My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (3 page)

Not getting the answers I thought I wanted, needed, I ran upstairs and locked myself in the master bathroom. Locking the door was quite unnecessary as Race made no attempt to come after me.

I sat on the toilet, lid up, seat down, pants up, listening to the opening and closing of drawers, the zipping of suitcases, Race’s footsteps going down the staircase, and then the closing of the front door. He was breaking the rules.

Alone, I was completely alone in the house and no one would be coming home. Janie was back at school, and Paul was off on a nine-month marine research trip in the Galapagos. I left my perch on the toilet, curled up on the bathroom floor, pressed my cheek against the cool tile, and cried, and cried.

What I did that first week
after Race left can only be pieced together through evidence. I do know the phone rang. I didn’t answer it. The doorbell too, but I didn’t answer that either. I think I ate. There were three empty tuna fish cans and several orange rinds in the sink. The shower, sinks, bath linens, and my toothbrush were dry. No bathing or hygiene rituals of any kind took place, apparently.

On Saturday came a loud knocking, pounding, and then shouting, “Cammy, open the door!”

Race? Why doesn’t he just come in?

“Cammy, if you don’t open up, I’ll call the police. I swear I will!”

I looked around the room, the kitchen, I was in the kitchen. I reached up and grabbed the edge of the center island, pulled myself up from the floor, and shuffled into the entryway.

Again pounding, Race pleading, “Please, Cammy, open up!”

I made it to the door and leaned against it. “What do you want, Race?”

“Let me in, Cam! What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing the rumba with Ricky Ricardo and drinking Mai Tais.” Oh, that would get him. Race loved to dance and he hated it when I drank. I hate it when I drink. I get silly, stupid, and then sick. I’m not cut out for it.

My head bobbed. It was so heavy. “Why don’t you just come in?” I asked him.

“I left my key on the entry table with a note.”

I looked over at the table.

Yes, a key and a note.

I staggered over and picked up the folded piece of paper, knocking the key to the floor. My name was written on the outside and something was written on the inside that I couldn’t make out, too little, too blurry—days of crying will do that.

Oh, well.

It was just then, this I remember with crystal clarity, that I looked up at the mirror hanging above the entry table and was frightened by the hag that stared back at me.

Five-day-old mascara circled her swollen, baggy, bloodshot eyes and streaked down her face, over her chin, and faded away on her neck. Dry crusties lined her nostrils. Greasy strands of black hair stuck up and out from her head. Below her head, bare shoulders. Further exploration down her body, my body, revealed bare-nakedness, except for a pair of polka-dot socks.

The sight brought me into the present and to some sense of consciousness of my current situation. I panicked.

No, no one can see me like this, especially not Race. Not Sarah Burns’ Race Coleman.

I rushed to the door and barricaded it with my body.

“Cammy, you’ve had me worried sick. Open the door, right now!”

“No, not now, Race. I’m fine, I promise. I just need to be alone. I want to be alone.”

“Cammy, I want to come in.”

“Why, Race, has something changed? Tell me, since Sunday, has something changed?”

No answer.

“You can’t come in. Not now.”

“Cammy, promise me you’re all right.”

What do you care? You’re in love with someone else. You’re divorcing me. No, I’m not all right.

I wanted to say snotty things. If I could have thought of any, I might have. But that would have only kept Race on the other side of the door, inches from what I had seen in the mirror. And there was a smell that I was becoming increasingly aware of. I wanted him gone. Far away from what I had become in just a few short days.

What day is it?

“Yes, I promise, I’m fine.”

“I’m going to call you later. Promise me you’ll answer the phone.”

“Fine, call, I’ll answer.”

Would he call? Maybe he was having second thoughts?

Race did call later. He’d had no second thoughts. He was just worried about me. I tossed the phone on the bed, along with my body, and tried to take stock.

What Do I Know

I was forty-seven, moderately attractive, a homemaker, jack-of-all-trades and master-of-none type. I had thousands, thousands, and thousands of volunteer hours racked up and occasional odd job experience—waitressing, secretarial, various retail work at a clothing boutique, an antique store, a plant nursery. The list is longer, but you get the picture.

I was the queen of amateur—home remodeler, gardener, photographer, painter, seamstress, upholsterer, home decorator, party planner, and wedding planner. That list is long as well but the stuff of resumes, slim pickings.

Race had encouraged me to go back to school to get my Master's when the kids left for college. But I was content, and we were comfortable. My life had been going along according to my plan, until Race brought it to a screeching halt, a crash.

It was all so overwhelming. How do you pick up the pieces in the wreckage? What do you do with the pieces that are left? Divorce tests everything you think you know about the people around you, your life, yourself. I knew nothing, nothing.

“What do I know? What do I know?” I kept asking myself that question. I felt the answer was somehow the key to something. There had to be something I knew.

Lost, so lost.

We had a checking account with three months living expenses in it and a savings account with an additional six, maybe seven more. We had a modest retirement account, and Race had his retirement with the college. We owned a piece of property on Lake Kitchee. The cabin we had planned to have on the property was never built, but we had camped there many times. There was good equity in our home and a mortgage that was almost paid off a few times. Two college educations and a new roof thwarted our last attempt to own our home free and clear.

Me. What about me? I was smart, creative, likeable—to most people anyway. I could go back to school but to do what? I could start a business. I knew I loved my kids, I knew I loved my husband, and I knew the direction things were going was not the life I had planned on, I had worked so hard for.

This can’t be happening.

