Second Chance
By Eileen Hinkle Rife
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Life is bleakest right before dawn.
I lay beside my husband who sleeps like a rock, except I know he isn’t a rock since his snoring has kept me awake most of the night. The steady drip of the bathtub faucet hasn’t helped much either. When will Jerry ever get around to fixing that thing?
The paperboy pulls into the driveway. His headlights cast a traveling beam over our bedroom wall. He tosses the rolled newspaper against the garage door, precisely as he does every morning around 6:00. The paper smacks the door, then falls to the asphalt with a thud.
What could be worth the trouble of getting out of bed? I sweep aside the comforter and pad to the bathroom. Scratching the crease lines on my arm, I turn my face from side to side while gazing in the mirror.
Ugh! More fine lines. Another chin appears to be emerging. What was that exercise my mother read about in the beauty tips section of our local newspaper when I was young? Oh yes, purse your lips, like an orangutan, and blow out short spurts of air. Supposedly, this strengthens the neck muscles and makes them more taunt.
I give it a whirl. What do I have to lose? Hopefully, my double chin. If I can’t take the inches off my middle, maybe I can take them off my face. Speaking of middle, it looks like my spare tire is catching up with my bust line. I should be in all out warfare against my increasing weight, but somehow, I don’t really give a rip. With the condition the world’s in, we probably won’t be on this earth much longer.
I sigh and drop my nightgown on the way to the shower. I slide open the glass door, turn on the water, and ease under the spray. I should be thankful for the warmth, but my grumpy mood wants its own way. Something inside of me says to fight the negative disposition, so I begin to count my blessings as the old hymn says to do.
I have a wonderful Cape Cod house I’ve lived in for twenty years. A beautiful garden I enjoy tending, or at least I used to before my daughter’s wedding plans took over my life. I have pretty much all the modern conveniences known to mankind. I have two grown children who are taking responsibility for their lives. I made it through home schooling without doing irreparable damage to myself or to them. I have a fluffy companion who adores me and comes whenever I call. I have my neighbor, Trish, who watches out for me. And I have a husband who is snoring in the next room.
Well, life can’t be all perfect.
I turn off the shower, grab a towel off the brass holder, and step onto our embroidered bath mat. I sink to the floor by the toilet and study the palm tree that decorates the mat. In an instant, tears spring to my eyes.
It calls to mind beach trips with the kids, splashing in the waves, throwing the Frisbee on the sand, grilling burgers on the deck, and collecting shells to take home. One year, we toted enough pebbles and shells back to fill our front flowerbed. That same year, Josh, Teri, and the cousins spotted a dead sand shark floating close to shore. They lugged it up to the deck and displayed it on the patio table with an assortment of shells. “A museum,” they said, “for other kids to see.”
Later, we packed the two-foot fish in ice and brought it home to dissect for a homeschool project. Teri couldn’t bring herself to cut the shark, so she stood back capturing the procedure with a camcorder. Josh, on the other hand, sliced through the sandpaper skin with a glint in his eyes and popped open the stomach revealing a whole crab. He lifted it out, a broad grin spreading across his dimpled cheeks. It was then I knew in my heart my son would be a surgeon.
Good grief! A silly tree on a bathmat makes me cry.
I laugh through my tears as Jerry stumbles into the bathroom, nearly tripping over me on the way to the toilet. “What in the world are you doing on the floor, Mave?”
“Picking lint off the mat?” I contort my face, hoping he’ll believe me, but I don’t sound very confident. Lint-picking is certainly something he could relate to. Jerry’s so particular that he lines up his shoes every night before climbing into bed. The only thing he isn’t particular about is our marriage.
“Can’t you do it some place else?” He steps around me.
Keeping up my façade, I sweep the mat from underneath his feet and stomp to the bedroom. I hug the rug to my chest and indulge a few more tears as Jerry turns on the shower. Strains of “Singin’ in the Rain” echo from the stall. I half expect to see him hop out of the shower with umbrella in hand and dance about the room like Gene Kelly.
Then it occurs to me—he’ll want a mat to step on when he gets out. He hates a wet floor. So, I shrug on a blue blouse and pair of jeans two sizes too small and carry the mat back to the bathroom.
Once in the kitchen, I hear Jerry gargling mouthwash, a habit he formed as a dentist. “If I’m going to tell my patients to gargle everyday, then I sure better do it myself,” he’d said when he opened his practice.
Smiles are important to Jerry. That’s too bad since I rarely ever use mine anymore, but I wonder if he’s even noticed. If he has, he sure hasn’t said anything. Blowing out air, I yank open the cabinet and retrieve a frying pan.
The garage door creaks, then he walks into the kitchen with the newspaper, pours a cup of coffee, and plops onto a kitchen chair, not once looking at me. But then, what’s to look at? A middle-aged woman in tight-fitting jeans is not a pretty sight. Throw in motley salt and pepper hair cut in a bob—I do try to be fashionable—and it spells, “Blah.” Worn out, used up, and just plain dull.
Feeling impulsive, I turn and face him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. A strange knocking sound comes from underneath the table. “Jerry?”
More banging.
“What would you think if I got a make-over?”
His head shoots up over the edge. “Fixed that loose brace, for now anyway.”
I anchor myself against the glossy sapphire-blue counter, the one I saw in the home improvement magazine and just had to have. Suddenly, a slab of granite or whatever this counter is made out of doesn’t appeal to me. With the spice gone out of my marriage, there’s not a thing in this kitchen that excites me. And once again, a part of me dies inside.
I turn back to the stove and crack two eggs into the pan, then pop two slices of bread into the toaster, pour juice, and gather plates and silverware. The only thing sizzling on this irksome morning is the eggs. Twenty-six years and what do we have to show for it? A nice house. Check. Money in the bank. Check. Good kids. Check. A church we love, but rarely attend. Maybe that’s why we love it. We haven’t gotten close enough to anyone to rub each other the wrong way.
