Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (3 page)

Until He Comes Home

How His Mid-Life Crisis Can Benefit Your Marriage

“Uh … thanks, but I don’t know if I’m really in the right headspace to read something like this.”

“Not yet, but you will be,” Hope says with a supportive smile. “For a marriage to work, you can’t be so quick to give up on it.”

“He’s the one who’s giving up on it!” I cry. Then, lowering my voice lest I alert my daughter, “He’s the one who walked out on me! Why do I have to do all the work to try to keep our family together?”

“Because,” Hope says with a beatific smile, “you’re the woman.”

Oh Christ. “I need a drink.” I stand up. “I think I’ve got some wine in the kitchen. Do you want some wine?”

“Do you really think you should be drinking at a time like this?”

“You’re right. Really, I should be smoking crack.” I don’t say this though. Hope would undoubtedly take me seriously and plan some pre-emptive intervention. Instead, I sit back on the couch. “You’re right. What I really need is some sleep. I worked a thirteen-hour day and I’m exhausted. Things will probably look a lot more positive in the morning.”

“They will,” Hope assures me. “And please … read at least one chapter of this book. I promise it’ll help you understand what Trent’s going through.”

After I’ve promised to read several pages of a book designed to help me understand why selfish, pricklike behavior is a God-given right for the entire male species, Hope leaves. Through the front window I watch her taillights disappear down the darkened street, and then scurry to the kitchen for the longawaited glass of wine. The bottle of chardonnay sitting in the fridge door is half empty. I have no idea how long it’s been there, but this is no time to be fussy. With the bottle and a full glass in my hand, I return to the sofa. I try Camille one more time, but she’s still not home. For some reason, this fills me with an almost unbearable desolation. It’s not like Camille is the only other person I can turn to; I’m on friendly terms with a number of neighbors, co-workers, and mothers of Samantha’s friends. But she’s the only other person I want to turn to. I’m not ready to admit to the world that my marriage—my whole life—is a failure.

When the bottle of wine and my tear ducts are empty, I head to bed.
Until He Comes Home
sits untouched on the bedside table. I’m too exhausted, too confused, and a bit too drunk to focus on it right now. And I don’t even know what I want. Do I want to wait patiently for Trent to realize he loves me and come home? Or do I want him to die in a fiery car crash? Wait— maybe something more horrifying, like being eaten by a shark while he snorkels off the coast of Aruba. Better yet, it should be something really embarrassing, like reacting to the anesthesia during his brow lift. Or maybe a heart attack while lying naked in a tanning bed? With these pleasant thoughts in my head, I drift off to sleep.

Trent

THE ROOM IS DARK WHEN THE ALARM GOES OFF
, and it takes me a second to remember where I am. Right. I did it. I left. After months of worrying and stressing, I finally made a move. In the dim light of early morning, it all seems a little unreal. This could easily be a hotel room in Calgary or Seattle where I’m attending a conference, but no. I’m in a hotel in downtown Vancouver, having walked out on my wife and daughter.

Obviously, there’s a bit of a negative connotation when it’s put like that, but I’m not going to be eaten up by the guilt. Plenty of men reach the same decision that I have: life’s too short to be stuck in a passionless marriage. I feel bad for Sam, but she’ll get over it. I can still be a good dad to her, and I know Lucy won’t let her down. Besides, what kind of example were we setting for her, living separate lives in the same house? She should know there’s more to life than that.

I get up and head to the shower. If I don’t think about Lucy crying on the sofa, I feel pretty good. I’m a single man again. Okay, maybe one night in a hotel doesn’t make me single, but I took a step that needed to be taken. One day, Lucy will see that. Now, it’s time to look forward.

My stomach does this weird, nervous, butterfly thing as I think about seeing Annika … voluptuous, sexy Annika with those big tits and that wild, curly hair. I decide to jerk off. It’s a relief not to have to worry about Lucy walking in on me.

“Yuck! What are you doing?” she’d said when she walked in on me once. Those were her exact words—“Yuck! What are you doing?” Like masturbation isn’t the most normal, healthy thing in the world. When did Lucy become so fucking uptight? She used to be fun and sexy, but now … I tear my thoughts from my wife and focus on Annika. Now that’s more like it.

