Breathe: A Novel (4 page)

Turns out I was pretty good at being depressed. I slept sixteen hours a day with Billy snuggled next to me. My hair was so greasy I could form tiny cornrows, like a show pony. Between teary Lifetime movies, reruns of Oprah, and my own personal
CSI: Tripp
, I really had no reason to leave the house.

During the first couple weeks, I went through every drawer, file, and pants pocket I could find. I was searching for evidence, information to help me understand what had happened. But my investigation went off the rails when I found a file containing the deed to our house. I scanned the document for my name and discovered it was never added to the title as promised. Louise owned our home, and I was merely a tenant. Soon to be evicted, no doubt. I wanted to kick myself. No, I wanted to kick Louise.

After that, I committed myself completely to TV. It proved the best way to block out visions of Tripp and Lauren, which were torturing me. The thing that truly dulled my pain, though, was pizza. Pizza with wine. I’d choose some precious bottle from Tripp’s collection, pour myself one glass, and then dump the rest. If I wanted more, I just opened another bottle and repeated the process. Empty bottles were thrown behind the couch. It was like a graveyard back there, a landscape to match my mood. I was getting seriously comfortable in my melancholy and wanted to stay like that forever. Tripp’s wine cellar was huge, so why not? Until one afternoon when I went to make my regular four o’clock call to Stefano’s Pizza . . .

“Stefano’s, how can I help you?”

“An extra-large veggie, please,” I ordered. And yes, I was planning to eat the whole thing.

“That’ll be twenty-two ninety-five,” he said.

I read him my debit card number.

“Sorry, do you have another card? This one was declined.”

Declined?

“Are you sure?” I asked, trying not to sound panicked.

“I ran it through twice. Do you still want the pizza?”

“I . . . No. No thanks.” Heart racing, I hung up the phone. I was confused, and the glass of 2007 Jarvis wasn’t helping. I picked up the phone again and dialed Tripp’s number, gearing up to leave a vicious message. My hand was shaking.

He answered.

“Hi, Alex.”

Gulp.

I could barely speak. I was not expecting to hear his voice.

“My . . . my . . . ”
My life is in a mess! My heart is crushed!
“My card was declined!” I sputtered. “I’m trying to order a pizza and they won’t take my card! Why? Why?”

“Alex. Calm down.”

His voice . . . My throat tightened. I hated myself for it, but I wanted him back. I wanted to live out the fairytale.

“Why are you ordering pizza, Alex? You don’t even like pizza.”

“That’s what you’re going to say to me? Really? Really?” I was losing it. I felt sobs and screams swelling like a tsunami. “And, yes, I do, Tripp! I actually
love
pizza. Just because you don’t eat carbs doesn’t mean the rest of the world doesn’t like them! Not that it’s your business anymore! The point is,” I floundered, furious with myself for falling apart. I took a big breath and demanded, “Why was my card declined?”

“Let’s calm down here, Alex. It’s not what you think.” He was using a tone reserved for panicked investors. GOD, I hated him. God, I loved him. I pressed my hand to my forehead and squeezed my eyes shut.

“What do you mean, it’s not what I think? They told me I couldn’t use the card,” I yelled into the receiver. What I wanted to scream was “HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME?”

“You can use the other card. Mom just thought it would be easier if we started consolidating some of our spending, and, you know—”

“Your
mom
, Tripp? I didn’t marry your mom!” I shouted.

“Alex, my mother has been nothing but generous.”

“Oh and how is that, Tripp? Because she let me live in her house? Because she threw me a shower with all her friends? Because she demanded that I look and dress and talk like an Edwards?” I sounded ungrateful and juvenile, but I couldn’t help it.

Tripp was silent.

“I think you should start looking for a place to live.”

Now I was silent. A place to live? But . . . It was all happening too fast. He had only left a week ago. Or two? What day was it?

“Alex?”

I slammed down the phone, slid out of the chair and onto the floor.

Here I am again
.

For a long time I lay motionless, staring up close at a turned mahogany table leg. The echo of Tripp’s words was like a hurricane in my head.

Then in a distant corner of my mind, I heard my mom’s voice, quiet yet clear.

“When your fall from your horse, brush off and get back to it.”

I sniffed.

Mom had repeated this over and over when I was a kid, making me burn with irritation. Now I repeated her words in my head, willing them to drown out Tripp’s voice, willing myself not to call him back. I crawled up off the floor.

Get back to it.

Back to what?

Quick. Anything.

Food?

Sure.

