The next day, the movers showed up with the furniture. Elizabeth stumbled out of bed to greet them. As soon as they left, she went back to bed. She stayed there for three days.
And still, she didnt want to get up.
She pulled the quilt up to her chin and lay there. Rain thumped on the roof, tapped on the window, a constant drip-drip-drip.
She understood now why couples broke up and got back together even if the love had turned stale. There was a safety in the known.
The irony was, this was what shed dreamed of. All those years, as time and responsibility and daily life had slowly--so slowly--eroded her marriage and her personality, shed dreamed of being On Her Own.
Shed always imagined that as an end in itself. A goal. A pie-in-the-sky dream that would bring with it little bluebirds of happiness.
She knew shed made the right decision, but still, late at night when the house was dark and rain pummeled the roof, she worried that she would always be alone, that no one would ever kiss her again, or sit with her after dinner and talk about nothing. Worse yet, that no one would look at her slowly aging face and say, "Youre beautiful, Birdie," or whisper, "I love you," just before the lights went out.
She flung the quilt aside and sat up.
It was time to start this new life of hers.
(This was a vow shed made at least twice a day since Jack left. )
This time she meant it.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and planted her bare feet on the cold floor. Like the Bride of Frankenstein, she lumbered to a stand.
"I could paint," she said aloud, just as shed said every other time shed managed to crawl out of bed, but even as she uttered the words, she felt defeated.
Slowly, her breath leaked out. She hardly made a sound at all as she sank back onto the bed.
If she didnt do something, shed 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 wouldnt be connected until "Sometime between noon and four oclock. "
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:
Im in trouble. After years of whining, I have finally done something about my unhappiness. Jack and I are separated. Its funny that one little word, only a few syllables, can so profoundly rip the shit out of your life.
And heres the punch line (though its a joke youve heard before): Im even more unhappy. I want to kick up my heels and party till the sun goes down, but I cant 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.
Shed made a deathbed promise . . . and then done nothing to keep it.