Lucy

WHEN THE ALARM GOES OFF AT 6:00 A.M.
I feel confused and extremely thirsty. It would be completely acceptable to call in sick under the circumstances, but I somehow feel the distraction of work might help. After a jarring shower, a piece of toast, and a few sips of undrinkable coffee (Trent always made delicious coffee, but I refuse to let this upset me), I go to my daughter’s room. “Knock, knock,” I say cheerfully as I let myself inside.

Samantha’s sanctuary is an exercise in organized chaos. She’s a talented artist, and her walls are plastered with numerous school projects: a surreal self-portrait in charcoal; a scattering of ink drawings featuring stylized, metallic insects; a papiermâché lantern; and my favorite, a watercolor of sailboats off Jericho Beach that she did when she was only twelve. Interspersed among her artwork are posters of her latest adolescent crush, Cody Summers. Cody Summers, played by the actor Wynn Felker, is the star of the sitcom I’m working on,
Cody’s Way
. The fact that Wynn Felker is not a precocious teenage boy with a knack for getting himself into trouble but a twenty-seven-year-old man with an enormous Hollywood ego does not quell Samantha’s affection. She seems to think I’m making it all up just to thwart her first true love.

I perch on the side of her bed. “Morning, honey.”

“What?” she growls, pulling the pillow over her head. “What time is it?”

“It’s seven. I’ve got to head to work now, and Daddy—” I pause here, uncomfortable about lying to my daughter. But obviously I can’t say that Daddy is at the Sutton Place Hotel finding himself and booking appointments with plastic surgeons. “Your dad had to go away on business. So, can you get yourself off to school on your own?”

She emerges from under her pillow. “Of course I can. Duh? I’m not, like, nine.”

“Okay … well, that’s good then. You should get up now or you’re going to be late.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, throwing off her duvet and stumbling toward the shower.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER,
I pull up in front of the
Cody’s Way
studio building in an industrial area south of Vancouver. “Hi Tanya,” I mumble to the receptionist as I wander through the inauspicious lobby toward my office at the back. When I enter the small, cluttered space I share with Camille, my friend is already seated at her desk, peering intently at a spreadsheet on her computer.

“Morning,” she says, without tearing her eyes from the screen.

“Where were you last night?” I ask, dropping my purse under my desk.

She turns to me then. “Oh god! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

I’m grateful for her sympathy, but a little chagrined by the fact that my having spent the whole night drinking wine and crying is so readily apparent. As I start to explain, I feel the tears welling in my eyes. Before I can speak, Camille grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk in my car.”

As we drive toward Burnaby and one of the prop houses, I explain the events of last night. Not surprisingly, Camille says, “That fucking bastard. Does he think he’s nineteen? God, men are such weak creatures.”

“I know,” I snivel into a balled-up tissue, “they are.”

“Seriously, you’re better off without him if this shows his strength of character. And Samantha’s better off too. How’s she taking it?”

“Sh-she doesn’t know!” I wail. “He hasn’t told her yet.”

“Oh my god! You’re kidding me. He just walked out and left you to deal with the aftermath? Do you see what kind of person he really is? He’s a selfish, self-absorbed dick with the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old. Seriously, you don’t need a piece of shit like him in your life.”

“He’s not that bad,” I say, for some reason a little defensive. I was married to the guy for sixteen years. “I told him he needs to come talk to her, and I’m sure he will.”

Camille pulls the car into the parking lot outside the large warehouse building and turns off the ignition. “Stay here and get yourself together. I’ll go in and look for the stuff we need. I want you to take it easy today, and tonight, I’ll come over with some booze and we’ll talk this whole thing out.”

“’Kay.”

“And remember,”she says as she hops out of the Explorer, “in the long run, you’ll be glad all this happened. I promise.”

Trent

I
’
M WITH CLIENTS ALL MORNING,
which is a good distraction. Of course, I can’t help but catch a glimpse of Annika as she escorts a young couple out of her office. God, she’s sexy. She’s a little heavier than Lucy, but in all the right places. And that hair … I just want to grab it, pull her head back, and suck on her neck. She glances my way and I wave. It feels juvenile, not to mention unprofessional, to wave at the girl you’re hot for while you’re advising a fifty-eight-year-old high school teacher on his retirement investments. But when she smiles and gives me a wink, I feel this heat in the pit of my stomach. Thankfully, the high school teacher doesn’t notice and continues to peruse the mutual fund brochures I’ve given him.

