Authors: Olivia Black
Falling Forward (3 page)
I couldn’t deal with work that day, so I called in sick. Mental health day. Yes, that is absolutely a legitimate and acceptable reason to call in sick. No one in their right mind wants an emotional disaster representing their company, especially in medicine. My boss completely understood.
Later that day, after several attempts at casual reading always resulting in short naps, I poured myself another glass of Riesling. The treadmill in the downstairs office was collecting dust. I hated running inside. I wanted to leave and go run on the beach, but I was still afraid to go outside. I didn’t yet know what story I’d deliver to my neighbors, not that anything I said would matter. I knew it was only a matter of time before the press would converge upon me for my commentary, only to cleverly edit sound bites that would completely distort any truth I tried to convey. People will believe what’s printed in the news regardless of its veracity. I was stuck inside this beautiful house. Ironically, my home had become my prison.
I hated the idea of moving again. This was my dream home – and more importantly, my dream kitchen. I spent roughly four years searching Pinterest and visiting model homes all over the country while planning this kitchen. I painstakingly designed the layout over forty times until I came up with the layout that worked for me. It was important that both Richard and I could work in the kitchen simultaneously without bumping butts. It took months to choose each and every material, color, and appliance. I never realized it was such a messy pain in the ass to install a pasta sink. I suppose I should have decided that before the tile guy finished the travertine floor and Italian slate backsplash for the second or third time. I think Richard and I may have paid his child’s college tuition with all the work we had him do. The thought of starting over was quite unpleasant.
But I knew there was no way I could stay in this home. I have seen people attempt to overcome several different types of embarrassing social situations, and it never works. Things get progressively worse. The rumors fly, the stories get modified by bored stay-at-home mothers, and before you know it, regardless of my guilt, I have magically become the evil human sacrifice witch who lives in the haunted house at the end of the street who captures small children and cooks them on weekends.
I stared at the Blue Heron on the small shore of the lake beyond my back patio. I wondered if I followed him, where I would land. Maybe he had the answers. Little turtles poked their heads out all around the lake as if they were reminding me to toss their daily fish food to them. I wondered how they’d fare without my daily offering.
As I was somewhere between reality and daydreaming, there was knock at the front door that startled me. I nearly dropped my wine glass, spilling some on my hands and on to the floor. My front door is clear glass, so you can see clear across my house to the lake from the front door. I had planned it that way. But this design didn’t offer much privacy on the first level. I never guessed I’d need it. As I grabbed a towel to dry my hands and wipe the floor, I tried to sneak a peek around the kitchen wall to see who it was. Reporters? More police? Nosey neighbors? In the near distance, I could see my neighbors in their driveways sneakily peering over to see inside my house. I gazed a little further, but no one was there. Good. Hopefully they gave up. Maybe it was a knock and run thing done by one of the inadequately supervised teenaged neighbor kids.
My phone vibrated on the counter. I dreaded viewing the scores of voicemail transcriptions and text messages I had received as I tried to avoid the outside world, but I decided to look anyway. “Let me in!” said the text message from my best friend, Michelle. I texted back, “GO OUT BACK.” She replied, “WHY ARE YOU YELLING?” referring to the all-caps text I’d sent her. I’d do that once in a while, usually not on purpose. Apparently, it’s illegal or worse to text with all capital letters. I didn’t get what the problem was. Michelle tiptoed around back and I opened the sliders just enough to let her in, then quickly slammed the door shut and locked it.
“Are you alright?” she asked. Michelle had a dead serious look on her face. “Jesus, Olivia, it’s like a carnival out there. Your neighbors are sitting on lawn chairs in their driveways drinking and carrying on. It’s like a party out there! And when I drove up and got out of my car, shit, I haven’t had that many looks since I pole danced on that cruise ship.” She smacked my arm softly. “Remember that night, you little whore?” she asked jokingly. Michelle was a goofball with a terrific sense of humor. But her straighter than usual face was disturbing to me – I hadn’t seen this since her last divorce.
