I watched a couple of recorded shows on my TiVo while I waited for the sausage to defrost but realized I wasn’t really paying attention; my mind was wandering and I needed an active occupation. So I decided to urge the sausage along in the microwave. The corners cooked too much, but I cut them away and went about the task of putting the lasagna together.
Judd Stevens has taken up space in my thoughts, which is only marginally better than me fixating on Charlie and his new family. I try to banish Judd, but I can’t. I don’t want to think about tomorrow night and our shared bottle of wine. And yet, as I lift the pasta sheets from the boiling water, I find myself dreaming up possible scenarios. One, we could sit side by side on his couch, our wineglasses on the coffee table, my mouth frozen as I desperately attempt to come up with something fascinating to say, him working to mask his embarrassment at having ever thought it was a good idea to invite me down. Two, we could sit across from each other at his dining room table, the wine—delicious, of course—a lubricant for easy conversation and meaningful glances that will pave the way to his bedroom. Three, I could cancel and thereby nullify both of the above possibilities.
Number three is the most likely scenario, and the one I would ordinarily choose. But a part of me craves scenario number two. I haven’t been with a man since Charlie. I have my physical challenges, obviously. And I have my trust issues concerning men. But I am also a woman, with needs and desires and . . . oh, God, to be intimate with someone again. To lie in someone’s arms, to be held, to be touched and kissed and adored. I proclaim to anyone listening—my sister, mostly—that I don’t want that, I don’t need that, I’m fine without it. But I’m not.
I place the long pasta strips along the bottom of the greased pan, then sprinkle ricotta, mozzarella, the crumbled sausage, and my homemade marinara. The process is meditative. I am anal-retentive about it. Can’t leave any holes. Must have all the ingredients evenly parsed. It takes a while. I think of Judd. I think of the lasagna I tell myself I’m making for me, but really it’s for Judd, if I keep our date. Does he even eat lasagna? Maybe he’s gluten-free. Maybe he’s a vegetarian or a vegan.
What the hell am I doing?
On the second lasagna, the one for me, or for Judd, I haven’t decided yet, my knuckles start to seize, then my hands. I’ve already taken my pill this morning, and the sudden pain in my extremities surprises me.
I walk on shaky legs to my bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. I pull out the ibuprofen, open the lid with trembling hands, and shake three gelcaps onto my palm. I pop them into my mouth, return the bottle to the cupboard, and bend over the sink, where I cup my hand under the tap and sip enough water to swallow the pills.
I should cancel tomorrow night. What would a healthy, vibrant, attractive middle-aged widower want with a pathetic sack like me?
I stand and close the medicine cabinet, then gaze at my reflection in the mirror, trying to be objective about what I see. I am not unattractive, not for a middle-aged woman. Although I have crows’-feet in the corners of my eyes and lines that pull down at the corners of my mouth and a crease across the middle of my neck—all signs of my age—I still have high cheekbones and only one chin. My eyes are a striking blue, and the skin of my eyelids has yet to start a downward journey. My lips are still full, not chapped thanks to the nonpetroleum jelly I put on every night. My hair has gone very gray, but I could take care of that with a trip to the drugstore, should I choose to do so.
I watch my reflection as I reach up and place my hand under my right breast. I’ve had no children, have never endured the voracious suckling of a babe. My breasts are not those of a twenty-two-year-old, firm with nipples pointing skyward, but neither are they the bosoms of a mother thrice over, tired and sagging and deflated by time and an infant’s unquenchable thirst. They are breasts a man could still revere. I think of Judd, downstairs, and red splotches appear on my cheeks.
Charlie loved my breasts, paid homage to them regularly, told me they were spectacular. Until he didn’t. Until he found another pair that could provide milk, breasts that were attached to a uterus that could manage a fertilized egg.
I continuously tell myself that Charlie deserves to be happy. My therapist is helping me along with that mantra. But he also tells me that I deserve to be happy, too.
I deserve to have my breasts revered. I deserve to enjoy a glass of Chateau Lafite Rothschild with an attractive widower. I just wish I knew whether or not I could actually handle it.
I splash cold water on my face. The ibuprofen has yet to take effect. My hands feel like claws, my fingers like cylinders of lead.
The apartment around me feels like a cell, the walls closing in.
I hurry to the kitchen, fumble through my purse for my cell. I swipe the screen to bring the thing to life, then click on my texts and swipe at Rachel’s name. I type without much thought or contemplation.
I know it’s early, but is it okay if I head over now?
I rest my arms on my minuscule Formica counter, counting in my head as the seconds tick by. On forty, I get a reply. Just heading to school to pick up Eden. Come any time. Use your key if we’re not there yet.
I sigh with relief. Saved again. I need to see Rachel and her children. I know they will ground me, as they always do. Maybe I’ll mention Judd to my sister. She’ll tell me to go for it—I know she will. Maybe that’s exactly what I’m looking for. A nudge. A cheerleader.
Permission.
I wrap the first lasagna in loose foil; the second, I wrap tighter and place on the top shelf of my freezer. I wonder where that lasagna will land. But I don’t give it much more thought. I grab the first pan, sling my purse over my shoulder, and head for the door.
FORTY-THREE
SHADOW
I’m alone. The humans are all gone. My mistress left . . . I don’t know when or how long ago, but the house is empty and I don’t like it. I am a Good Boy and I like to protect my humans, Little Male and Little Female and my master and mistress. But I can’t protect them when they’re not here.
I go to the front window and look out. I don’t see the cat. But I can smell it. I watch the outside for a while, waiting to see the cat. It doesn’t come out from wherever it’s hiding. Sometimes my little humans play the hiding game with me. Little Male will throw the ball into my yard from the door, then run away with Little Female. Then I run into the house and look for them. They don’t hide upstairs, because they know I’m not allowed up there. Sometimes they hide behind the couch or in the little room with the coats and the shoes or under the table in the back room. I always find them, because I can smell them wherever they go. And when I do, they smile and laugh and pet me and tell me I’m a Smart Boy. I don’t know what smart means, but I know it’s like good, because they look happy like when they say “Good Boy.”