Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (2 page)

“Hi hon!” I greet her brightly as she enters.

“Oh, hey,” she replies, not entirely unfriendly.

I watch my daughter as she slips out of the knee-high suede boots that she simply had to have or she’d be completely ostracized from her peer group. Samantha has her father’s sandyblond hair and tall frame, but her heart-shaped face is all me. As much as she wants to look mature and worldly, there’s something innocent and childlike in her gray, wide-set eyes that no amount of navy eyeliner can erase. Indicating the small shopping bag in her hand, I ask, “What did you buy?”

“Just some earrings.”

“That’s nice. Can I see them?”

She looks at me as she hangs up her coat. “They’re just plain, fake-gold hoops—nothing fancy.”

“They sound beautiful. Let’s see.”

Despite my only child’s self-absorbed and rather surly adolescent phase, she’s still tuned into me. “Why do you care about my earrings? Why do you look all puffy? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I reply defensively. “I’ve got allergies. It’s so dusty in here.”

“Oh, so now your allergies are my fault? If you want me to dust, why don’t you just ask me?”

“I don’t want you to dust. I was just saying—”

“Isn’t that why you hired a cleaning lady? Maybe you should be getting mad at her instead of me.”

“I’m not getting mad at you!” I shriek.

“Whatevs.” She dismisses me and marches up to her room.

Well, that went well. At least she didn’t ask where her father was. It’s tempting to return to the couch and my previous emotional breakdown, but I resist. Now that Samantha is home, I’ve got to pull myself together. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do next. But the thought of living my life without Trent is overwhelming. The tears threaten to return, and I know I can’t get through this on my own. With a shaking hand, I reach for the phone.

The receiver in my grip, I weigh my options. I’m lucky to have two close friends to turn to in my time of crisis: Hope and Camille. Hope and I met at a Mommy and Me playgroup when Samantha was about three and Hope’s daughter, Sarah-Louise, was slightly older. It was her companionship that helped me survive those trying and isolating toddler years. Of course, she did sometimes make me feel like a defective model of a mother. While I was frequently overwhelmed by my one tiny daughter, Hope managed her brood of three with frightening aplomb. Seriously, she seemed to find the whole experience of having three children under the age of four rather enjoyable. I didn’t get it. But our friendship has endured over the years, and Trent and I spend a lot of time with Hope and Mike. A ragged breath escapes as I correct the tense of my verb:
spent
a lot of time with Hope and Mike.

Camille is a friend from work. We’re both props buyers on one of the WB network’s hit teen comedies. Our job is to be briefed on the scripts and then provide all the materials the actors will use on set. When I first started in the business, I felt privileged to be spending ten hours a day shopping with someone else’s money. But when your list is largely composed of baseball gloves, electric scooters, and algebra textbooks, it loses some of its appeal. In contrast to Hope, Camille is single, childless, and quite happy to remain that way. After ending her “starter marriage” in her mid-twenties, she’s been actively involved in the dating scene. Unfortunately, few men are up to her exacting standards and she usually ends up dumping them after a month or two. She used to tell me I was lucky to have married the perfect guy right off the bat. This thought sends a repressed sob shuddering through me.

I start to dial Hope, and then stop. Maybe Camille is a better choice to support me right now? Hope will show up with chamomile tea and a tin of homemade cookies. She’ll counsel me to be patient and understanding of Trent’s travails. “Give him time,” she’ll probably tell me. “This is a normal rite of passage for men his age.” Camille, on the other hand, will show up with a bottle of wine, if not tequila. She’ll call Trent all sorts of nasty names: pig, bastard, selfish prick. In fact, she’ll undoubtedly bash his entire gender. “All men are pigs, bastards, selfish pricks! You don’t need him,” she’ll spew. “Get yourself a dildo and you’ll actually be ahead of the game.”

So who do I turn to for support: Hope with her tea, cookies, and understanding, or Camille with her tequila and righteous anger? I take a deep breath and close my eyes. The sounds of my daughter’s CD player drift down the stairs. She’s listening to some bouncy pop song, blissfully unaware that her father has deserted her, chosen a life of nightclubs, weekends in Vegas, and one-night stands with cocktail waitresses to being her dad. And as an almost overwhelming surge of anger fills me, my decision is made. I dial the number.

