Time Off for Good Behavior (21 page)

“
It
’
s okay,
”
I whispered. T
he words were barely out before his arm snaked around my waist. His lips were soft at first, becoming gradually more insistent as we rode the first wave and surfed it. His eyes were on soft focus when we finally pulled apart.

“
Are you okay?
”
he asked.

My h
eart was banging around in my chest like a freaked-out parakeet. I gave up the fight. I was a goner. There was no way around it now.

“
No,
”
I said. His face tightened, and he moved away, but I grabbed his tie and pulled him back to me to surf another wave.
He tasted fresh and clean, like grapes. He pulled me in tighter this time, mashing our bodies together, his arms and his tongue grappling over me like this was his only chance. My eyes were still closed when he finally pulled away, and it took a moment fo
r
me to focus on him and see that he was smiling.

“
I won
’
t scream like a girl this time,
”
he said, his grin exuberant and boyish, his cheeks flushed.

I laughed, locking my hands behind his neck and leaning my forehead to his, looking up into his eyes, thoug
hts of blush in a box taking a backseat to the rush of happiness I was finally allowing myself to feel.

“
You know,
”
I said,
“
it
’
s been three years since I
’
ve done this.
”

“
That
’
s okay,
”
he said with a grin.
“
I hear it
’
s like riding a bike.
”

“
No, what I
’
m sa
ying is, it
’
s been
three years
,
”
I accentuated the last words by tugging on his tie in two short jerks. He laughed and put his hand on my face.

“
You
’
re incredible,
”
he said.

“
Tick-tock, Romeo,
”
I said.
“
I
’
ve got some lost time to make up for.
”

The first ti
me, it was like we were starving, all nibbling and biting and rushing toward the finish. The second time, it was slower, rhythmic, deliberate. We didn
’
t bump into the coffee table once that time. The third time was more exploratory, less explosive, and af
t
erward we fell into a mingled clump on the floor, catching our breath and grazing our fingers over each other.

After a while, Walter got up to nudge the fire back into a full blaze. He pulled the blanket off the sofa, spooning his naked body behind mine on
the rug, snuggling his face into the back of my neck.

“
That was fun,
”
he said, his words running together as his breath started to even out.

“
Mmmm-hmmm,
”
I said, my eyes half-closed.

“
I love you,
”
he whispered, and his breathing tapered into a light snore
.

My eyes flew open.

I knew he hadn
’
t meant it. He couldn
’
t have meant it. It was probably just something he said. Maybe it was a residual habit from when Maggie was alive, and he was just too tired to realize he
’
d said it to me.

But
I
realized it. I watc
hed the fire and tried to reason the tears away, but they kept coming, anyway. Had he not said it, I might have stayed. But the severity of the stab that came from hearing those words, murmured in a sleep-driven exhale, was an indication that it was way p
a
st time to get out. There were other places where I could hide from George. If I stayed with Walter, I
’
d be gambling more than I could afford to lose.

I crawled out from under his arms, and he rolled over onto his back but didn
’
t wake up. Once I was dresse
d, I pulled the blanket up to cover his chest. I kneeled over him and kissed him lightly, giving him one last chance to wake up and pull me back. He didn
’
t. I watched him sleep for a little while and then went to my room to gather my things. I put his key
on the kitchen counter and closed the door behind me. I sobbed quietly as I walked to my car, then got behind the wheel and lost six hours driving through the winding roads of Hastings.

At nine that morning, my eyes red and my heart tired, I showed up at E
lizabeth
’
s doorstep. Without a word, she led me to the small apartment above her garage, and I fell onto the bed and slept for the next twelve hours.

***

The knocking woke me up. I glanced at the clock on the wall: 9:17.

“
Come in,
”
I mumbled in a hoarse
whisper. A second later Elizabeth was sitting on the edge of my bed holding out a mug of hot chocolate.

“
With marshmallows,
”
she said. I sat up and took the mug, sipping quietly, my mind still emerging from the fog.

“
You wanna talk about it?
”
she asked aft
er a few minutes.
“
I
’
m a
great
fucking shrink.
”

I smiled and shook my head.
“
I just think it
’
s best that I get out now, you know, before it goes too far.
”

She nodded.
“
Went too far, huh?
”

I mustered up a cynical laugh and said,
“
Yep.
”

She took a sip of her
cocoa, and her eyes traveled the small room in a quick sweep.
“
Sorry about this place. My ex-mother-in-law designed it. Yellow walls.
”
She shuddered.
“
Ugh.
”

I hadn
’
t given the room more than a glance when I came in. It was large and open, with one door le
ading out to the landing and stairs and another door leading to the bathroom. The bed was a double, sitting in the corner. The floor was hardwood, with a large woven rug covering the middle. There was a desk under the window, a dresser in the opposite com
e
r from the bed, and a freestanding wardrobe. Everything a girl hiding from her psycho ex-husband needed.