“I’ll be late getting home tonight.” Jerry sets his cup down and folds the paper.
The man speaks. Wonder of wonders. “Should I hold supper for you?”
He shrugs. “No need. I’ll pick up something on the way home.”
“Fine.”
After I carry the plates to the table, Jerry practically inhales his food.
We eat in silence.
“How much did the wedding expenses add up to be?” He wipes his hands on a napkin.
I grimace, knowing he’s not going to like what I have to say. Squaring my shoulders, I sit up, as if the mere action will breed confidence. “We stayed within our budget.”
“And that was?” He arches one eyebrow.
“I have an itemized list if you’d like to see it sometime.”
“Mave, you’re stalling. How much?”
I bite my lower lip, tap my cheek. “Well, now, let’s see. We saved money on the caterer by choosing the chicken. And Teri borrowed a friend’s veil. That took care of the ‘something borrowed’ item.” A nervous chuckle escapes my throat followed by a cough. “Then the flowers and mini lights Trish loaned us, and we made all our own floral arrangements and corsages. The bridesmaids and groomsmen rented their own outfits—”
“Mave, how much?” Jerry’s ice blue eyes flare as his voice rises a decibel.
“Fifteen thousand,” I whisper, scrunching my face.
Jerry shakes his head like a mad goat ready to butt something. Spareribs, our cocker spaniel, skitters into the kitchen and over to my chair, begging for a handout. My buddy knows when to save the day.
“Ah, look how cute. He’s sitting up.” I focus on my faithful friend.
I sense Jerry’s hot glare on me and turn to look at him. His eyes narrow.
“Mave, I didn’t spend that much on our last car.”
He’s right about that. When it comes to cars, Jerry’s a tightwad. Nothing new, always used. Now cameras, that’s another story altogether.
I hold up my hand. “Now, Jerry, before you go getting upset . . . well, look at it this way, we only have one daughter. What if we’d had two girls, then we would’ve had to plan two weddings? Or what if we’d had three or four girls? Why, the way I see it, we’ve saved money.”
His mouth drops open. “I can’t believe you’d spend that much on a one-time event. Besides, it’s the marriage that’s most important, not the wedding.”
“And I can’t believe you said that!” Fuming, I push my chair back and rise with hands on hips. Wake up, Jerry, and smell your own marriage.
He throws out his hands and studies my face. “What?”
This man doesn’t have a clue.
“What? Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here.” He tucks the napkin under the edge of his plate.
“Oh, and I am? What? For spending some money on our daughter? Our last child? On the most important day of her life? We don’t take fancy vacations. We don’t buy expensive stuff, unless you count all that photography equipment gracing our basement.”
My husband’s face turns two shades of purple. Is he going to blow a fuse? “I run a lucrative practice. I can afford to indulge in a hobby or two.”
“How can you be so selfish? You indulge in yourself, and yet want to skimp on Teri’s wedding, is that it?” Balling my hands into fists, I turn away. “I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation. The wedding’s done and over with now.”
His chair scoots. I hope that means he’s done with this conversation and is leaving for work. I want him out of the house so that I can get on with my grieving.
He trudges to the counter and grabs his lunch box. He insists on carting his lunch to work since he won’t schedule enough time to step out and get a bite to eat at a local restaurant.
“If you want to indulge yourself, Mave, get a job. Maybe it’s time to use that English degree you worked so hard to earn.” He cuts me a wry smile and strides out the door.
Has anything I’ve done as a wife and mother counted in his estimation? Twenty-two hours of labor. Three years working to put him through dental school. Twenty years teaching our children to read, write, and do arithmetic. Where’s the paycheck for all of that? It’s so unfair.
A hypodermic needle couldn’t pierce the fragile skin of my heart more than his parting words. I feel so cheated. Not for the years I’ve put in with no pay. My children’s smiles and success provide pay enough, but for the years when my husband may have been thinking, Why doesn’t she get a job and pull her weight around here?
Heat creeps up my torso and fills my face. I tug at my blouse. Am I having a hot flash? Surely, I’m too young for that. I touch my face and realize I’m crying. Again. Questions tumble through my mind, vying for attention.
Can there really be life after kids? Will I ever be close to Jerry again?
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and pad into the living room. Sweeping the curtain aside, I gaze out the window. A gaggle of geese honk overhead. The sun creeps over the Blue Ridge Mountains as my neighbor, Trish, bounds into her yard. She’s lived beside me for twenty years. We’ve shared late night feedings, diaper rash, birthday parties, curriculum, chicken pox, and laundry detergent. It doesn’t get any better than that.
After Trish pauses to catch her breath, she stretches her long legs, then snaps a sweatband off her brow and moves to her front door. My friend’s repeated admonitions of late ring in my head. It’s a gorgeous September day, Mave. You oughta take a walk.
Grunting, I push the curtain back in place. Her children are grown and gone, too. What’s she got to be so cheerful about?
A walk’s the last thing I want to do. Eat a Twinkie, maybe. Cry into my pillow, definitely. Sit on the couch and stare into space. Go catatonic. Those are all possibilities. But take a walk? I’ll get my exercise cleaning Teri’s room and crying, thank you very much. Surely, that will burn some calories.
I plod up the stairs and into Teri’s bedroom. As I fish through a beat-up box, my hand settles on some photos of my precious daughter and her friends. Like a ballerina leaping onto the stage, tears spring to my eyes. I drop to the bed, mesmerized by the depictions of laughter, carefree days, parties, and memories . . . oh, the memories.
Will there ever be good days like these again?