“That was three years ago.” She’s right, I did gain a lot of notoriety from Millie’s tragic memoir about her life growing up with an abusive father and an uncle who repeatedly sexually assaulted her. The book held the number one spot for fifteen weeks straight. “And I haven’t done anything since. What’s worse is that I’m not even sure how that happened.”
“You were busy with your family. Jeremy’s job was unforgiving.”
“Maybe.”
“Regardless, you’re smart and talented. The Fairfield Chronicle would be lucky to have you.”
“We’ll see.” I grabbed a handful of crackers and walked up the stairs toward my bedroom to shower and get dressed. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to wear anything even remotely professional-looking. These days, I’m used to wowing people with my workout leggings and hoodies. “They already told me there’s no pay for the first few articles.”
“Okay. So you prove yourself, and then they’ll be throwing money at you. You’re not desperate for the cash, are you?”
“No.” I sat down on my bed. Since my divorce from Jeremy was so agreeable and he makes a crap load of money as a partner at a major law firm, he was very generous when it came to a financial settlement. “They did say that I get a free subscription to the paper.”
“Huzzah!”
“I know, thrilling, right?”
“You don’t sound very happy about this.”
“No, I am. I mean, at some point, how many Pilates classes can one person take? How many errands can I run? I don’t even have to pick up Jeremy’s clothing at the dry cleaner anymore. I used to bitch and moan about lugging his heavy suits. Now I’m desperate for something to fill my day.”
“I understand that.” I know in theory she does. Maggie’s had plenty of experience counseling families who’ve come undone. But I also know that she’ll never really understand. Not unless she and Nick break up, which will never happen. If any two people are meant for each other, it’s Maggie and Nick. I didn’t envy them that until recently.
“Honestly, I don’t feel like myself anymore. I need to use my brain, and I’m fucking bored. It’s not even that I miss Jeremy, but I think I might miss what he represented.” I propped myself against the stack of pillows bolstered by the gray, quilted headboard that had been my and Jeremy’s first purchase when we bought the house twelve years ago.
“Of course.” I pictured Maggie nodding. “The partnership and security are gone.”
“Yes. Like last week, the garage door was stuck, and I didn’t know who to call, and then Chloe clogged the toilet with Q-tips two days later. Those were Jeremy chores. And I just end up chastising myself because, while I know I’m a perfectly capable person, I become paralyzed by the stupidest stuff.”
“All very normal.”
“I don’t know why this is coming out now. It’s been four months. I seriously need to man up.”
“Also normal. In the beginning, you’re in the shock phase. Life just keeps moving. But now you’re looking to gain control of your life, which is a great step. I’ve been waiting for you to get here.”
“Thanks for clueing me in.”
“I couldn’t. Otherwise you would have tried to force yourself, which isn’t a natural progression.”
“You know what it is? It’s like I’ve been rendered useless. Or invisible. Or both.”
“You’re neither useless nor invisible.”
“Maybe not, but that’s the way it feels. On the nights that Chloe isn’t around, I buy myself one lonely piece of salmon and a single-serving packet of wild rice. Then I pour myself a big-ass glass of white wine and sit on the couch while I eat and watch Grey’s Anatomy.”
“That sounds blissful.”
“I think you mean pathetic.” Like Maggie, I used to savor nights to myself when I was married. If Jeremy was on a business trip and Chloe was sleeping at a friend’s house, the peace and quiet, the very solitude of it all, was intoxicating. “What if I choke on my salmon? Or slip and hit my head? No one will be here to know that it happened. I’m like the tree in the forest.”
“You know, you’re right. Salmon goes down very easily, but you are accident-prone. You should probably move in with us. I make a mean lasagna.”
“Very funny, and yes, you do. But what about the fact that I don’t have a job? It may have been fine for a few years, when I had a husband and a daughter who needed me, but without Jeremy around and with Chloe’s newfound independence, who the hell am I? What’s my contribution to this world? Chloe will be going to college in two years! Then what?”
“Listen, honey. I love you and I get it. It’s very typical for women in your situation, who suddenly feel like no one needs them anymore, to search for something to fill those holes. One-third of my clients are women in their forties who are facing the same thing. You may not want to hear this, but it takes time. You need to figure out what’s best for you in the long run without putting too much pressure on yourself. I promise you, you’re experiencing everything right on schedule.”
“Do you want to know what my biggest stress is?”
“That you’ll never meet someone else?”
“Yes!”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“You know what, though, it’s more than that. It’s that I’m afraid I’ll never want to meet someone else. And don’t you dare suggest online dating.”
“There are worse things.”
“No, there aren’t. There’s nothing worse.”
“Free meals, just saying.”
“I’ll be fine with my lonely salmon.”
“As long as you don’t choke on it.”
“Must be fun to play therapist to your friends.”
“You know I’m always here for you. Speaking of which, my patient will be arriving any minute, so I have to run. Listen, you’re going to kill the interview. Call me when it’s over.”
“Sure.”
“Bree, you will get through this.”
“I know.”
“Okay, talk later.” She blew a kiss through the phone before hanging up.
And I walked into my closet to dig out my black suit.
5 BREE
“Hi, Bree Bennett for Danny Markman.” I smiled at the receptionist, a slovenly, middle-aged woman with frizzy black hair, ruddy skin, and a stirring straw pinched between her yellowing teeth.
“Sit down. He’ll be out in a few minutes.” Her phone rang once. Then a second time. After the fourth ring, she looked at it and then at me. “What?”
“Nothing.” I took a few steps back and turned toward the claustrophobic waiting room, which was easily filled by two plastic chairs, the kind you’d find in an elementary school classroom, only slightly larger, and a splintered wooden coffee table displaying four stained copies of the Economist.
The lighting was feeble. The beige-and-brown-striped wallpaper was shedding at the corners. And the pungent scent of curry had settled into the tan shag carpet. I was officially trapped in the 1970s when, per my research, the Fairfield Chronicle was started by Danny Markman’s father, Dean.