Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(19)
“Watch me,” I retorted, attempting to skedaddle. With two large suitcases attached to my person, this was a bit of a challenge.
Faced with my imminent departure, Tom lunged forward to grab my arm. I jerked away, which sent the larger of the two suitcases tumbling. I’m sorry to report that my hand was still firmly clamped around the handle, so away I went—bump, bump, bump, belly-down on the stairs, the synthetic carpet grabbing at my incision like Velcro. I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to cry out in pain. The suitcase and I landed in a pile in front of the ground-floor apartments.
One of my neighbors, whose name was Bill, maybe, or Will, stuck his head out the door, probably curious to know who was making such a racket at eight in the morning. “Hello?” he said. Then he looked down at me. “Yeesh! Are you okay?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom approaching. “Help!” I cried. “My ex-husband is trying to kill me!”
“Knock it off, Libby!” Tom said, although he had gone to the trouble of carrying my second suitcase down for me.
With some effort, I stood up. There was a searing sensation radiating from my stomach, and I was fairly certain that half of my stitches had just been ripped out, but I was going to have to learn to get used to pain. Perhaps the Brookstone store at the airport sold self-hypnosis CDs.
“Should I call someone?” Bill-or-Will asked, glancing at Tom, who was now standing next to me.
“Only if you hear me scream again,” I said. Then I turned to Tom and opened my mouth wide, the corners of my lips curling upward in a creepy clown smile.
The neighbor closed his door, although I was willing to bet he was lingering on the other side, waiting to see if our marital strife would play out as comedy or tragedy.
“Libby,” Tom warned. “Please stop it. I just want to talk to you. I need you to know that this isn’t your fault. Your behavior tells me that you don’t actually know that. I think you should see a psychologist.”
“My fault?” I said. “My fault?! At what point did I give you the impression that I think I am the reason you are attracted to men?”
“Can we please go somewhere else to talk about this? Like our apartment?” He sounded exasperated.
“See, that’s the thing,” I said. My stomach really hurt, and it was hard to separate that from the anger I felt toward Tom. “You insist on talking to me when I clearly do not want to talk. You tell me I should see a shrink. You’re a control freak, Tom, and you think that this—you ending our marriage—is something you can control. Well, I’ve got news for you: the show’s over. How I react is entirely up to me. Me!” I yelled, channeling my nephews yet again. “Not you.”
He looked almost as surprised as when I’d forked him. “I’m sorry, Libby. I was only trying to be helpful when I said you should see someone. You should, you know. You’re not acting like yourself.”
“The Libby you knew is dead, Tom,” I said. “And by the way, I changed the locks. Until I get back and hire an attorney, you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.”
I took my luggage and rather ungracefully maneuvered it through the front door, down the sidewalk, and onto the curb. Then I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled for the livery cab I had called to take me to O’Hare. The rest of my life was waiting, and I did not intend to be late.
ELEVEN
Great mother of pearl! Liquor was powerful stuff. While I wasn’t sure I liked it, I had a feeling it might come in handy as I prepared to meet my maker. Historically, I had no strong feelings toward alcohol one way or the other, but aside from the occasional beer or celebratory glass of champagne, I’d largely avoided it because Tom’s father was an alcoholic, and not the jolly, highly functioning type. Even mild inebriation made Tom uncomfortable.
But his concerns were no longer my own, so after learning I had two whole hours to kill before my flight, I pulled a move that was decidedly un-Libby-like: I walked into an airport bar, sat down, and told the bartender to serve me what he would have if he were making a drink for himself. (In hindsight, perhaps this was not the best idea, as the bartender’s capillary-spidered cheeks said he’d spent the better part of his life downing highly flammable spirits.) “Dirty martini,” he said, pouring the contents of a silver shaker into a deceptively small cocktail glass with a flourish. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so as bitter and medicinal as the martini was, I set about drinking it as though each sip would make it more appetizing. Which proved to be true.
Five minutes later, it was gone, so I ordered another one, which I drank slower as the room began to tilt ever so slightly. Gin seemed to supply a gentler buzz than Tom’s sleeping pills (though I brought those with me, too, just in case). On the other hand, I knew that if I finished the second martini, my carry-on would never make it with me to the gate, so I left half the murky liquid in the glass, paid my bill, and went wandering through the terminal.
Many believe O’Hare International Airport to be the very inferno Dante spoke of, but I don’t mind it. The bookstores are good, the food isn’t half-bad, and while you encounter the occasional screaming traveler, most people who pass through are distantly friendly in that Midwestern way. Also, there’s a Brookstone, which I located roughly four and a half miles from my gate. The store was fresh out of self-hypnosis CDs, and much to the saleswoman’s frustration, I didn’t see the point of buying soothing ocean sounds when I would be on the beach the following morning. So I plopped down in a massage chair and treated the contents of my stomach to a reenactment of the bartender’s martini mixing.