I opened the pantry for the third time that day and found the same black olives, stale Ritz, and cooking sherry that had been there since our first week of marriage. I cut the mold off some crusty Brie and gulped down the rest with an airplane packet of Chex mix.

“Get back to it, Bill,” I said through a mouthful, and dropped some pretzels on the floor. “We better enjoy what’s left because the well’s about to run dry.”

Then I remembered what Tripp said: I still had use of the Amex. I hated that Louise could track my purchases, but whatever. I grabbed my wallet, called Stefano’s, and ordered again, successfully this time. Comforted by this small victory in an otherwise bleak existence, I felt happy for a moment and dialed my mom’s number, quickly hanging up before the first ring. We hadn’t spoken since Tripp left, and I was still too ashamed to admit what had happened. Yes, she was compassionate, but she was also judgmental of my choices in life, and I felt as determined as ever to prove there was a life worth living beyond our fenced pastures. It’s just that my argument wasn’t too convincing anymore.

I maintained this bleary-eyed, white-flour existence in isolation. I turned off my phone; I let the plants die; and to be honest, it felt great to be absorbed in self-pity. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Nancy’s persistence, I might never have come to the surface, might even have made it through all ten seasons of
Project Runway
, hiding under the cashmere throw.

“Knock, knock,” a muffled voice called from the front porch.

I pulled the throw over my head and muted the television. Billy jumped to his feet. I peeked out, ready to shush him, but was overcome with guilt. He loved people.

“Oh, fine. I’ll get the door,” I said, pausing Heidi Klum mid-tirade. I brushed the Chex mix off my shirt, put in a hair tie, and checked my reflection in the microwave. Scary.

Another knock.

“I know you’re in there, honey. It’s time to come out,” a bright voice called through the oversized pane of wavy glass. The face was obscured, but I knew by her blonde head and deep tan that it was Nancy. “I can see you moving around in there.” I thought about running back to the couch, but had learned enough to know that her next move would be breaking and entering.

I reached for the doorknob and took a deep breath.

“Hi, Nancy,” I croaked.

“There you are. Oh, honey. Let me give you a hug.” She pushed through the door on a cloud of Marc Jacobs Daisy and embraced me, swaying her body and making us dance like we were at an eighth grade formal. When she finally let go, she fanned the air and exclaimed, “Phew, sweet thing, when was the last time you showered?” Then she glided past me, waving a hand in front of her face and scanning my living room. Empty wine bottles, grease-stained pizza boxes, and tissues covered every surface.

“I know this seems intrusive, but honey, I just couldn’t stand it anymore: papers piling up, the shades all drawn. I don’t know the last time I heard a splash in your pool. Frankly, I was worried.” She began gathering the tissues and placing them in an open pizza box. “Of course, I know all about what happened,” she stepped forward and gripped my arms. Then she whispered, “I’ve been there.”

“You have?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine Nancy ever having been in my situation. When I wasn’t feeling so self-consumed, I wanted to hear more about that. I looked down at the wide plank floor, surprised I could still see my feet.

“Sure! Honey, life is just a series of opportunities or setbacks. Depends on how you look at it. Pardon my French, but that Tripp’s an ass! He’s got mommy issues.” I was surprised by her candor and considered smiling, but it took too much effort.

“Now I know you want to hear that he’s a spoiled-rotten, overgrown mama’s boy who will live to regret having left his darling, loyal wife for some flimsy yoga pin-up.” I had to give it to her, she did know all the details. “But listen, everyone’s got their stuff. And right now, you need to pull yourself together for this sweet dog of yours.” Nancy loved Billy as much as my mom did.

“I’ve been taking very good care of him.” I said defensively. Somehow Nancy knew the best way to get through to me was by questioning the health and well-being of Billy.

She clicked her tongue and said, “Come here, you,” putting her face in front of his. “Well, I hope you’re both taking vitamin D, because neither of you has seen the light of day in weeks. That Tripp’s a fool, do you hear me? You’re a lovely girl. And it’s time to join the land of the living. Get out those cute clothes I always see you in. Let’s grab a bite.” I looked down at my crusty sweatpants and Tripp’s once-white button down and cringed. The idea of squeezing my deep-dish, double-cheese body into a pair of jeans was too much.

“Oh, no, Nancy, I’m not feeling well. I think I have the flu.”

“We’ll go out for tea, then. Echinacea, perhaps?”

“I really haven’t been sleeping well. I need to get to bed early tonight.”

“Let’s go now. We’ll only be an hour.”

I had run out of excuses, so in an effort to end the conversation, I promised Nancy I would leave the house the next morning. She looked at me skeptically.