Trent

GOD, THAT WAS UGLY.
I knew Lucy would be shocked and angry, but it had to be done. And I guess it could have been worse. All I got was some sarcasm and a couple of remotes chucked at me. With a woman like Lucy, you never know how she’ll react. I don’t think she’s really capable of murdering me, per se, but I could see her doing something really crazy, like throwing an iron and killing me accidentally.

I ease the Lexus onto the Burrard Street Bridge and gun the engine. Maneuvering the car through the sparse evening traffic, I feel a newfound sense of freedom. With each mile I put between me and our Point Grey house, I feel more independent … more me. It’s not that I won’t miss my family, Samantha especially, but I need this, I really need this. I’ve lived half my fucking life and I don’t even know who I am anymore. I mean, I know who I’m supposed to be: a father, a husband, and an investment adviser. But I need to get to know myself as a person.

Lucy doesn’t understand. She’s too wrapped up in presenting a perfect facade to the world: strong, secure marriage; lovingly restored heritage home; artistic, private-schooled daughter; successful careers … If she stopped and took a look at our life, she’d see that it’s not perfect anymore. In fact, it’s not even good anymore. Sure, all the elements are in place, but there’s nothing at the core. It’s just … emptiness. There’s got to be more to life than this fucking hamster-wheel existence.

In a few minutes I’ve reached the circular drive of the Sutton Place, a luxury hotel in the heart of the city. It’s where all the stars stay when they come to Vancouver. Not that I’m particularly impressed by this, but someone said Lance Armstrong was here last weekend, and I wouldn’t mind meeting him. Now there’s a guy who knows what he wants in life and takes it. And he does it all with just one nut. He’s an inspiration.

I hand my keys to the valet and grab my suitcase out of the trunk. As I head inside, I wave away the bellboy. It feels good to carry my own luggage, I’m not sure why. It makes me feel in charge. Plus, I don’t have any small bills for tipping. Lucy was always on top of that.

The lobby is spacious, austere, and gleaming. The staff members give me respectful nods as I move directly to the bank of elevators. To them I’m just another businessman from Toronto or San Francisco, in town for a meeting or seminar. I’m not some guy from across the bridge who’s just left his wife and daughter. I’m thankful for the anonymity.

I ride up to the ninth floor with a good-looking blond guy who might be on that lawyer show I like, but I’m not sure. Samantha would know. She knows way too much about celebrities, if you ask me. But considering that her mother makes a living off the film and television industry, I guess it would be hypocritical to discourage her interest.

Room 906 is a welcome refuge of tranquility and calm. I put my suitcase on the foldout stand and go straight to the minibar. I’m dying for a drink after that scene. Grabbing an eight-dollar bottle of Grolsch, I flop onto the bed and flick on the TV. The Canucks are winning for a change, and I settle back onto the plethora of pillows lining the headboard. Beer, hockey, and solitude: what more could a guy want? But somehow, I can’t seem to concentrate on the game. Reaching for my cell phone on the bedside table, I check for missed calls or text messages. There are none. I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed: relieved that Lucy isn’t calling to hurl more abuse at me, and a little disappointed that Annika hasn’t contacted me either.

I could always phone Annika, just a friendly call. “Hey, how are you? Whatcha up to? Me? Oh, not much. Watching the game … I left my wife tonight.” But something about the timing feels wrong. Calling Annika now would be too significant. It would elevate her status from beautiful, sexy co-worker to whom I’m most definitely attracted to something more. Because I did not lie to Lucy: Annika is not the reason I left her. My wife and I have been living in separate orbits for years now. Lucy cares about her job, Samantha, the house, and then me— in that order. I’m sure if you asked her she’d say Samantha and I come first, but that’s bullshit. You don’t spend twelve hours a day running around buying basketballs and zit cream for some teenybopper actor unless you love your job.

If anything, my attraction to Annika has been more like a wake-up call. It’s shown me that I’m not completely dead inside, that I’m still capable of intense desire, of passion, of … caring about my appearance. I still remember Lucy’s smirk when I came home with some stylish pants—as if I’d sidled in like MC Hammer or someone. It pissed me off, it really did. It’s emasculating, is what it is. Annika didn’t laugh at me. She said, “You look nice today, Trent. New pants?” Even though she’s eleven years younger, Annika never makes me feel like an old fool like Lucy does. I mean, Lucy caught me using a little eye cream once and almost pissed her pants laughing.

