He looked up to see me standing there and startled, a guilty, stricken look on his face. It wasn’t even six p.m. but he’d already changed out of his suit into jeans and a faded T-shirt that read Jackson Hole Ski Team. He’d bought that shirt on a trip we took nearly five years back, a ski vacation in Wyoming that ended in a snowstorm. The snow was so heavy that they closed down the resort, so instead of skiing we spent most of the trip naked by the fireplace in our hotel suite, having sex and ordering room service champagne. That was the vacation that we decided to throw my birth control in the trash. I remembered Chuck rolling over to me in the flickering light from the fire, his hands cradling my face, as he whispered, “Think of how incredible our babies are going to be. They’ll be the best of both of us.” I felt like a red carpet was unfurling before me, a plush path toward my future, leading to a perfect baby, our perfect family. When Chuck pushed inside me I whispered, “I’ve never been so happy” in his ear, and meant it.
When life has yet to disappoint you, you have no reason to believe it ever will. It’s only later, when you’ve been battered by failed expectations, that you grow cynical. Is it ever possible to find your way back to that initial, blissful optimism? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why I was so willing to believe in the other path, the one that GenFem was teaching me: cudgeling your way through life, fueled by self-righteous rage, demanding to be given what you believe you deserve. Less hope than brute force.
My husband and I stared at each other across the room. “What are you doing?” I asked even though it was obvious, of course it was, from the heap of objects at my husband’s feet, the presence of the matching suitcases that his parents gave us for our wedding.
“The company had a sudden opening in our Tokyo office,” he said. “I’m taking it.”
I almost laughed, because of course he had to be joking, until I realized, with a nauseating twist of the gut, that he wasn’t joking at all. “You’re moving to Japan and you just decided to tell your wife? You never even thought about asking me to come?”
Chuck looked terrible. The skin under his eyes was baggy and bruised, and he’d gained at least ten pounds, probably due to the fact that he’d been living on takeout. “I’m sorry. But we need a break anyway. We both know that this is unsustainable,” he said. “Our relationship—it’s broken.”
“I know,” I said. “But it’s fixable. I’ve already explained to you exactly what I want. All you need to do is agree to start looking into adoption, and everything will be fine again.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going there again, Elli. This isn’t even about that anymore, don’t you realize? It’s about how irrational you’ve gotten, how single-minded and obsessive. It’s your way or it’s no way at all. I don’t understand what’s gotten into you. Marriage is supposed to be a partnership, not a dictatorship.”
“Exactly.” I sensed that this was one of the moments that GenFem had warned me about, when a Toxic tries to break you down into smaller pieces so that they can make themselves feel bigger. The important thing is to stand strong in your beliefs and remain whole. Page twenty-seven of my binder: I’d highlighted that sentence just last week. “And you don’t get to dictate that we aren’t going to have a family just because you suddenly decide you don’t want one anymore.”
“But I do want a family,” he said. His eyes had dropped to the floor and his voice was as low and flat as the pile of our Persian rug. “That’s why I’m leaving.”
“You’re leaving me because I’m infertile?”
“No.” He nudged at a golf club with his foot. “I’m leaving you because you aren’t you anymore. You’re not the same person I wanted to start a family with.”
“I am me. I’m more me than I’ve ever been.”
He was picking his way through his words now, like a child doing its best not to trample on the flowers. “I know it’s been a hard year for you, with your diagnosis, and your estrangement from Sam. It’s been hard for both of us. And I know that you think this, this…”—I coolly watched him struggle—“group is helping you heal. But it’s not, Elli. GenFem has stripped away everything I used to love about you, and all that’s left is this veneer of bravado that’s just covering a whole lot of fear and anger. The Elli I knew was gentle and kind and patient…”
“The Elli you knew was an insecure pushover. I think that’s why you liked her. You don’t like strong women.”
He sighed and reached down, stuffing tennis gear into a duffel bag. I kicked the tube of tennis balls at him and it skittered along the rug and then struck him in the shin, hard. He looked up at me, his face reddening.
“If you walk out that door, I’m filing for divorce,” I said. I think I still hoped he wouldn’t, that this final threat would tip the balance back over to me. But of course, it didn’t.
“I’m really sorry, Elli,” he said. He sounded so much smaller than he was.
I thought of the gun in the closet just a few feet behind him, a symbol of the power you contain within yourself, a reminder that you do not have to be the victim. I imagined pointing it at Chuck, wondered how powerful that would feel. But would it make a difference? Not in a good way. I still had the clarity, then, to understand that.
“I don’t need you,” I said, and it was hard work to make my voice ice-cube cold and to not break into tears, but I did it, and I knew Dr. Cindy would have applauded me if she could hear me. “I’m reclaiming my own destiny. I’m deciding for myself what’s right for me. I’m learning my own self-worth. And I’m still going to get what’s rightly mine, with or without you.”
With that, I whirled around and left the room and drove to my GenFem meeting, where I spent the next two hours crying so hard that I barely registered the leveling ceremony that was happening onstage. At one point, I noticed that Iona was watching me from across the room, with a look of consternation. After the meeting, I went to look for her but she had already disappeared behind the velvet curtain with Dr. Cindy, the two of them talking in low whispers. As the rest of the members trickled out, I waited for someone to come and ask me what happened, to reassure me that I’d done the right thing, that I was going to be OK, but the other women were too distracted, too giddy about the new silk scarves around their necks to notice my emotional state. Eventually the room emptied and I found myself sitting on a threadbare couch, depleted and hungry and alone.
When I got back to my house, Chuck was gone.
28
DAYS PASSED. TWO OR three, maybe more, I wasn’t quite sure. I canceled all of my work events and stayed in bed with the curtains closed, drifting in and out of consciousness but never fully asleep. A numb inertia had settled into my limbs, making it impossible to move. I waited and waited for a triumphant swell of energy, the one Dr. Cindy had predicted—a big step toward achieving a better Me!—but it never arrived.
I thought of Chuck a lot, running through the course of our failed marriage over and over, but I found myself thinking of Sam even more. I lay in bed and imagined her showing up at the door with a bottle of wine and a tub of ice cream. She’d paint my toenails and tell me outrageous stories about her life until I had a stitch in my side from laughing. She’d have me forgetting about Chuck entirely for hours on end, she’d take me to that happy-sad place where all the emotions mingle together and leave you feeling oddly sanguine about human existence. At least, that’s what the old Sam, the addict Sam, would have done. Who was Sam now, this Sam with a half dozen recovery chips piled up on her bureau? I didn’t even know and that made me even sadder.
So, of course, the first thought that came to my mind was Sam when my doorbell rang at ten a.m. one morning. But when I stumbled down to the entry—still in my pajamas, face puffy and stinging—I found Iona standing in the doorway instead. I tried not to let the disappointment show on my face.
“Oh, Eleanor. You look awful. Mind if I—?” She squeezed her way through the door. A faint scent wafted off her, salt and lemons and perspiration, as if she’d come straight from a brisk walk on the beach. Her blond hair was tucked back in a loose ponytail, wisps of gray showing at the roots, and she was dressed in sensible athleisure.
She was carrying a bakery bag and a giant Starbucks coffee. She handed me the coffee and I took a bracing gulp. “I take it Chuck’s gone? Did he leave on his own or did you kick him out?”