Michelle had beautiful ice-green eyes accented by shoulder length dark brown hair. Her bright eyes kind of popped, contrasted by her always tanned skin. I swear she could see right through me. She always dressed in cute dresses or skirts with some kind of heels to accent her drop dead sexy legs. It was fitting that she was wearing a black dress, as if she already knew she was coming to my funeral. Her heels helped disguise what she considered “her vertical challenge” – Michelle was only 5’3”. When she wore flats, her taller friends playfully called her
Oompa Loompa
. I told her to hang on for a minute, because this would be a long story. I poured her a glass of wine and we tiptoed through the butler’s pantry and up the back side of the stairs to my suite for a little more privacy.
Michelle was married too. A couple of times, as a matter of fact. Although I was a new recruit, she was a veteran in the war against the unfaithful. I’m sure she had some valuable advice that I had ignored at some point in the past. For some reason, she couldn’t seem to pick good men. She had always gone for the tallest and most handsome guys, even though everyone else was going for them too. She was well aware her fishing pond was shallow – there weren’t nearly as many available men with those qualities as those without; and with every year that passed, she was competing with fisherwomen who were now two decades younger. That never stopped Michelle. She seemed to enjoy the game – the challenge of trying to catch things that were very well-fed and often disinterested. I had to believe she was at least slightly happy that she now had a buddy in the same boat. Now, I thought, for the first time, I could truly empathize. I had noticed she had matured and become wiser with each of her messy divorces. At this point, Michelle knew more about divorce law than most attorneys in this state. She’d be a terrific counselor, and I knew I would need considerable guidance in these uncharted waters.
Michelle’s current husband is wonderful. Joe is a bit older, I think he’s six or seven years her senior. He’s wise, funny, caring, giving – just an all-around wonderful guy. There’s nothing fake about him, and I especially appreciate that. He’s not the tallest or richest or best looking guy in town, which must have been a huge compromise for Michelle. It’s not that Joe is awful, it just that it’s obvious to me that it took Michelle many tries to bring her appearance bar low enough to find someone whose soul is worthy of her amazing beauty and energy. Although Michelle masquerades well, for the first time in her life, I could tell she was truly content in a relationship. Joe wasn’t nearly as narcissistic as Tom or even Micah. She told me Micah had a nightly ritual that included shaving his chest, and, well, let’s leave it at certain other unspeakable parts of his body. And then there was the anti-aging face crème thing. Michelle wasn’t necessarily ecstatic, or not overwhelmed, but she was undoubtedly happy with Joe. I could see it in her eyes.
Like a teenage crush prying to see how far my story had already travelled, I had to ask. “So what do you know?”
“Well, I know your sassy butt wasn’t at work this morning. Just because it’s your BIRTHDAY doesn’t mean you can run around willy-nilly and do whatever you want.” I was so glad she remembered. I badly needed that diversion. That’s a true friend. My vendors hadn’t even called this year – or maybe they had. I hadn’t checked my phone all day.
Michelle reached up on her toes to put her arm around me and spoke like a man. “Some of us have jobs to do, buddy. But, it’s probably a good thing, because you avoided some B.S., and maybe a reporter. Or two.” She paused and took a sip. “Or maybe a few more. Shit, there were like five vans at one point,” she said as she looked up and to the left. Michelle paused. I felt small again. She knew it. She took her arm off my shoulders and smacked me in the butt. “But whatever. There was some crap on the news about Richard. I still don’t believe it. But, seeing as Rich isn’t
here
…” Michelle had a wonderful way of making any situation seem a little brighter. She walked around the bedroom as if nothing was wrong and appeared to be playing hide and go seek looking for Richard. When she peered around the closet entrance and yelled “Marco!” I couldn’t help but laugh for the first time today. Michelle came back and sat on the bed next to me. She gave me a big warm hug. That helped a lot.
For the next two hours, I recapped my entire marriage and tried to figure out how all the pieces fell into place. Michelle didn’t say a word – she mostly nodded, and that’s all I was looking for. We went through three bottles of wine. We talked about all the strangely timed “fishing trips” and “golf outings” both our former husbands would routinely take with little notice. I began to envy my neighbors, Chuck and Tina. They seemed to do everything together. It was rare when we didn’t see the two of them in the same car. Chuck really pissed Richard off when he’d talk about how boring both fishing and golf were, and how it was curious that so many men feel they’re entitled to completely abandon any responsibility and take several silly fishing expeditions to the Bahamas or golf trips to Georgia where wives were never invited.
