Dear Emily (10 page)

Someday.

T
he day after. There was always a
day after
when a disaster occurred. Emily peered through the miniblinds in the kitchen to her outside world. It was morning, the young sun was already a glorious ball in the sky. The dark night was over. Had she slept through it? How did she get to this hour of a new day? She looked around to see if there was a wine bottle on the table, but there wasn’t. There were a lot of cigarette stubs in three overflowing ashtrays, lots of coffee grounds spilled on the counter and floor, lots and lots of bread crumbs all over the kitchen. She was wearing the same clothes she’d worn yesterday; at least she thought they were the same clothes. The Federal Express envelope and Ian’s letter were still on the table, staring up at her like two square, hateful eyes.

She was numb, her eyes puffy and red, her ribs hurting from all the crying and sobbing. Her feet and hands hurt. She must have hit or kicked something. All in the name of sick, obsessive love and a pile of white shirts.

Yesterday she’d thought there were no more tears to shed. How wrong that was. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She was never going to see Ian again. She’d never been truly alone in her life before. She’d gone from her parents’ home to life with Ian. How was she going to live? The world stopped for a second when you hit forty, time enough to get your bearings, then time picked up its feet and raced toward that goal no one wanted to reach. “You’re born to die,” she muttered.

Mendenares. She would call him today for an appointment. She’d go in, get on the couch, wail and moan for three sessions before anything constructive came out. “So, who needs him?” The attorney she’d gone to see might be able to make sense out of this. Emily snorted. One had to be deaf and dumb as well as blind not to see what had happened. “So, who needs him?” Ian really thought she was going to file for a divorce. “Well, think again, you son of a bitch. If you want a divorce,
you
get it!”

In some foggy recess, way in the back of her mind, she knew she and she alone had to deal with this. By herself. She’d dragged herself down to this point in time, with Ian’s help. Now, because Ian was gone, she was alone and she had to crawl up and out of her pit.

Why hadn’t she seen this coming the past year? Maybe if she’d moved into the yellow room, maybe if she’d stayed in the basement, this wouldn’t have happened.

Emily ran to the windowless bathroom and turned on the light. She had to see the other Emily Thorn, the real Emily Thorn. She jabbed a finger at the mirror. Her eyes narrowed as she backed out of the bathroom. She was in the kitchen again, her back to the gas range. She reached behind her for the tea kettle, grasped it firmly, and headed back to the bathroom. “I hate you, you bitch!” she shouted. “I never want to see you again.” The tea kettle sailed through the air. The mirror shattered into thousands of sparkling shards of glass. She stepped back just in time. When the glittering pieces littered the floor, Emily thumbed her nose at the blank wall with its globs of dried cement and bellowed, “You don’t exist anymore, Emily Thorn!” She slammed the door shut.

“And what did that little tantrum get you, Mrs. Thorn?” She had to stop talking to herself. Or were you allowed to talk to yourself and it was only bad when you answered yourself? Whatever it was, she didn’t care. So, the old Emily Thorn was dead, she’d smashed her to nothing. Now she had to come up with a new, improved version. Was she losing it? Was she going off the deep end? Only time would tell. The spatula was suddenly in her hand. “You’re born right now, Emily Thorn.” She tapped herself on the head three times. “Happy birthday! You’re alive. You are reasonably healthy. You are overweight. You are alone, which makes you a free spirit, and free spirits are not accountable to anyone. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want.”

She was exhausted. What was on her schedule for today? Gardening in the morning, two classes in the afternoon, grocery shopping, cooking dinner, studying. “Yeah, well, that was yesterday’s schedule. No more schedules, no more busy time, no more anything that had to do directly or indirectly with Dr. Ian Thorn.”

Emily marched upstairs into the bedroom she had not shared with her husband. It was dark and somber. She ripped at the hunter green comforter, at the matching drapes. She carried them out to the top of the steps and pushed them over the railing. She made four more trips with sheets, Ian’s leftovers. The laundry basket on the floor in the linen closet was stuffed full of white shirts. They went over the railing too. She couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken Ian to fold the shirts that had hung in the closet. He must have packed his things when she was at class.