God, I want to call Annika. I want to call her and ask her to meet me for a drink in the bar downstairs. Then, when she’s a little drunk, I’ll ask her up to my room where I’ll rip her clothes off and ravage her like a sex-starved teenager. A little aroused just by the thought, I reach for the phone. But I can’t. I can’t invite Annika over mere minutes after I’ve walked out on my wife and daughter. It would be wrong. It would be sordid somehow. I know … I’ll watch some porn.

Lucy always said “It’s not that I’m totally against watching porn, but there’s a time and a place for it.” I’m not sure when that time or where that place was, but it was most definitely not in our house, not when our daughter, or any other human being for that matter, was within thirty feet of us. Even if we were separated by a solid layer of plywood, gyproc, and plaster, Lucy could not stomach porn. We had a great sex life once, about a million years ago, but we’d both stopped making the effort.

On the screen, a blond motorcycle cop with enormous fake breasts pulls over a speeding Corvette. “Step out of the car,” she instructs the driver, a Tom Selleck look-alike in impossibly tight, faded jeans. “Now,”she continues, removing her mirrored sunglasses, “unzip your pants.” Of course he complies and the cop proceeds to give him a highly enthusiastic blow job. It’s hot, all right; it’s porn. But something’s wrong. I just can’t get turned on by what I’m watching on the screen. It feels sort of …dirty and wrong. I flick back to the hockey game, even though I’ve just wasted eighteen bucks on two minutes of a movie. At least hockey isn’t going to make me feel guilty—well, not any guiltier than I already feel.

Lucy

UNFORTUNATELY CAMILLE WASN
’
T HOME
, so I’m forced to go the tea and sympathy route with Hope. “Have a cookie,” she says, offering me the tin of home-baked peanut butter delights.

“I can’t eat,” I say, sniveling into a tissue. “I’m too upset.”

“Oh, honey,” Hope says, reaching out to draw me into a tight hug. My friend is the epitome of maternal comfort: warm, soft, and smelling of fabric softener. “I know it’s hard right now, but every marriage has its challenges. If you just give Trent a little time and a little space, he’ll come back home.”

I break free of her embrace. “But what if I don’t want to give him time and space? What if I want him to be a man and face up to his responsibilities? Sure, I’d love to run off and stay in a nice hotel and have affairs and get my eyes done. But I’m here, caring for my daughter, trying to give her a stable, loving upbringing so she doesn’t turn into an angry sociopath or … a serial killer or something.”

“Yes, but men are different from us by nature. They don’t have the same ingrained sense of family and responsibility. And they have a much harder time coming to terms with their own mortality.” Hope takes a deep, cleansing breath before continuing. “Do you remember when Mike was traveling so much last spring?”

I did remember. Why Mike’s job as an optometrist required numerous trips to Aspen and the Bahamas was a mystery to me. But Hope, being the patient and loving super-wife that she was, had never questioned him. She just smiled sweetly when he returned home with a tan and a hangover.

“Well, there actually were no optometry conventions in Colorado and the Turks & Caicos.”

“Really?” I say, feigning surprise.

“Mike was actually going through an existential crisis. He’d just turned forty-five, his doctor had told him his cholesterol was high, and he was suddenly feeling his age. Those trips were just a last grasp at his misspent youth. He needed to go diving and skiing and drinking with younger women. He needed to get the microdermabrasion and the body sculpting.”

“Body sculpting?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “A little minor lipo.”

“Mike had lipo?” I can’t hide my shock and, well, maybe
disgust
is too strong a word but … ewwww!

“No, he had some minor body sculpting on his love handles. It was something he had to get out of his system, and now he’s home.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Yes, because it ultimately brought him back to me and the kids, and now I truly feel we’re closer than ever.”

At this moment, I’m really wishing I could have gotten a hold of Camille and her bottle of tequila. I’m not usually a big drinker, but this is an exception. “I’m happy for you guys, but I just don’t know if I could be that forgiving.”

“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “That’s why I brought this.” Digging in her large purse, she pulls out a battered paperback book. When she passes it to me, I read the title.