A Woman Lost (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

“What in the hell is that thing?” hissed The Scotch-lady later that afternoon.

“Oh that?” Peter glared at me. “That’s Lizzie’s new kitten.”

Funny, last night Peter was much kinder to the little furball. Now, Hank was sitting in the chair my mother wanted to occupy.

As I walked over to pick Hank up, I heard an ice cube chink against the side of Mom’s first scotch of the day. She would rather take a drink than pet a kitten.

Hank jumped out of my arms and scampered upstairs. Maddie, Sarah, and I watched. More than likely, all of us wished we could have hidden upstairs, too‌—‌and the parents had only just arrived.

My father hadn’t said a word on entering the room. In fact, he hadn’t even said hello, just nodded to acknowledge Sarah and Maddie. Charles Petrie didn’t deign to greet his progeny. Peter and I didn’t matter.
Did we ever?
Then he waddled over to the chair farthest from the group. I was baffled that he hadn’t just wandered straight up to Peter’s office. Maybe this was his way of spending quality family time with us‌—‌sitting in a leather chair drinking whiskey and reading the
Financial Times
.

I never understood why that paper had pink newsprint.

There they sat: my father reading his paper, my mother sucking down her scotch. No one spoke. Maddie and Sarah slipped into the kitchen to put the final touches on dinner. Peter stood by the fireplace. I leaned against a bookcase. Uncomfortable with the silence, I pulled a book off the shelf and started to flip through it. The clock suggested only five minutes had passed since their arrival.

Several minutes later, Maddie’s head appeared around the door. “Dinner is ready,” she announced. Even Peter looked relieved. Mister charisma could not get a conversation going.

All of us took our seats and started to dish out the food. The girls had all the fixings for a gourmet Thanksgiving dinner: glazed carrots, mashed potatoes, gravy, asparagus, sausage and bread stuffing, sweet potatoes, turkey, ham, and homemade rolls.

“What are these?” My mother held a pair of tongs over the parsnip tray.

“Those are parsnips,” Maddie casually responded.

I thought I detected some fear in her voice.

Mom poked them with the tongs. “Like I said, what are these … stringy things?”

“What? You’ve never had parsnips, Mother?” I forked one, a little viciously, from off my plate. “They’re related to the carrot.”

“Oh please, do go on,” Mom said condescendingly.

I smiled. “Certainly. They were quite popular in ancient times. Until the potato entered the scene, they used to be a staple. In fact, the Romans believed parsnips were an aphrodisiac.” I chewed my parsnip and stabbed another with my fork.

Mother set the tongs down and passed the plate to Maddie. “Fantastic. Not only do I get served these disgusting weeds, I get a history lecture as well.”

Maddie picked up the tongs and heaped a pile of parsnips onto her plate before passing the tray to Peter.

My brother peeked out of the corner of his eye to see if The Scotch-lady was watching. She was picking through the slices of turkey to find the best ones. He quickly put some parsnips on his plate and then set the platter down next to our father. To my surprise, Dad loaded some onto his plate.

“So, Sarah, how are your classes going?” Peter looked desperate to bury the parsnip controversy.

Sarah smiled and continued serving herself some asparagus. “Oh, they’re okay. I think the kids and I are ready for winter break. Each year, the semester seems to get longer.”

“You teach math right?” asked my mother.

Peter burst out laughing. Then he stopped abruptly.

Sarah, surprised by the question since The Scotch-lady didn’t really speak to non-family members, quietly answered, “Uh, no. I teach English.”

Maddie turned to Peter. Her tone confrontational, she asked, “Peter, why did you laugh?”

“Come on, Maddie! It’s well known that boys are better at math. I’ve never had a female math teacher.”

“God, you’re such a sexist pig sometimes. And for your information, I’ve had several female math teachers.”

“Grade school doesn’t count, Maddie.” He winked at her as he buttered a piece of his roll. He popped it into his mouth, and smiled as he chewed.

“Excuse me, I took math classes after grade school.”

“You’re an interior designer.” His voice was too high.

Maddie visibly blanched. “I double-majored. My second major was business.”

Peter paused and took a sip of wine. “I didn’t know you studied business.”

“I thought it might be wise, in case I wanted to start my own design business.”