“Okay, dear, eight o’clock sharp. I want to see that garage door open. Go someplace. Fill your cup.”

Damn.

When she was just about down the steps, I called, “Hey Nancy, how’d you hear?”

“Your friend Jenny knocked on my door. Sweet girl. She was worried, and when you wouldn’t answer her calls or the door, she put me on it. I am tenacious, darling. And we women must stick together.” She turned and continued down the steps. “Eight o’clock. And take a shower. You’ll feel better.”

My fear of Nancy’s return got me up and out at 7:56 the next morning. I was dressed for the gym, but what I really wanted was to grab some donuts and go home. No. Scratch that. I wanted Winger and a wide-open field, or a plunge in the icy Deschutes River. The Marin Club’s sauna would have to do, despite the humiliation of showing my body in public. I glanced down at my muffin top. Yep. Time to stop the madness and get a grip on the situation. My dog was depending on me. I had to get healthy. I steered my car toward the club.

“But I refuse to use the treadmill,” I spoke firmly to Billy who looked at me and blinked. Running on a machine to get nowhere was like doing laps in an irrigation pond. I had to draw the line somewhere.

I pulled into the lot of the fanciest “gym” in Marin, which was lined with lemon trees and luxury SUVs. I saw the usual crew of dogs hanging in their rigs, waiting for their owners to finish working out. For a second, I considered dognapping them all; we could run away and start a liberated dog colony, with Billy leading the charge.

“Sorry buddy, I almost forgot. Here you go.” I reached into my purse and gave him the last peanut butter dog biscuit. “I promise we’ll stop by Whole Foods and get more. And don’t worry, something nutritious for me, too.”

Sweet Billy. He didn’t care how tight my waistband had become, whether I liked yoga or knew about fancy wine. I looked him in the eye. “Love you, pal. Thanks for hangin’ in there with me. I’ll get back on my feet, starting with this workout. ‘Healthy body, healthy mind,’ right?” I quoted my mom again. I was finding it much easier to fabricate a conversation in my head than to just pick up the phone and call her. But each time I mustered the courage to tell her what happened, one shameful memory stopped me in my tracks.

We’d invited my parents and Louise to Sonoma, intending to surprise them with the news of our engagement at a friend’s winery. Mom insisted she couldn’t get away because two of her sheep were lambing, and Theo, our retired Appaloosa, had cut his leg on some barbed wire. As a compromise, she reluctantly agreed to drive with Dad and meet us in Portland for dinner. Although clearly not charmed by Louise, Mom managed to be gracious as always, air-kissing her cheeks and exchanging pleasantries at the discovery they would be mothers-in-law. Then right before dessert, she followed me to the bathroom.

“Honey, you know you can take your time.” She was watching me in the mirror as we washed our hands. “There’s no need to rush into this.” Mom dried her hands with a pressed linen towel from the basket beside her. “You’ve only known him for few months, and for goodness sake, you’re only twenty-five.”

“Mom, aren’t you even happy for me?”

“Of course, Alex, but this doesn’t,” she hesitated, “feel right to me. I don’t understand why you can’t give it more time.”

I felt a surge of adrenaline. “Mom, when will you
understand
that I am not you? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life mending fences and knitting blankets. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement to celebrate.”

At the time, I couldn’t admit to my mom, or even myself, that it
did
feel like I was racing with the clock. Any minute, Tripp could decide that he had made a mistake, and deep down, I was afraid he had: why in the world had he picked
me
? Instead, I told her Tripp made big decisions every day and acted quickly because his time was so valuable. Now I cringed, remembering how I’d waved my ring around like Princess Kate and insisted our wedding “couldn’t possibly be at the farm,” because the venue should reflect that our life was “moving
forward
.” Groan. If it would help me outrun the memory of that behavior, maybe I
would
do some treadmill training.

I walked toward the club entrance, fighting the urge to turn and run with every step. I decided on a fifty-minute Spin class that started in ten minutes. I put my head down as I approached the large crowd outside the yoga room.

“Alex, is that
you
?” a high-pitched voice called.

Oh no.

“Yes, it’s me,” I sheepishly scanned the group of bright-eyed, black-clad women waiting to get into “The Zen Room.”

“Are you here for
yoga
?” Jenny appeared at my side. She was bouncing with excitement. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.” She leaned forward and gave me a hug.

