I'll Be You(80)

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?”

“I kicked him out,” I lied, because it wasn’t so far from the truth and because I knew it was what Iona would want to hear.

She flung an arm over my shoulder, squeezed me tight. I felt shaky in her grip, on the edge of tears. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered. “Dr. Cindy is proud of you. It’s a big step but it needed to happen for your growth as an independent woman. I think Level Seven is on the horizon. We see a big future for you at GenFem. Dr. Cindy and I agree, we really do think you could be a great Mentor someday. You’re a natural empath and that could really help other women on their journeys.”

I managed a wobbly smile and swallowed more coffee. It burned my ravaged throat as it went down.