At lunch, I’ll call Lucy. I’m sure she’s still too pissed off to have a civil conversation with me, but I’m concerned about Samantha. Given Lucy’s work schedule, I’m usually the one who’s home with Sam in the mornings, and often at dinner. She’s bound to notice my absence and question her mom about it. I don’t want Lucy to explain why I’ve left. No doubt she’d say something mean, like “Your dad is an immature, irresponsible dickwad who wears funny pants and doesn’t love you.”

When Mr. Larson leaves at 11:50, I pick up the phone to dial Lucy’s cell. I’ve just punched in the first set of numbers when Annika pops her head into my office.

“Do you have plans for lunch?”

I abruptly hang up the phone. “No, actually, no plans.”

“Want to go for noodles? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

“I’ll go get my purse. Meet me at the front door when you’ve finished your call.”

“No,” I say, standing up and sticking my phone in my pocket, “I’ll make the call later. Let’s go eat.”

At lunch, Annika and I sit on tall stools at a tiny round table, bowls of Japanese noodle soup in front of us. We make small talk about work as we eat. I love how she eats. She scoops up enormous heaps of noodles with her chopsticks and shoves them in her mouth. She’s not trying to be phony and ladylike. It’s great how she can just be one of the guys, like she’s completely comfortable in my presence. Unless, of course, that means she just thinks of me as a friend and isn’t interested in me as, like, a man. The thought sends a wave of something like anxiety through my stomach. I set down my chopsticks and take a drink of Coke.

As if she can read my mind, Annika coyly stirs her soup. “So … how’s your wife these days?”

I refrain from letting out an audible sigh of relief. Her question—or more accurately, her delivery—makes it clear that I’m more than just a co-worker to her. Besides, we’ve been flirting like crazy for months now. “Uh …” I clear my throat before continuing. Is it too soon to tell her that I’ve left Lucy? Will it scare her off? But our eyes connect and I feel the intensity of her gaze. “We’ve separated. I moved out.”

“Oh … I’m sorry,” she says, placing her hand consolingly on mine.

“I’m not,” I say, my voice hoarse. Our eyes are still connected, and I swear to god I could take her into the restroom at the back of the restaurant and do her right now. Except, of course, everyone would hear us and our receptionist is at the counter ordering her lunch at this very moment. Plus, we’d be banned from eating lunch here ever again, and it’s the best place to get noodles in the general vicinity of our office.

“Where are you living then?”

“I’m staying at the Sutton Place, just until I can find an apartment.”

“Nice hotel,” she says, waving to the receptionist as she carries her take-out back to the office. “I love the bar there. It’s so fun to have a drink and watch the celebrities.”

It’s a cue, isn’t it? It’s not just a simple, celebrity-spotting anecdote. It can’t be. Christ, I’ve been off the scene for so long, I can’t tell anymore. But I take the plunge. “Yeah … We should meet there for a drink one night. I heard Lance Armstrong was staying there the other weekend.”

She looks at me and smiles. It’s a playful smile, almost teasing, but not mocking like when Lucy was looking at my skinny-leg trousers. “My friend and I saw Gene Simmons there two months ago. How’s Friday?”

When I get back to the office, I can’t stop smiling. I feel like an idiot, but I can’t help it. I have a date with Annika. Of course, it’s not officially a date: it’s just two co-workers getting together to have a drink and spot B-list celebrities. But I can feel the attraction between us and I know she can too. It’s been building for ages. And who knows where Friday night will lead? It could be the start of something, something new and exciting and unbelievably hot.

I decide not to phone Lucy. She’s only going to bring me down with her insults and accusations. I deserve to enjoy this moment of anticipation. It’s been way too long. But I haven’t forgotten that I owe my daughter an explanation. I busy myself with paperwork until 4:30 when I know Sam will be home from school.

“Hey you,” I say cheerfully when she answers the phone.

“Oh, hey Dad.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I just got home.” I hear her opening the fridge, rummaging for her after-school snack. “Where are you?”

“I’m at work,” I answer, a little confused by the question.