I liked Jenny. I really did, but she was Tripp’s best friend’s wife, and honestly, it was excruciating to see her. True, she was my closest friend in Marin, but the fact was we never spent time together without our husbands. Typically, we’d meet up on a Friday night at the dog park then grab dinner together at Sushi Ran. Tripp and Tucker talked squash and market trends, while Jenny and I stuck to fashion and mild gossip. Now that I
was
the gossip, I tried to steer the conversation away from me and toward her dogs, her house, her haircut,
anything
. Her expression was soft and concerned.

“Are you okay? I called at least thirty times and I stopped by,” she whispered, her hand on my arm. “I figured you went back to see your family.”

I felt tears and looked away quickly. I cleared my throat and pointed.

“What’s going on over here? The Dalai Lama in town?”

Thirty or so women and a couple stray men stood in line and looked like they were waiting for a benediction. I knew full well it was “
the
yoga class” everyone talked about. But I was relying on the fact that any mention of it would unleash a conversation-monopolizing cascade of praise for the teacher and his techniques.

Please Jenny, talk about anything but me. Even yoga
.

“Ha! You’re so funny. No, this is Galen’s class! The one I’ve wanted you to try. Are you coming in?”

I scanned the crowd. Some people were elaborately contorting their bodies, while others chatted casually. I thought of Mom’s impromptu yoga classes when I was a kid and her embarrassing information table at the 4H Community Fair. Her homemade posters were printed with long, strange words that accompanied photos of her demonstrating “Various Classic Yoga Poses.” It was mortifying, especially in the eighth grade when Nicole Barnes circulated a note that read, “Mrs. Greene is into Voodoo.” Haley later made a public statement in the cafeteria that Nicole’s mother was a frumpy bore, and she was clearly jealous. By that time, Haley had gotten used my mother and her New Agey-ness. I, on the other hand, continued to beg her to find a new hobby.

“No, Jenny, I haven’t changed my mind. I’m taking a Spin class next door,” I replied, backing away from her and her yoga mat that was beginning to look like a weapon.

“Oh, you’ve
got
to try Galen’s class. It’s amazing. He’s the teacher everyone’s talking about. We’re so lucky that the Club snagged him to teach here once a week and bring his magic to Marin. Please, Alex? You can’t know ‘til you try it.” Two women on either side of Jenny bobbed their heads up and down in agreement.

I’m sorry, but “magic”? I had to wonder if there was some sort of David Koresh syndrome going on. Even Tripp was under some sort of patchouli oil spell that drained him of all his common sense. The tide of my indignation was rising, first as shame, then anger, then a gripping heartache that made me want to sprint for the door, my couch, and my remote. I steadied myself on the wall next to me.

Jenny squeezed my arm. “You stay here. I’ll run down to sign you up. Trust me. You’ll love it. You
need
it—especially after all you’ve been through. Hip-opening poses are great for emotional trauma.” Her voice lowered to a whisper again, and she took a step forward to close the gap I had put between us. “You guys will work it out. Come on. Give yoga a shot. For your marriage.”

I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. Was she suggesting that my acceptance of yoga and its miraculous gifts could have prevented all this?

“Really, thanks, Jenny, but I just want to work out. You know, sweat and get out of my head.”

“Alex, if you want to get out of your head and sweat, believe me, yoga is what you need.” I was clearly losing this battle. “You’ll learn about non-attachment. Those thoughts you’re thinking aren’t really YOU anyway. The real you is in here.” She placed both hands over her heart. Now I was starting to feel embarrassed for her, too, but our audience seemed to share her sentiments.

Jenny reached behind her and grabbed a woman holding a bottle of some very murky drink. “Alex, you remember my friend Tessa? She just went through something very similar to what you did, and the asana—that’s Sanskrit for poses,” she said smiling at Tessa, “really helped her let go of stress and find a way back to her Authentic Self.”

‘Authentic Self’? I flashed back to the bathroom with Tripp. His half-naked Authentic Self, telling me to find mine. I felt like screaming. Tessa smiled, reached out, squeezed my hand and whispered, “You will love Galen. He has changed my life. Oops, did I spill on you?” It smelled like vinegar and feet.

I tried to wipe it off. “What
is
that?”

“Kombucha. Speeds the metabolism and restores alkaline balance,” she answered, offering me a sip. I shook my head and forced a smile, trying to avoid the smell; maybe this was the potion that had everyone under a spell. I looked at my watch. I was about to miss my Spin class. Or worse, end up in back by the mirror, faced with my ever-expanding thighs.

“Okay, then, girls. Enjoy your class. I’ll be next door,” I said firmly, freeing myself from Tessa’s grasp.

“I’ll call you soon, Alex. Answer!” called Jenny as I ducked through the crowd.