I knew my skin felt foreign on my body, my scalp was sore, and the fur that was on my teeth had a nap. Finally, something I had a solution for.

I wobbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepped in, and then peeled the wet socks from my feet. I shampooed, conditioned, scrubbed, soaped, gelled, loofahed, pumiced, and shaved.

The water was still running when I stepped out of the shower and puddled over to the sink for my toothbrush and toothpaste. Back in the shower I squirted paste on the bristles, my hand, and the wall. I brushed teeth, gums, and tongue, the foam dripped down my chin like a mad dog, and then I rinsed open-mouthed under the spray.

I turned the shower off, stepped out, and dripped into the pool already on the floor. When I opened the linen cabinet to get a clean towel, I saw the body shammy I had ordered from a home bath-and-body party. I ripped open the cellophane and gave myself a once-over, and then I slathered on a generous amount of some expensive body oil I was saving for a special occasion.

In front of the mirror, I combed through my hair that a half hour before was looking rather Medusa-like. I flattened it against my head and stretched its length to the middle of my back. Behind my reflection I could see through the bathroom doorway into the bedroom. The rumpled bedding on my bed called to me.

No, I’ll dress.
What time is it?

In the bedroom I looked at the clock on the nightstand, three forty-seven in the afternoon.

Day clothes, okay.

I flipped through my jeans and took out my favorite pair. I stepped into them and immediately noticed the unfamiliar way they felt as I pulled them to my waist. There was no fabric scraping my thighs on the way up.

How much weight have I lost?

I crawled around the floor of my closet and dug behind my summer clothes boxes for the scale I hadn’t used since, whenever. I stepped onto the scale and read the numbers out loud, “One hundred twenty-five pounds. When was the last time I weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds?”

Maybe I was onto something, The Jilted Wife Diet. I’d write a book, give step-by-step instructions on how to take a perfectly devoted husband and father and drive him into the arms of another woman, guaranteed to melt away the pounds.

I tossed my favorite jeans aside and went looking for my old favorite jeans. Somewhere in the recesses of my closet were my skinny clothes. The symbols of hope for a body not forgotten, not given up on.

There they were, on the top shelf behind my old Singer sewing machine that I couldn’t part with and a box of souvenir t-shirts that I never wore. I teetered on an upturned laundry hamper and slid the pretty paisley box from the shelf.

Dressed in the flare-cut, stretch denims that looked great with boots or flip-flops and my favorite pink t-shirt, I stood in front of the antique floor mirror Race had given me for our twentieth wedding anniversary.

If it hadn’t been for the dark circles under my eyes, red roadmaps on my eyeballs, pale, sallow skin, and the defeated slump of my shoulders, I would have looked better than I had in years. When I turned to check out my backside, I saw a dark shadow float across my view and the room began to spin.

Dizzy, weak.

I needed to eat, but I was immediately gripped with caution. Whatever I put in my mouth could threaten my recent reunion with my skinny clothes. I went downstairs and took a copy of Beverly Rivers’
Eat Clean, Be Clean
from my cookbook shelf in the kitchen.

I reviewed the chapters I had already read three times over, attempted feebly to abide by, and given-up on. No wheat, no sugar, no meat, no popcorn, no white potatoes, no white rice, no dairy (egg whites being the exception), no chemicals, no alcohol. And then there was the food combining, protein with vegetables, starches with vegetables, fruit alone.

I would do this. With no one else to cook for but me—my downfall before, taking care of everyone else, loving them with food—I could stick to this. I would be healthy,
clean
inside and out.

I hadn’t been out of the house in over a week, and everything to eat that was perishable had perished. I drove to the grocery store across town, where I never went, and hoped I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. I wore dark glasses and a baseball cap, just in case.

The next week I cleaned the house, I yogaed with Kathy Smith via a long-forgotten VHS tape, and I ate
clean.
I felt better every day. My determination was swelling that I would be the stellar dumped wife, better than before, strong beyond all human understanding. Race would regret what he was doing.

This determination was intermixed with daydreams about Race’s accidental death or terminal illness, better to be a widow than a divorcee, and fleeting thoughts of suicide and murder.

I became obsessive about the house. Every piece of clothing and linen washed. Not a crumb on the counter or a hair in the sink. Every closet, drawer, cupboard organized, just like Race would want it. I found the corner of my studio floor for the first time in months.

And then I did something I’ve never talked openly about until now. I confronted Sarah Burns. Are you cringing? I still cringe, a little, when I think about it. I went to her bank, her job.

“May I speak to Sarah Burns, please?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I think she’ll want to see me.”
Or, run for her life.
“I’m Cammy Coleman.”

“Just a minute.”

Sarah Burns walked calmly out of her glass-paneled office, her pretty hand reaching out in front of her to shake mine. “Cammy, it’s nice to see you.”

I bet.
My hands stayed in the pockets of my trench coat.

“Let’s go into my office.” Which we did, but she stayed close to the open door. She was no dummy. “What can I do for you?”

You can keep your hands off my husband that’s what you can do for me
. But I didn’t say that; instead, through shuddering breaths, I asked her, “Are you having a relationship with my husband?”

“Cammy, why don’t you ask Race about this?”

“I did and now I’m asking you.”

Her mouth pinched up into a tight smile, and she shook her head at me as if I was the most pathetic creature she had ever seen. I probably was.

Then I told her, “Everything that’s happening right now is just a big mistake. Race and I have a good marriage. He’s just confused. He loves me. I love him.”