The Long Way Home (5 page)

I looked around, shaking my head, “I know about the world we
live in, Phil. I understand how we all are expected to live. I need to adjust.
I have never been unfaithful to you, so I just need to get used to the idea we
will be stepping outside of our marriage for sex and other things.”

He sounded furious, “Jacqueline, it doesn’t have to be this
way. This is nothing. I swear. I fucked up. We don’t have to be like our
parents or anyone else. I love you. Come home.”

I shook my head, “I’m taking a drive after I get some new
shoes, and then I’ll be home when I get there. I’ll call you.” I hung up the
phone and felt the first tear threaten my eyes. I forbid it. It needed to be
far more dramatic than a single tear on the parkway in a BMW. It needed to be
Casablanca
dramatic or a
Love Affair
type of drama. I drove until I came up
with a plan. I filled up twice, driving in some crazy circle, hopping states
before I saw my destination clearly.

I stopped next in Virginia Beach. I had drunk far more coffee
than I imagined people capable of, and at the last stop, I started to realize I
wasn’t anywhere near Manhattan any longer. My heels clicking against the cold,
white linoleum had been the only sound in the gas station. Everyone else was
stopped, staring at me like I was a circus freak.

I sped away, eating my pastry that tasted far more like
freezer food one would eat in desperation or an apocalypse maybe, and got back
on the highway.

My next stop was a little place called Hampstead in North
Carolina. I started to notice the air was warmer, more loving and
understanding. I couldn’t remember exactly where I was going. I knew there was
a tiki bar, a beach, and it was in South Carolina. Why had I not paid more
attention when he spoke of the damned beach house?

I looked at the water and I swore I saw the things that were
my fault. The things I might have done better. I should have listened to my
mother.

No, screw that. I should've let the bartender have me, even
if it was only for an hour.

I got gas and more food from packets. Everything was salty
and dry, like the moisture had been sucked away in the heat of sealing the
plastic wrappers.

The sugar and coffee were mixing in my stomach. It wasn’t
happy.

I bypassed Charleston and continued heading south. She was a beautiful
old city that deserved my first visit under better tidings. Seeing her through
the cloud I was stuck under wasn’t fair.
She would be tainted
by the rage bubbling on simmer inside of me
. The last blue pill was
holding off my hate rage, but I knew eventually it would leak out.

I ended up in a beach resort-looking area that reminded me of
Florida, the richer sections. I never liked Florida, too tanned and obvious
about plastic surgery.

I had driven all night, getting lost and found, slept on the
side of the road for a while at one point, and then driven the rest of the way.
The trip had been twenty hours, to be exact. Twenty hours of huge circles and
getting completely lost before I found myself. My phone had
rang
twenty-eight times. I’d driven some ungodly number of miles and drank a
horrendous amount of caffeine. I had one hundred and fourteen text messages and
twenty voicemails. My poor phone was near dead. Of course, I had forgotten my
car charger.

I pulled my car into the market and stepped out. It was
perfect.

The air was warm, the sea was inviting, and the people looked
like a fucking J. Crew catalogue. I shuddered and walked into the store with my
phone. I got one last set of directions from
Siri
before she died as I bought snacks and wine.

I drove to a street called S. Forest Beach Drive. There were
houses and a Marriott, but I was looking for one place. I parked in the parking
lot for the Tiki Hut and walked down to the beach. Rednecks in beach shirts
watched me storm down the beach with my bags and fancy shoes.

All I knew was that France was close. These were his people.
They wore things like beards and plaid. I needed him. I regretted not letting
myself call him.

I stopped and looked at a man sitting at a table. I cocked my
head, “Can I steal the wine glass from your table?” He sat under a tiki hut but
looked like he’d gotten a lot of sun. He smiled and passed it to me.

“You
wanna
have a drink?”

I looked around the touristy pit and shook my head, “Thank
you, but no.” I clutched the wine glass and walked down the beach, veering
left. I walked up until I felt it. It was like following a scent. One minute I
had it and then it was gone. I stopped when I was sure I was there. I would
drink my wine and go find him.
Unless he found me first.
I knew his house was somewhere near the Tiki Hut bar. I remembered the story of
the drunken, Tiki-Hut night.

I dropped the bags and looked at my high-heeled boots. They
were scuffed from the sand. I groaned and looked around. Being two in the
afternoon, the beach was still packed. I walked to a quieter area, but it was
still populated with a few people. I sat in the sand, in my navy-plaid,
Burberry short trench coat,
Comme
des
Garçon
black, pleated skirt, Helmut Lang sheer-sleeve
blouse and knee-high Giorgio Armani leather boots.

I wasn’t dressed for the beach or South Carolina.

I unzipped a boot, wiping sweat from my face. I pulled my fun
cashmere, polka
dot,
knee-high socks off and stuffed
them into my boots. I undid the tie on my jacket and then the buttons. I was pouring
sweat; it had to be close to eighty-five degrees out, in early May, no less. I
spread my jacket out and pulled my sunglasses from my pocket. I slipped them on
and
laid
back in the sun. I was certain I looked like
a fool in a black pleated skirt with a white blouse unbuttoned as low as I
could, without being sleazy.

I lay there and contemplated the essence of life. My life. My
arranged marriage was a mess. My family and his would still want us to go ahead
with it. Could I do it? Could I still marry, ignoring the fact he liked to
dirty screw nineteen year olds?

No.

I lay there, gripping my dead phone and willing France to
find me. The warm sand and comforting breeze made it impossible for me to fight
the emotions. They released hard, tearing my insides a bit.

I sobbed.

I lay there and bawled until I didn’t have anything left. I
should have left when France asked me to. I should have come with him. I would
have suspected Phil of cheating, but I wouldn’t have known about Ashley.