Don’t think about Ian. Fix this room so you can sleep here. You have to sleep here. This room is part of what happened; you have to come to terms with it. Clean the bathroom, make the bed, make it
your
room now.

Emily followed her own orders. She put on a baggy jogging suit, brushed at her cropped hair, and went downstairs to make fresh coffee. No breakfast today. Today was Day One of Ms. Emily Thorn’s new life.

As she drank her black coffee, Emily made a list of things she wanted to do for the day. Go to the library, the bookstore, the vegetable market, the grocery store. Clean out the refrigerator, get rid of all the fattening foods, go to Herman’s sporting goods store. The bank had to be her first stop. Set aside some time to go through records, providing Ian left records to go through. Think about framing Ian’s letter. Better yet, maybe she should tack it to the wall and throw darts at it.

It was four o’clock when Emily returned to the house on Sleepy Hollow Road, her car full of purchases that took a half hour to carry into the house. She felt pleased with herself until she entered the kitchen and reality slapped at her. Always before, she knew Ian would be home
some
time during the day. Now she had to deal with the fact that he was never going to walk through the door again. Think positive, Emily, think about all those damn white shirts you are never going to have to iron again.

She made coffee, cleaned up the grounds because she was not a sloppy person. She marked the calendar, the first day of her new diet, one she would stick to or die trying. She was going to exercise too. One of the Herman’s employees was going to drop off the treadmill and the exercycle she’d purchased.

A brand new day. The
first
day of Emily Thorn’s new life. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to do it,” she said aloud.

Emily stared down at the bags and bags of groceries she’d purchased. She had at least fifty cans of tuna fish, seven boxes of tissues, bags of apples, oranges, celery, and carrots. Two whole bags full of diet drinks and two bags of Evian water. Ten pounds of coffee and five boxes of herbal tea. Four boxes of artificial sweetener. A new scale whose huge, digital numbers glared up at her like red eyes. Two bottles of super-duper vitamins guaranteed to fill her body full of energy. She felt a wild burst of confidence, then scotch-taped Ian’s letter on the bulletin board next to the phone. She tripped over the bags in her frenzied search for the darts she’d picked up at the hardware store. Eight darts. She stood back, took aim, and missed every single time. Well, she’d do better next time. Besides, it was good exercise to bend down to pick them up. She felt pleased with herself.

The refrigerator was a definite challenge. She tossed everything into huge, green lawn bags and then dragged them outside. Who in her right mind kept seven gallons of ice cream in the freezer? Who in her right mind kept dozens of frozen pies and cakes next to the ice cream? Who in her right mind kept bags and bags of chips, candies, and cookies in the cabinet? Obviously, she was the guilty one. So, I wasn’t in my right mind for a long time. I’m going to get through this, I really am. She felt dizzy with the declaration.

She washed out the bare refrigerator and stocked it. It looked good. All the vegetables and fruits were washed, the vegetables pared into snack-size bites and placed in Ziploc bags. The fruit went into a huge bowl on the kitchen table.

Done.

Now, where was the exercise equipment going to go? In Ian’s office, of course. Because, she told herself, there’s a television set and VCR that I can watch while I’m doing my exercises. She pulled and tugged, shoved and grunted as she put her ample rump up against Ian’s desk to shove it through the deep pile of the carpet to the far side of the room.

Done.

Back in the kitchen she poured a third cup of coffee and fired up a cigarette. She was going to quit smoking too, but not just yet. If she tried too much, she’d probably kill herself. But, she would quit, she promised herself. She threw all eight darts and nicked the letter once, but the darts fell to the floor. She bent down, picked them all up, and placed them in the corner.

She was so hungry her stomach was growling. This then was her first major challenge. She devoured a whole bag of the cut vegetables and ate two cans of tuna. She munched down two apples and still wasn’t satisfied. She made a cup of herbal tea and tossed in the contents of three Equal packets. God, it was so sweet, so delicious, so satisfying, she made a second cup. Any other time she would have eaten her way through a box of Twinkies or half a frozen pie. She still wanted to do that, but she wasn’t going to. Willpower was half the battle.

