo-hooed while I ate my breakfast and boo-hooed while I watched Katie Couric interview the author of a book about cliquish adolescent girls. It was as if the tears had multiplied during all those years of my repressing them, and now I couldn't hold them back. They just kept coming, no matter where I was or what I was doing. Some people have bladder control problems. I had tear duct control problems. What I needed was an adult diaper for my eyes.

At the office, the crying thing was particularly troubling. I teared up at my desk. I teared up in meetings. I teared up at lunch with Bernie, which was the proverbial last straw as far as he was concerned. When he asked me why I was crying all the time, I told him the truth.

"Because of Dan," I said over our orders of pasta puttanesca, the red sauce clashing with his red hair. "It finally hit me how much I love him, now that he's marrying someone else."

"Look, I'm sympathetic. Really," he said unsympathetically, "but you haven't been yourself for a long time. And now this… this—" He started biting a fingernail, not a good sign, especially since there was something much tastier to eat right there on his plate. "This… sobbing in front of clients. It can't happen."

"I'm thinking about going on Zoloft or Paxil or one of those," I said, wondering which medication Roberta Chapman, the woman he'd fired because of her divorce problems, had tried, assuming she'd tried any. "They take a few weeks to kick in, but if you'll just give me a chance to—"

He shook his head. "Can't. Too much at stake."

"Meaning?" Naturally, the tears began to plop down my cheeks at that moment, straight into my pasta. I could never tell when there would be "leakage," and it was very embarrassing.

"Meaning that we need to make a clean break."

"We do?"

"You do. I'm letting you go, Mel. I've stuck with you longer than I've ever stuck with anybody."

"Letting me—" I wiped my wet face with my napkin, but the tears were raining down harder now. "I'm a vice president, Bernie," I reminded him, as if he needed reminding. "Your top gun. Yes, I've been working on the smaller accounts lately, but as soon as I pull myself out of the situation with Dan, it'll be just the way it used to be. I'll handle the Jed Ornbachers of the world, and you can sit back and relax."

"I'm sorry. I've made my decision."

"But you can't fire me," I pleaded. "I mean, you'll never find anyone as good as I am to replace me."

He leaned forward and said, with not nearly enough sensitivity for someone who claimed to give a shit about me, "I already have."

"Who?"

"Steffi."

I was dumbstruck. "As in: my assistant?"

"She's been doing your work for months," he said, between chomps on his fingernail.

"Well, maybe," I conceded. "She's very efficient, but she's hardly ready for a promotion like that. Besides, she's loyal to me. She'd never overstep. If you offered her my job, she'd only—"

"She was the one who approached me," he said.

"What?"

"She did, Mel."

That traitorous little bitch! I was horrified. So horrified that I stopped crying for a second. Maybe that was the key—to scare my tears back wherever they came from.

Bernie went on to praise my dedication to the company and my memorable years of service, and he offered me a generous severance package, which human resources would explain to me in greater detail.

"You'll land on your feet somewhere," he said in conclusion. "When you're ready, there'll be plenty of opportunities. You just have to get your priorities straight."

Bernie was right. I did have to get my priorities straight, and one of them was to work for someone who didn't bite his nails.

On my way home, I dialed Weezie on my cell phone. I hadn't spoken to her in, well, too long. I'd been busy suffering from Manchausen by Proxy.

"You won't believe this," I said when she answered. "Bernie just fired me."

I expected something along the lines of "Oh my God" or "Are you kidding?" or "What a bastard." Instead, Weezie said, "Like I'm supposed to care?"

Back came the tears. Luckily, I was in a cab, so no one could see me sponging them up with the sleeve of my sweater. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Are you mad at me?"

"I'm very mad at you," she said. "My marriage is falling apart and where's my best friend? Never around."

"Oh, Weezie," I said. "You know I've been all wrapped up in this mess with Dan and Leah, but I'm—"

"All wrapped up in your own problems, in other words," she said. "Did it ever occur to you that the world doesn't revolve around Melanie Banks?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I should have paid more attention to what's been going on with you."

"You should have," she said. "But now that I think about it, you've always been a little self-involved. From the day we met, you've operated under the assumption that my life was perfect, which gave you a free pass to talk nonstop about
your
struggles, how tough everything has been for
you
all your life. Well, guess what? I'm finished with that kind of friendship. Done."

"Don't say that," I urged, completely taken aback by her outburst. And yet she was right. I hadn't been up to Connecticut to see her since the incident with Nards, and I hadn't called often enough to check on her. But she was my rock. I couldn't lose her now. Not when I had lost my job and Dan too. "I'll be a better friend, Weezie. You'll see."

"You need to get your priorities straight," she said, echoing Bernie. "Gotta go."

She hung up. I was crying so ferociously by then that my tears had wet the seat of the taxi. The driver yelled at me in a foreign language I couldn't identify, which made me cry harder. Ever since Dan had announced his engagement, it seemed there was more and more to cry about.