At least, if I was going to have a crisis, I was there close
to him.

The sun had started to set. I sat up and watched it. It began
with a fire in the sky, slowly changing by brushing color against only the tips
and edges of the clouds. The white clouds had layers of colors like dark
shadows and bright-orange brush strokes and white, fluffy pillow-looking bits.
It was stunning and a perfectly dramatic end to my day. I imagined it was
exactly how Charles Boyer felt when he realized Irene Dunne wasn’t coming. It
was the exquisite pain people like him and I never let our hearts feel.

I opened the bottle of wine and poured my first glass. As I
sipped, I walked down to the water and pulled my marquise-cut engagement ring
off. Gripping it tightly, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Thank you, God, for showing me how wrong I was.” I kissed
the ring and walked into the cold water. I threw the ring as hard as I could
and watched the waves for a moment. Technically, the whole past forty-eight
hours had been a sign of how wrong I was. The fundraiser, seeing Muriel in such
pain, nearly sleeping with the bartender against my better judgment, and seeing
Phil with Eleanor, had all been signs. I had made up excuses for each one.
Finally, God decided to show me exactly what I needed to leave. Ashley. That I
couldn’t stand for. I didn’t care if my parents and his were fine with that
type of life, I wasn’t.

I squished the sand in my toes and drank back the first glass
far too quickly. It was poetic and something I’d wanted to do since the minute I’d
gotten engaged. I could admit that, now that it was the end.

I turned and walked back to my spot on the beach. I plunked
back down on my jacket and poured the second glass. I looked around, wondering
where his house was.

The second glass was dedicated to my broken heart. I placed a
hand over it, cupping the swell of my own breast and waited for it to make a
snapping noise but it never did. It was my pride he had broken, not my heart.

The wind picked up and I started to feel a little bit guilty.
Was any of it my fault? Had I driven him to it? Had I been so closed off that I
made him…

Fuck that.

If he had depraved fantasies about teenaged girls, I
certainly hadn’t made him follow through with them. He was as close to a
pedophile as I imagined grown men got without crossing over completely. Maybe
it was good we hadn’t gotten married or had kids yet. Was that why he didn’t
want them? I shuddered. Maybe he knew about his problem. I almost gagged.

I nodded and drank the second glass back in several gulps. I
broke open the bag of snacks. I perused, scanning over each item as if it were
my last meal. Finally, I selected a bag of gourmet popcorn. I took a huge
handful of it and shoved several servings in at once. I chewed and savored the
light, aged-cheddar taste. I poured a third glass and swallowed back the last
of the popcorn. It was a bad combination but I didn’t care.

I looked at CHANEL and nodded. This was that moment. I lifted
the tissue-wrapped garment and sighed when my fingers brushed the mesh fabric.
I laid it out and looked down on it. It was perfect. I undid my blouse and
pulled the dress on. I slipped my bra strap down to make a half assed strapless
and slid my pleated skirt off. I stuffed everything into the CHANEL bag and let
the wind blow through the short, white, mesh fabric. The petals of the
embroidered flowers fluttered in the breeze and looked like blue and purple
butterflies. I knew it was what the dressmaker had envisioned.
Someone like me, less broken perhaps… but thin and tall and
standing on the beach with the flowers fluttering away.
The sun faded
and the air cooled, but I didn’t care. I drank my third glass and ate my
popcorn in my dress worth more than all my other clothes in the bag combined.

It was the freest meal I’d ever eaten.

Thinking the statement, instantly brought up a memory that
hurt just a little. But I was being honest with myself so I had to let the
memory play out.

I looked at the fading light of the day and remembered
exactly the moment I had fallen in love while eating the freest meal ever.

It was a hot dog from a vendor after a long walk in Central
Park. The backs of two hands brushed against each other innocently, and yet,
too frequently. It was perfect in every way. The way France wiped my cheek with
his thumb and licked the mustard off. Or the way I felt when I went to sleep
that night, dying for it to be light out so I could find him again. Only I
didn’t have to. He scaled my house and tapped on my window in the dark. I let
him in but he didn’t try anything, we snuggled like always. I swore to France
I’d break it off with Phil and move with him to Los Angeles for him to play
hockey. We were twenty-four and in love, crazy and free. It was the last free
moment in my life.

The next morning, Phillip showed up with a ring. I stood on
the stairs as my father looked like a gushing bride and accepted the ring for
me as Phil proposed from the bottom of the stairs. I knew France heard it all
from upstairs, but I was frozen there on the stairs, watching as my life ended.
My heart broke when I got back upstairs and France was gone. He had gone out
the window just like he had come in it. We never discussed it after that. We
just hung out and pretended I wasn’t on a speeding train to despair.

I shivered, remembering it, swearing somewhere in the back of
my mind, I could still taste the hot dog.

Doing the right thing had sealed my fate. A fate I would
never escape, beyond this trip into madness.

I had to be strong and stop them from convincing me to take
him back.

I looked down, letting my strawberry-blonde hair fall around
my face and for the first time in a long time, I felt fear. It was the unknown,
my father, and the possibility I would be made to try to save my upcoming
marriage. I lived in the same world as Muriel. I knew my mother had made the
same choices as Muriel had. The blue pills had worn off and were long gone. I
was stuck with my own frightening reality and pain it caused in my chest. A
pain I had only ever felt once. That was when I started letting my dad and Dr.
Michaels give me the blue pills.

We all made the same sacrifices to be in the life we wanted.
My heart started to panic against the aching pain but I slipped a finger
against my lips and shushed myself. I needed to stay calm. The crying wasn’t
allowed to happen after the wine had been drunk. There were rules.

I needed to find France and there was no crying in that
dress. It was a dress of possibilities, summer love, and youth. I would die in
that dress before I would allow one tear to be shed.