“Oh.” He pushed mashed potatoes around his plate.

“Please, tell us, oh history sage, who was the first female math teacher?” My mother stared at me.

“Allegra Calculari Abacai.”

Maddie and Sarah laughed while I scooped more parsnips into my mouth. My mother snorted and took another nip of scotch.

I wasn’t positive, but I thought I saw a slight smile play on my father’s face.

Peter went out of his way to avoid eye contact with everyone.

Then The Scotch-lady stared at me and blurted out, “So are you into bondage now?”

Maddie snorted and nearly choked to death on her wine as she tried to stop herself from laughing. Peter, in the act of cutting his turkey, froze, his knife and fork skewed in midair. And Sarah, poor Sarah, I didn’t have the heart to look in her direction.

“How does liking parsnips equate to being into bondage? I’m curious about your definition.” I stared at my mother.

She motioned to my arm.

I raised my left arm.

“Not that one. The other one.”

Sarah, Peter, Maddie and I all stared at my arm. No one said a word.

“All right, I give in,” I said eventually. “What about my arm suggests bondage to you?”

“The bracelet.” The Scotch-lady gestured to the bracelet Maddie had given me.

Even Peter couldn’t help himself. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s hideous.” She sighed and took a long swig of scotch. “For her to even wear it I thought it must be for something else.”

The mute man who was my father motioned for someone to pass him the parsnips.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I started to skip going to campus a few days after we returned from Thanksgiving. Since I now had high-speed Internet at home, I sat on the couch with my feet on the coffee table, my laptop on my knees and the TV tuned in to CNN. I was addicted to news updates.

I felt a newfound freedom, released from slaving away in my cramped office. The entire day, I kept telling myself how much I loved working from home, but as I gazed around my apartment, I started to wonder whether I could still call it “my apartment.” Should I start thinking of it as “our apartment?” Should I just accept the inevitable? My eyes wandered over all of the changes in the front room: candles, flowers, framed photos, books, DVDs, and so on. Yes, my place looked better. But was that the point.

The debate raged in my head for several minutes until Hank jumped onto the table, skidding on books and knocking over a cup of tea. All of my papers slid off the table and reshuffled themselves on the floor. Startled, Hank hissed and ran out onto the deck.

I chased after him and scooped him up before he realized he could jump off the second-story deck and explore a whole new city. Cuddling him tight, I took him back to the couch. I loved how my cat purred when I held him, but he only let me hold him briefly before he skittered off on another adventure. I started to wonder if Hank was “my cat” or “our cat?” Sarah found him, so maybe he was “her cat,” even though he was living at my place and I was the one who took care of him.

I decided to head to Petco and get Hank a nametag, just in case he did escape. I picked out a bright purple collar and a nametag and had it engraved with his name and my phone number.

By the time Sarah returned from work, Hank was “my cat.” He hated the little bell that jingled every time he moved, so he had hid himself in the bathroom.

Sarah and I fixed some drinks and sat on the couch to watch a rerun of
The Office
. Hank stepped tentatively out of the bathroom. He had developed a habit of sleeping on the rug in front of the heat vent, but this time he immediately jumped in Sarah’s lap.

She absentmindedly scratched his head. Then she felt the collar. For an instant, I thought she might get angry I didn’t let her help pick out the collar. Plus, her phone number was not on the nametag.

“Oh, my God. Did you pick this out?”

I nodded and hid behind my glass, waiting to see how it would play out.

“It’s adorable … and he has a nametag.” She scrutinized the tag.

Hank dashed off her lap, launched off of the back of the couch, and scurried out of the room.

I looked back at Sarah. Tears sparkled in her eyes. Not knowing what to do, I kissed her cheek.

“You make me so happy sometimes. I love the collar you picked out for our boy.”

I guess that settled it. He was our cat.

* * *

I sat across from Ethan in the coffee shop, feeling hopeless. “I’m getting tired of it, Ethan,” I blurted out. “Everything I do now she twists into something that I’m doing for ‘us.’” I made quote marks in the air.

“What are you complaining about? My wife spends ninety percent of her time telling me how much of a screw-up I am. At least Sarah praises you.”