“I hate you, Ian Thorn, for doing this to me. I hate you.” He didn’t do this to you, you did it to yourself. Yes, he left you. He saw that Emily Thorn you saw in the bathroom mirror. But he didn’t make you what you are, grossly fat, a martyr. You did that to yourself because you have no guts. Get it together, Ms. Thorn, or you ain’t goin’ anywhere.

“All right already,” Emily said, slapping the palms of her hands on the table. I did it, but I did it because he…because he…didn’t love me. He had a part in this. He’s to blame too. He sucked my life’s blood is what he did.

“He took the best years of my life and trampled them, then put me out to pasture like some old cow who can’t give milk anymore.”

Rage, unlike anything she’d ever experienced in her life, rivered through her. Somewhere in this house, unless Ian took it with him, was a copy of his medical license. Where did she put it when she moved here? She gouged her way through all the downstairs closets. When she finally found it, she smashed the glass on the doorknob and ripped the diploma from the frame, a triumphant look on her face. She stormed her way to the kitchen and scotch-taped it next to Ian’s letter. Over and over, until her arm was tired, she threw the darts, picked them up, and threw them again.

Emily heard the doorbell ring at nine-thirty. She supervised the placement of her treadmill and exercycle, tipped the boy, and locked up for the night.

Emily stared at the machines for a long time. Today was the beginning of a new regime in her life. It was late; should she exercise or not? Better to wait till tomorrow. Somewhere she’d read that a person shouldn’t exercise before bedtime. It made sense. She was too tired, could barely keep her eyes open. She opted for a warm bath and bed. Tomorrow was a new day too.

Emily’s sleep was invaded by demons, all of whom wore Ian’s smiling face. When she staggered downstairs, she felt more tired than she had before she’d turned in for the night.

She made coffee, lit a cigarette, put a check next to the list she’d made for cigarette consumption. She wasn’t ready to quit, but she was going to cut down. When she scoffed down a melon that was hard as a rock, she daydreamed about mainlining double chocolate Oreo cookies. In times past she’d eaten a whole bag at one sitting. Oreo cookies, like Twinkies, were things that belonged in the past with the old Emily Thorn.

Emily poured a second cup of coffee, lit a second cigarette, and dutifully checked her list. Finances. She had to deal with whatever it was Ian had left her. She hoped he’d left the files, prayed he wasn’t bastard enough to make her flounder through the bureaucracy of mortgage companies and banks.

In Ian’s office that still smelled like Ian, Emily went through the desk drawers systematically until she found everything she needed. A vision of Ian sitting at the desk writing out checks flashed in front of her. She made her way back to the kitchen, lit a third cigarette, forgot to mark it down as she opened first one folder and then the other.

Two cups of coffee and three cigarettes later she knew she had a financial problem. The house on Sleepy Hollow Road carried a twenty-five-hundred-dollar-a-month mortgage payment. The shore house had a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar mortgage. Household daily expenses, including food, ran to well over a thousand a month. To keep the electricity, water, and phone turned on at the shore house cost another two hundred and fifty dollars. The car insurance was so outrageous she squeezed her eyes shut. Life insurance and health insurance premiums caused her heart to palpitate. So much money. How in the world was she to live? Even if she worked around the clock cocktail waitressing, she wouldn’t make a dent in the bills. She would have to sell everything just to keep up her life and health insurance. Maybe she could sell the cars and get a good secondhand one and not carry collision insurance. She could get a part-time job to pay for her food and rent if she moved into an apartment. The cars would net some serious money if she was able to sell them. It didn’t make sense—Ian had paid cash for cars but wouldn’t pay cash for the house. Obviously it had had something to do with write-offs. Then there was her jewelry and the furs she’d never worn. She looked at the appraisal forms and knew she’d never get what they were worth. Then again, maybe she’d get lucky and she would sell them to the first person who showed up at the door.

Emily rummaged until she found the passbook savings account. There was one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in it. She blinked in stunned surprise. For some reason she’d thought there would be a lot less. She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh of relief. According to Ian’s letter, her personal account held ten thousand dollars. Thank God she wasn’t going to be out on the street in the next week. She had breathing room now. Time to make decisions she could live with, time she could take to get her life into some kind of sane order. Time to try and make over the Emily Thorn in the bathroom mirror, the Emily Thorn Ian had rejected.