Slowly, her breath leaked out. She hardly made a sound at all as she sank back onto the bed.
If she didn’t do something, she’d sink into a pit of depression.
When a woman was in this kind of trouble, there was only one thing to do. Unfortunately, the phone wouldn’t be connected until “Sometime between noon and four o’clock.”
She reached over to the bedside table for a paper and pen. Before she could talk herself out of it, she started to write.
Dear Meghann:
I’m in trouble. After years of whining, I have finally done something about my unhappiness. Jack and I are separated. It’s funny that one little word, only a few syllables, can so profoundly rip the shit out of your life.
And here’s the punch line (though it’s a joke you’ve heard before): I’m even more unhappy. I want to kick up my heels and party till the sun goes down, but I can’t seem to get my industrial-size ass out of bed.
You were right, it seems, about all of it.
I could use a laugh right about now. (So tell me about your newest boyfriend.)
XXOO
Elizabeth
She immediately felt better.
Reaching out to someone was better than sitting here, wondering what she was going to do with the rest of her life. What would it be like to be a woman alone?
Suddenly she thought about her stepmother, who was also alone.
You take care of Anita, you hear me?
It was the last thing Daddy had asked of her.
She’d made a deathbed promise … and then done nothing to keep it.
She reached for another piece of stationery.
Dear Anita:
I am at the beach house by myself.
It’s quiet here, so quiet that I am beginning to realize how noisy my life was before. It is the way of women, I think, to follow the loudest voice, to constantly do for others.
I am trying now to find my own lost voice. Perhaps you are, too. An empty house can be a lonely, frightening world for women like us, used to listening to others.
My thoughts often drift southward these days, and I pray that you are okay. If there’s anything I can do to help you, please don’t be afraid to call. I know we’ve always been distant with each other, Anita, but in the words of Bob Dylan, “the times they are a changin’.” Maybe we can find a new way.
My best,
Elizabeth
She got out of bed, dressed in a pair of ragged sweats, green plastic gardening clogs, and a fishing cap, like Kate Hepburn wore in On Golden Pond; then she walked up to the mailbox.
By the time she got home, she was breathing hard and soaked with sweat. She definitely needed more exercise.
She was in the bedroom, peeling off her wet sweats, when something occurred to her.
The Passionless Women.
She was one of them now.
In the days following the breakup of his marriage, Jack made sure he was never alone. Each morning, he woke at four a.m. and was at the office by five, long before any of his colleagues. After hours, he found someone—anyone—and hung out at the sports bar on Fiftieth.
He didn’t know how else to handle the separation. He’d never been good at being alone.
Tonight, he stayed at the bar until it closed, downing drinks with Warren. When he finally stumbled home, he was well past drunk.
He walked into the apartment and called out Birdie’s name.
The silence caught him off guard.
That was when it really hit him. They were separated. Without thinking it through, he picked up the phone and dialed her number. It rang at least eight times before she answered.
“Hello?” She sounded tired.
He glanced at his watch. It was three in the morning here; midnight in Oregon. “Heya, Birdie,” he said, wincing.
“Oh. Hi.”
He imagined her sitting up in bed, turning on the light. “It’s weird being without you,” he admitted softly, sitting down on his unmade bed.
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t have said ‘divorce.’ ” Even now, the word made his stomach tighten. “I was angry.”
She didn’t respond right away. He hated her silence; it made him feel as if this were all his fault. Finally, she said, “Maybe I should have done things differently, too.”
“What now?” he asked. It was what he really wanted to know. For twenty-four years, he’d lived with her, slept with her, cared for her. Any other way was long forgotten.
“I don’t know.” She sounded faraway. “I need some time alone.”
“But what about us?”
“We go on, I guess. See where the road takes us.”
“Well. Yeah.” He tried to think of something else to say. “There’s plenty of money in the bank account. You can have your bills sent to me if you want.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a checkbook. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh. Right.” He fell silent again, confused. It felt as if they’d become strangers already. “Well, good night, Birdie.”
“Good night, Jack.”
He hung up the phone and flopped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
We go on.
What else was there? At this point, there were only two choices available to them. Go forward or back.
Like her, he wasn’t ready to go back.
SEVENTEEN