Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing (5 page)

It was their third Christmas as husband and wife when they both acknowledged they were meant for different paths. The sign came when she gave him a $1,500 pocket watch with his favorite Bob Marley quote engraved inside:

“Don’t worry about a thing, every little thing is gonna be all right.”

What did he get her? A painted cigar box filled with “honey-do” coupons and handwritten love notes. Weren’t those items a given when you are married? She’d never been more offended. The couple argued about it for three days, ignored each other for two, went to therapy once, and pretended the problem was solved.

They made love that night, more as an unspoken swan song to their relationship than a commitment to fixing it. Hadley moved out the next week.

A month later, the universe delivered a message. Mary The
resa became nauseated right before a department presentation. She thought nerves had caused her queasiness, but when it happened again throughout the week, she went to the doctor and learned Rocky and Lucy were on the way. She phoned Hadley from the doctor’s parking lot and by dinnertime, he had moved back in.

For all practical purposes, she should have been terrified, but all she could think of was that silly Bob Marley quote. She felt like maybe every little thing would be all right. For once, she felt relieved. Ecstatic was more like it. Those days without him were flavorless, uneventful blocks of blah. Once they reunited, they kissed and agreed to swap $100 gift cards for Christmas from then on.

Unfortunately, the arguments escalated throughout the years. It started when, because neither one wanted to send the children to day care, one of them had to resign and become a stay-at-home parent. Mary Theresa figured since she made more money, he should be the one. One afternoon, she brought up the topic and left an opening for him to volunteer, but he didn’t. So… she suggested he quit. When he balked, she pulled out a five-year-plan diagram that showed how much money they would lose if she stayed home. He didn’t take kindly to her plan, but went with it. Each day had been a challenge ever since.

But through all the fights, deep down, she knew he loved her. And he knew she loved him. At least, she thought he knew.

She put a small forkful of potatoes in her mouth and turned to see Hadley jogging into the dining room. He spun around on his tiptoes, rocked his shoulders, and bobbed his head to the spastic groove of Coltrane’s free-form jazz. “All righty, los niños are tucked in; now it’s time for
us,
” he said, throwing out a finger-point in her direction. All of a sudden, his posture went limp.

“Aw, Mary Theresa, you didn’t wait? I wanted us to eat together. It’s the first night in a long time you’re eating dinner at the table. I wanted to make it romantic and relaxing. Didn’t you notice the two place settings?”

She was all for relaxing too, but couldn’t because his music drove her bonkers.
Seriously, how long is each song?
she thought.
And why didn’t he say he wanted us to eat together when he shoved me in this chair?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was so hungry, it all looked so good…”

“Aw, no worries,” he replied. “How does it taste?”

“Everything is delicious,” she said, trying for optimism. “The broccoli is excellent, but the potatoes are a bit salty. Did you stick to the recipe? Oh, darn, I just lost count of my chews!”

Out of her peripheral vision, she witnessed Hadley frown.

“According to the American Medical Association,” she explained, “we’re supposed to chew each bite between twenty and thirty times for proper digestion.”

Hadley chuckled and reached for one of the tapestry-covered dining chairs, parked it close to her, and then stroked her chin. “I love you, Mary Theresa.”

What a pleasant surprise. She didn’t expect that. Her stomach tingled, and not from the aroma of the pumpkin pie.

“I love you too, honey,” she whispered back, her eyes moist with happy tears. The saxophone tune in the background slowed to a smooth pace she could appreciate.

He clasped her hand. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Hadley rested his nose on hers. It had to be the most intimate moment they had shared in months.

“I finished my class this week,” he said. “I was wondering if you had a chance to enroll in yours.”

Mary Theresa ripped her hand away, stood up, and began to clear the table.
How dare he ruin the night?
she thought. Set her up like that only to make her feel like she wasn’t doing her part for their marriage. She marched into the kitchen and, with trembling hands, scraped the full trays of food into the trash bin. Her breathing quickened and she felt her face heat up from the anger.

At the latest session, their marriage counselor gave the fractured couple an “assignment.” Hadley was to enroll in a life-coaching program to assist him with establishing goals and deadlines. Mary Theresa’s task? To “foster her spontaneity” and join some kind of “rule-free” creativity class such as mixed-media collage or abstract painting. Mary Theresa did not see an ounce of value in the exercise, and she cringed at the thought of taking time away from work to create New Age woo-woo crafts. She hoped Hadley would disregard the idea, like he did with all her ideas for running a more efficient household.

However, he loved the assignment and completed his courses straightaway.
Of course,
she thought,
Hadley had every day of the week free while the kids were at school. How hard could it be to care and cook for them?
She could only imagine what he did to pass the time. Probably dance around the house, listening to his crazy jazz. She, on the other hand, pulled in sixty-hour workweeks. Not only did she have to meet her own quota at the office, but make sure her team members did as well. By the time her weary body made it home, all she wanted to do was collapse and recharge for the next day.

Mary Theresa didn’t think the assignment was fair. In her mind, she didn’t need a class to foster her spontaneity. If she had the time, she’d be spontaneous! She marched back to the table, loaded up her arms with stacks of serving dishes, and dumped them on the kitchen counter. She couldn’t even look at him, she was so furious.

Hadley chewed on his bottom lip, slouched against the beige kitchen wall, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at the tile floor.

“I guess that means no,” he deadpanned.

