Ditching The Dream (Dream Series) (3 page)

W
here could Elizabeth be?
I wondered, checking my cell phone for the twentieth time this hour. I had been trying to reach her all day. She didn’t answer the house phone or her cell. She still hadn’t replied to any of my texts. Or voicemails. I was starting to get worried. She always texted right back or answered her phone, even if it was to say, “I can’t talk.” And now it was almost four-thirty in the afternoon.

Maybe she and Jessica went to the spa and I missed that conversation?
I considered. It was possible. I sometimes found it difficult to listen to her, as she prattled on over dinner about a variety of things that had nothing to do with me. I had to admit that I’d fallen into the habit of humming responses when she paused, but I wasn’t really listening, but thinking about work.

Glancing at the calendar, I noticed that Elizabeth’s birthday was coming up and that her best friend, Jessica, was always trying to get Elizabeth to go to the spa with her. Maybe that’s where she was. But I know my Bets, she didn’t go for that stuff. She might get her nails done every once in a while. But facials and massages? No.
Good luck, Jessica.

I tried pushing aside thoughts that her car was in a ditch somewhere, and contemplated other reasons she wouldn’t have texted or called. Maybe she forgot to plug her phone into the charger last night and the battery died. Or she went to run errands and left it at home.

I was only trying to do the responsible thing and let her to know that I was going to be late for dinner. A reasonable message. Well, that and the dry cleaners, which closed in a half an hour. I really want those charcoal pants.

I grabbed a file folder for my five o’clock meeting and wondered what Elizabeth had planned for dinner? I would have to hope that she got the message that I’d be late, because I have never been a fan of re-heated meals.

T
he gods were smiling on me because the Hyatt had a room available. Before I knew it, I was letting myself into my residence for the next week or longer. After the double take on the bill, I was hoping to find an apartment to rent as soon as possible.

An hour later I was unpacked, something I always did when I checked into a hotel, freshened up and put on a pair of slacks and a nice button down shirt. My stomach was rumbling and I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten all day, letting my nerves get the better of me. But now, I was feeling good about my decision, and really wanted to sink my teeth into some dinner. Now, to decide what kind of food to eat.

I hit the streets and started walking. I wasn’t worried about getting lost. I felt so free. No plan, no time constraint. Just me. Greg would have been online scouring for a place with incredible reviews and so on, then called for reservations and then we’d be rushing to get there in time. I liked not having that pressure.

I wandered up and down the streets, taking it all in, until I came across a quaint Italian place. The menu posted by the door looked tasty and the prices fair, so I let myself in.

“How many in your party?” the young hostess asked.

“Just one, thank you.” Suddenly, I was very self-conscious of my single status. What was she thinking? Was she wondering why I didn’t have a date? But she just smiled, not giving it a second thought.

“Is a table by the window okay?”

“Sounds great,” I replied, following her to a small table for two by the window. She collected the second set of silverware and glassware and left with a quick smile.

The place was quiet, maybe because it was a Monday. It smelled heavenly, the air laden with rich aromas from fresh bread, red sauce and garlic. The waitress came by and pitched the specials for the night. I simply ordered a glass of Chianti and ordered the Eggplant Parmesan, then sat back to watch the people on the street and ignored the sporadic vibrating of my phone.

The food was phenomenal. After finishing my meal, I smiled since I didn’t have dishes to do. Greg and I rarely ate out, and while I liked cooking, I didn’t like dishes. Curiosity got the better of me and I checked my phone. In the hour and fifteen minutes since I left the hotel, there were four missed calls, as many texts, and a couple emails.

I took note of the time. It was ten-thirty, so it was only seven-thirty back home. Greg said he was going to be at the office until eight. I still had a half an hour or so until the shit hit the proverbial fan.

“Can I get you an espresso, or gelato?” the waitress offered.

“No, thank you. Just the check please,” I answered.

I paid my bill and leisurely walked back to the hotel. As much as I wanted to explore the city that never sleeps, I was more than a little tired from the flight.

Curled up in the comfortable chair in my room at the hotel, I nervously checked my evil phone one last time. I scrolled through the missed calls. A total of eight from Greg, a missed call from Jessica, and one from my mother. It was eleven fifteen, so that’s eight fifteen back home. I guess it was show time.

The voicemail time stamps from Greg’s calls placed them each about five minutes apart. Guess he had run out of patience. Part of me wanted to ignore all of them — delete them all and pretend that nothing had happened. But the adult in me know what I had to do. After all, this whole escaping to New York was to see what I was made of.

I scrolled through the lists of voicemails, skipping the earlier ones, knowing they’d be mundane repeats of his texts about dinner and the dry cleaning. I decided to go for the big ones. Calls and texts that came in after after eight o’clock, when he would have been home already.

“Hey, Elizabeth, I just got home. Where are you?”
He must have not gone through the pile of mail yet. His voice set me on edge. He seemed irritated that I wasn’t there to greet him or something. I deleted that message, swallowed and pressed play for the next message, knowing that it would be ‘the big one.’

“What in the hell is this?”
Yup, he’d gone through the mail this time.
“You’re leaving me? What is this ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ shit! Call me right away. Please!”
Oh – swearing. He’s mad. He seldom swore. And never over anything trivial. Can’t he read? It was all laid out very clearly, or so I thought, in the letter.

I let the next message play.
“Why haven’t you called me back, yet?”
he barked, his voice so harsh in that one. I was very glad to be thousands of miles away.

Next message:
“If you love me and I’m perfect, why did you leave? Where are you? Call me. We need to talk.”
Okay, he sounded rather pathetic and desperate in that one.