“
I like it,
”
I said finally.
“
How much is the rent?
”

Elizabeth shrugged.
“
Nothing, unless you decide you want to stay for good. We can take it day by d
ay.
”

I smiled.
“
Thanks.
”

She patted my leg and got up, putting a set of keys on the desk.
“
You can share the kitchen and living room with us. Come on down anytime. The kids are excited to meet you tomorrow.
”
I nodded. Elizabeth disappeared, the sound of he
r footsteps getting lighter and lighter as she made her way down. I fell back on the bed, watching the lights from passing cars swish across the ceiling until I fell asleep again.

***

I stayed in the apartment for three days, coming out only to run to th
e store for bottled water and oranges, which was pretty much what I lived on. I didn
’
t want to see or talk to anyone. Elizabeth seemed to sense this, and she left me alone.

I found a notebook and a pen in the desk drawer, and I wrote furiously in it. I wro
te about how every Christmas my father and I would stay up late and watch
The Philadelphia Story
together. I wrote about my mother and me trying to sew a costume for Halloween when I was twelve and failing miserably. I wrote about Miss Maria
’
s School of Da
nce, remembering how Miss Maria
—
who was actually a Hungarian refugee named Magda
—
would cup my chin in her rough hands and say in her thick voice,
“
Nevah have I seen a child so happy as dees vun.
”
She was right. I had been a happy kid. No reason not to be.
My parents had a good marriage. I was an only child. I got everything I needed, and Dad taught me the value of working for the extras, like designer jeans and boom boxes. I
’
d had every advantage. So how had I ended up here? How had I gone from the gracefu
l
little girl doing pirouettes for Miss Maria to the graceless tumbling witness in Pencil Face
’
s School of Crappy Cross-Examination?

Beat the hell out of me. My teachers seemed to think I had a great life in the bag, based on how they nagged me all through
high school.
You have so much potential, Wanda. What are you going to be when you grow up, Wanda? A smart kid like you can do whatever she wants, Wanda.

Only I didn
’
t know what I wanted to do. I was good in science and math. Fair to middling in social stud
ies. Excelled in English. And yet, for all that, I never knew what I really wanted. I still didn
’
t know. So why were all those people always cheering me on, sure I would master whatever I set my mind to do? I asked my English teacher Mrs. Knickie that que
s
tion when I beat out Annie McGee, the valedictorian, for Most Likely to Succeed.

“
You
’
re a go-getter,
”
she
’
d told me with a wink.
“
We
’
ll all be watching you for great things.
”

Great things. Yeah. I
’
d pissed my twenties away on a bad marriage and was starti
ng my thirty-second year hearing phantom strands of a song I couldn
’
t identify while hiding from an ex who wanted to kill me. I wonder what Mrs. Knickie would have to say if she could see me now? Would she be able to adequately express her disappointment
u
sing ten words from the SAT vocabulary list?

It occurred to me, during this furious journaling, that there were two ways to look at it. One, everyone had been wrong and I was just a loser from day one. Two, I
’
d actually been so afraid to fail that I delibe
rately threw my life in the toilet and kept flushing until every last remnant of who I had been was washed away.

Ding ding ding.
Thanks for playing. We have a winner.

Welcome to Self-Fulfilling Prophecies 101,
I wrote in the notebook.
My name is Wanda Lane
, and I would have a syllabus for you if only I had bothered to actually create one. Don
’
t be disappointed, though; it would have sucked, anyway.

My handwriting at this point was scratchy, and my hand ached, but I pushed through until the next sentence was
done.

I am the stupidest human being on the planet.

With that, I tossed the notebook to the floor and grabbed my toothbrush and a towel from the wardrobe.

***

I had just gotten out of the shower when Elizabeth knocked at my door. I was still amped up fr
om my journey of self-discovery, and I opened the door quickly, then continued flying around the room, organizing the pens, smoothing the bedspread. Elizabeth seemed surprised and stepped into the room cautiously as I pulled the towel off my head and scru
b
bed it over my hair.

“
I was going to come up here and yell at you to get your sorry ass together,
”
she said.
“
Looks like my work here is already done.
”

She plopped on the bed, and I pulled the chair over from the desk, rubbing my face and tossing the towel
onto a pile of laundry on the floor.