“But how does buying a cat collar equate to settling down? I didn’t even put her cell phone number on the tag. In fact, I went to buy the collar to stop thinking about our situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was driving myself crazy, sitting at home thinking about how I can no longer call my apartment my apartment anymore, and then Hank dashed out onto the deck.” I explained my fears that I would never find Hank if he escaped and how I had wondered whose cat he was.

“Maybe Hank wanted to go to Taco Bell.”

I paused, but didn’t ask what he meant. “Everything I do, she sees as me settling into our relationship.”

Ethan tugged at the corner of his moustache and considered my words.

“If I go to the grocery store and pick up food she likes, I am shopping for us. If I pick up food on the way home, I am providing for us. I feel so trapped.”

“She isn’t trapping you‌—‌you are.”

I ignored his comment. “She’s even thrilled with our sex life. Lately, I’ve only put out for quickies, but she saw this expert on a morning talk show who said quickies are good for a relationship. So, once again, she thinks I’m a hero.”

“I need a refill. Do you want another chai?” He gestured to my empty cup.

I nodded.

Ethan made his way to the counter while I stared at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in the distance. How could I feel so trapped when there was so much space out there? I needed to move. I needed to move far away.

He handed me my chai and took his seat again. “So, how’s the hero?”

“I’m not a hero. I’m a cad. No … wait … I am a piece of shit.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“Seriously, Ethan. Is this all life has to offer? Do all of us settle down just because we are too scared, or too tired, to go after what we want? Do we buy a house, buy a car, and get a pet?”

“And what do you want?”

“Not to be a piece of shit, I guess. Hey, do you think Starbucks sells courage? I could use a few shots in my chai.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

I nodded.

“Is being with Sarah so bad? What is it you dislike so much?”

“She likes me, and I don’t deserve it.” I shrugged. “I’m not used to being liked. What do you dislike so much about your marriage?”

“I can’t provide everything she needs and wants from me.”

Both of us fell silent and sipped our drinks.

Then I smiled. “Why did you have to bring up Taco Bell? Now I’m craving a bean burrito.”

“You better not cave in. You might fart more than normal in your sleep.”

I laughed. “Don’t be a jerk. Can I tempt you with a taco? It’s right across the street. My treat.”

“Sure, why not? I don’t have to worry about farting in bed; I
want
to turn her off.”

Sitting down at a table with our burritos, I asked Ethan, “What did you mean, about Hank wanting to go to Taco Bell?”

“It’s a song.” He bit into his burrito and cheese oozed onto his hand.

“There’s a song about a cat going to Taco Bell?”

“No. A beaver.”

I whipped my head up to meet his eyes. “A beaver!”

He laughed and dabbed his hand with a paper napkin. “The song is called ‘Wynona’s Big Brown Beaver.’”

Shaking my head, I said, “Seriously, Ethan. You listen to weird shit.”

“Oh, don’t be so uptight all of the time. I’ll bring the CD in next week. You might like it.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a listen … would you mind if I ripped it?” I removed my second bean burrito from its wrapper and doused it with hot sauce.

Ethan placed his hand on my shoulder. “Look at you tossing around new lingo! I’ve never been prouder.”

I threw a hot sauce packet at him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“On your right, you’ll see the new high school. This is a great neighbourhood for kids.”

“Oh, that’s great. I teach high school English. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to get a job across the street from home?” Sarah turned to me and smiled.

Sarah’s real estate agent prattled on about the neighbourhood. I sat silently in the backseat of the agent’s car as we drove from one house to the next. Sarah and the woman chatted incessantly about this and that. I stared out the window, pretending to care about the surrounding neighborhood. Inside, I was fuming that we were looking at houses on a Friday night, but I would smile and nod occasionally when Sarah turned to look in my direction.

When we wandered around the houses, I feigned interest. Sometimes, I asked questions, but I mostly just kept a huge fake smile plastered across my face.

Afterwards, I took Sarah out to dinner to her favorite Vietnamese restaurant. She was glowing, immensely happy, but I was suffocating inside. I kept pouring Sriracha hot chili sauce into my noodle bowl. Each time, Sarah would laugh at me, because I was already in tears, my mouth was on fire, and my nose kept running. The more she laughed, the less we talked about finding a place together, so the indigestion would be well worth it, I figured.