I couldn’t listen to another message right now. I set the phone aside and went to take a shower and rinse off the day. Letting the hot water run over me and calm my nerves, I did my best to recall the letter I wrote, but it was mostly a blur.

Dried and in my nightgown, there were three new voicemails waiting for me. I took a deep, cleansing breath and listened to the next message.
“J. F. K.!!!!”
his voice boomed down the line.
“You’re in New
fucking
York? Who in the hell is in New York? You don’t know anyone who lives there! Do you? Is it a man? Are you…are you… God damn it! Call me!”
Whoa! The ‘eff-bomb?’ And he knew I was in New York. He must have done some digging. Crap! And was he slurring there? That would mean he’s drinking. And on a Monday no less. But even if he followed me here, New York was so big, finding me would be like finding a needle in a haystack. And I was careful to use
my
money for all of this. My inheritance money.

And Greg’s right. I don’t know anyone here. But that’s the point. I want to stand on my own two feet. I can’t do that staying at a friend’s house.

Feeling fairly certain that the rest of his messages were as manic as this last couple, I chose to delete them. I opened the text app, ignored all of the unread texts waiting for me, and started a message to Greg. What do I say? I owe him
something.

I stared at the blank screen with his name at the top, the cursor flashing in the ‘Text Message’ window. My thumbs were trembling. My mouth was dry. My mind was whirling. Filtering through the swarm of thoughts buzzing in my head, I opted for simple.

11:42PM

I landed safely. I’ll call u when

I get settled. The car is parked in the

short term west lot at San Fran Int’l

in the back corner where you always

park for ur trips. E.

Send.

Okay, maybe that’s not enough. I chewed on my lip and took a breath.

11:43PM

I need to do this.

Please understand.

I do love you.

Send.

Feeling slightly better at having been pro-active, adult, and mature, addressing Greg, I decided to listen to Jessica’s voicemail.
“Hey, Bets. Greg just called me wondering where you are. Where are you? Give me a call. Later, hon.”

I decided to just send her a text message, too. I wasn’t really in a mood to talk to anyone.

11:44PM

Hey, J. I just needed to get away

and clear my head. I’ll call you soon.

Take care of Greg for me, please.

TTYL.

Send.

I thought about my sister and my mother. I should let them know I was safe and not abducted or anything. God knows, Greg probably called them in hysterics already. I couldn’t talk to either of them, they wouldn’t understand. I texted Suzie, said I was good and taking a break, and asked her call mom to let her know I was okay.

I set my phone on the night stand and it started to ring. It was Greg… again. As much as I had been an adult in sending him a message, this time I took the wimpy route and hit “Decline” on the screen, letting the call go to voicemail. I flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The phone chirped that a voicemail had been left. What a surprise. Then I remembered that there was a voicemail from my mother. I just didn’t have the energy for that one, so I didn’t go there.

I heard the ding of another notification coming through my phone, this time a text. Guilt and curiosity getting the better of me, I glanced at the screen.

11:45PM

Where are you? I’ll come

and get you. I love you

too. We’ll fix this. G.

Tears sprung into my eyes. With more than an ounce of shame, but still the knowledge that I was doing the right thing, I switched my phone to “Do Not Disturb.” I dug out my charge cord and plugged it in on the nightstand, then climbed into the huge, comfy bed.

I was doing the right thing… right?

As I lay in the king size bed, I continued to ponder what I’d done. I left. No discussion. No effort to work things out in therapy or anything, I left. Not the most level headed method of handling the situation, but I couldn’t stay. I was suffocating there. I was dying. Daily my internal light grew more and more dim.

The way Greg sounded in a couple of those voicemails, I wouldn’t be surprised to be chased down by a lawyer with divorce papers in the next few days.

But that last text.
We’ll fix this.
Was it possible? Did I want to fix it? Yes. But what he wants to fix wasn’t what I was trying to fix. I needed to fix me. I needed excitement, responsibility, strength. I needed my spirit back. My spark. My fire. I had no passion left. Greg always fought change. Trying to change things at home subtly would be futile. Even when I changed brands of orange juice he’d balk. Trying to get him to change how he’s been for the past twenty years? He needed something more intense. A wake up call on the extreme. A
come to Jesus
moment.

Most people that saw us thought we were a perfect couple. That my life was a dream. Successful husband. With perfect kids. And a great house. But it wasn’t like that. I felt lost.

Every time I’d talked about getting a job, Greg acted like I was out of my mind.
“You need to be home for the kids.” “It’s not necessary; you do a great job taking care of the home.”

Every time I talked about heading to the theatre, either a movie or musical or play, he’d come home with a DVD to watch instead.

Every time I wore a nearly sexy dress or top, he’d look at me disapprovingly. He wouldn’t say anything. In fact, he’d say I look great
“…but I like that (fill in the blank with a conservative top description like ‘blue cardigan’) better.”
If it were up to him, I’d be dressed in long pants and turtlenecks year-round.

Then there were glaring problems. Primarily, his lack of attention to me. I wasn’t asking to have a husband who doted on me, but to have a meal with the man, without his dang cell phone as the third person at the table, would be nice. Our anniversary dinner started to creep into my head and made my blood boil. Yes. I was doing the right thing.

Three weeks ago had been our twenty-third anniversary. Not a major one, but our first as empty nesters. I insisted we go out. For our anniversary, I didn’t want to be washing dishes.

The first
zinger
was the restaurant he chose. He didn’t ask me for my input either. It was a place we’d been to before, and I had never been a fan of it. But it was his favorite place, a half of a block from his work. We’d always leave the place with him asking, “Isn’t that place great?” And I’d always shrug and say, “It’s okay.”