“Oh, and check these out.” I grabbed my purse and tossed the nasty panties on the floor. “Found them under the seat in his car.” Michelle carefully picked them up by their tiny elastic waistband and looked at the size. “Hot pink thong? What, is she like fifteen years old? No wonder he’s in jail! Who wears shit like this?” She took them to the garbage can and threw them away, then plopped herself back on my bed.
“You can settle in here, buy a few muumuus at Target, and get one of those old-lady
I give up
haircuts. You know – the ones where they shave a box out of the back of your head and leave the rest at about man-length?” Michelle scratched her head and then put her forefinger on her chin. “Or… do you want to know what I think? I think it’s time to find out who the
new
Olivia is. Know what? Pack your shit. Let’s get the fuck out of here and see what the world has to offer.”
Michelle didn’t need to ask twice. I smiled as I grabbed an overnight bag, but Michelle stopped me. “Honey, you’re gonna need a little more than that. Like at least two weeks’ worth.” I told her I can’t get off for two weeks. I had a lot to do before I left my job. Transitioning cancer patients was a heavy responsibility. Besides, I didn’t have any luggage for a trip like that. My old luggage had disintegrated in the garage a few years back, and I didn’t have the need to replace it.
Michelle told me she had already cleared it with our boss. “Lisa said you have your own cancer, Olivia. She told me it’s time to get you some treatment.” Apparently, Lisa had been through something like this and was extremely sympathetic. I smiled as I began to pack, and Michelle stopped me again. “Know what? Forget packing. Let’s just go and we’ll get shit when we get there.”
Richard and I had always talked about doing that – dropping everything and heading to the airport, booking the first available flight to anywhere with nothing more than what’s on our backs, and buying a week’s worth of clothes when we arrived at our destination. We called it an
adventure
. We had never got to do it, and that made me sad for a moment. Michelle wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but I had a sneaking suspicion my Hawaiian dream vacation was about to come true. I packed a small carry-on with some hair stuff and personal items. You never know how these long flights end up, so I brought a change of clothes too. And a couple pair of sandals.
We got in Michelle’s car and headed for her place. Mrs. Rodriguez was still tending to her flowerbeds, glaring at us as we pulled away. That was the most normal thing that happened to me on my 42nd birthday. And for that dirty look, I was thankful. There was a news van sitting outside our gate, probably trying to ring my home. I ducked down as they looked our way. Got out of there just in time. They’ll probably interview all my neighbors, and just for fun, they’ll all describe what kind of monsters Richard and I were, even though we didn’t really know any of them. I expected that.
Michelle lived about twenty minutes away in an area known as “Beachside,” on a barrier island that ran twenty or thirty miles long and was connected to the mainland by a couple of causeways. The strangest thing about this area was its complete social isolation. Although only ten or so minutes apart, the beachside people rarely did anything on the mainland and vice versa. I can’t remember the last time I went to the beach. Growing up near the Jersey Shore, my opinion on beaches was severely jaded. There are no attractions here, no boardwalks, and no amusement parks. I can count on one hand the amount of oceanfront restaurants. Richard and I had discussed purchasing some land and opening a business on the beach, but we had heard on several occasions the beach towns are completely opposed to any sort of development. The last thing any of them wanted was to become the new Spring Break destination. Many of the beaches had now become so entirely boring that several of them form a chain that’s now a vast ghetto, except during car shows or motorcycle weeks. But even that was showing signs of waning.
Michelle and Joe lived right on the beach in a small two-story house just south of the main strip. Joe’s family had been here for years, and they bought this property when oceanfront property was still cheap. It’s worth quite a bit today – Michelle and Joe could retire if they sold. But they’ll never sell. They’re both in love with that every rickety square inch of that house. The home has a small gate in front that we had to manually unlatch. Their driveway extends from a narrow road about fifty feet back on a trail filled with palms and sea oats. It was like driving through a rain forest. Michelle was always worried about snakes. She pulled up in front of the steps leading to the second floor. We got out and Joe was standing by the door waving us in. He had two steaming mugs of hot chocolate waiting for us. Joe gave me a hug, smiled at Michelle, and didn’t say a single word as he walked out of the room back into their bedroom. Sometimes saying nothing can be extremely therapeutic.