“Of course not!” she snapped. “I’m a horrible wife and mother, remember?” She then ripped open the dishwasher door and turned to face him. “How dare you make me feel guilty. I’m the one bringing in the income around here. If it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t have this beautiful house, or the means to serve this expensive, sodium-laden dinner.”

She didn’t only open Pandora’s box, she dumped it over his head.

Hadley clenched his fists at his sides, pursed his lips, and stepped into her personal space. Now
his
face turned bright red. Mary Theresa expected him to holler, so she braced herself. But instead, he took a long, deep breath and then blew it out, as if to release as much hostility as possible.

“It wasn’t my idea for you to be the breadwinner,” he said slowly, accentuating every syllable. “You make up the rules and chisel them in marble. I didn’t have a choice. I never have a choice.” His tone sped up the more he explained his feelings. “I never asked for this house. All I ever wanted was peace of mind and most of all, love—but that isn’t enough for you. Every day you get up with the roosters and leave without kissing your son and daughter good-bye. Your idea of cariños is a chore list on this overpriced refrigerator that you barely open. Or self-help books on the kitchen table for me to read. Everything with you is about lists, rules, schedules, and critiques, on and on and on. I’m sick of it. I’m ready for a change.”

Mary Theresa wasn’t buying it, but did agree on one thing.

“We both need change,” she said. “With all we have going on, we need structure… you think some silly art class is sup
posed to help me? Come to think of it—how was
your
organization class supposed to help me?”

“It’s supposed to help
us,
” Hadley replied, holding back his fury, proven by the bulging veins on his forehead. “Don’t you see? It’s not the class itself, it’s the act of taking the step, meeting halfway, making a sacrifice. Why can’t you lighten up? Let go and, God forbid, have a bit of fun. Mary Theresa, we’re only thirty-five, but we look forty-five from the stress. Can you honestly say you’re satisfied with this life right now? Do you want our children growing up thinking this is how a normal household is? They need their mother. The way it stands now, you’re more like the house warden.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, leaving only the controlled chaos of Coltrane between them. At that moment, Mary Theresa hated Hadley as much as she hated his stupid music. She covered her ears and ran out of the kitchen. Her reasoning couldn’t keep up with her emotions. Her feet carried her swiftly to Hadley’s prized stereo system, having no clue what she was about to do. She watched as her hands pried open the smoky gray plastic cover of the turntable and flipped it up. Her thin fingers clasped the needle and tore it from its hinges. Next, she snatched the album, snapped it in half, and pitched it across the room.

She panted so hard from anger, she worried she might be having a heart attack. But the thought vanished as soon as she heard Rocky shriek from upstairs. The argument had woken up the kids. She closed her eyes and counted to two, and as always, Lucy started up next. Together, their cries mimicked an ambulance siren.

Hadley was nowhere to be seen, but Mary Theresa heard footsteps coming down the stairs and the cries getting closer. It was him, with one kid over each shoulder.

“We’re spending the night at my mom’s,” he said, grabbing his wallet and car keys.

More than anything in the world, Mary Theresa wished she could have rolled back the clock. She’d never, in all her life, acted out so violently before. She didn’t want them to leave.

“Honey, please… stay, I’m sorry,” she begged, running up behind him, reaching for his arm, or at least a pinch of his shirt. She began to sob when he brushed her hand away. “Please… I’m sorry, don’t go. There’s an article in my new
O Magazine
about how to handle meltdowns. I’ll read it and do it so this doesn’t happen again! I’ll buy you a new record, I’ll do my assignment, I promise, Hadley. I love you. Please stay… I’m begging you!”

His eyes filled with tears as well, but he shook his head and walked outside. The kids’ sobs downgraded to sniffles, but they hung on to him for dear life. All three of them stared at her as if she were an alien with two heads.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mary Theresa,” he whispered, right before he shut the door between them.

Thursday, November 24, 2:45 a.m.

Leaving the Nest

Hi-de-ho, Daisy dillies!

It’s Thanksgiving night and I’m going to share a Daisy ditty about gratitude, kindness, karma, family—and never giving up faith in your vision. I must admit, my cyber duchesses, this post is as much to help me, as you.

First I’ll start with thank-yous to all of you for visiting DaisyForever.com. We’re up to 100+ reader comments a day, and it feels good to know I’m channeling Daisy’s spirit to do good in the world! She is the dandelion, I’m the one blowing, and all of you are carrying her artful message, one-by-one, far and wide.

Here is the question I present today:
How do your personal goals contrast with what your family has in mind for you?

I come from a large, loving brood that only wants the best for me—as long as it conforms to their definition of “best.” Earlier this evening, somewhere between the pumpkin pie and drying the dishes with my sister, I had
a bit of a heated conversation with my parents about my Daisy daydreams and how they fit into my future. Even with the success of this website, my coveted gig at Carly Fontaine Studio, and my acceptance into the Johnny Scissors program, every time I’m around my family I feel like I’m in high school all over again. The insecure, chubby math geek with braces, wearing her handmade vintage-inspired clothes, carrying around a sewing basket and a graphing calculator.

I’m not that girl anymore.

Are you like me, and feel like you’re alone in your quest for greatness? Rather than sulk and toot a cardboard horn at a one-person pity party, we must funnel the frustration into ambition. Tonight I came to the conclusion that to earn respect from my inner circle, I have to leave the nest to prove I can fly on my own.