Getting to Happy (37 page)

“Really?”

“That’s pretty good. So does this mean you’d be able to pay the difference?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Fantastic. How soon would you be able to come?”

“I don’t know. How soon could I come?”

“How does day after tomorrow sound?”

“You mean this Sunday?”

“Will that not work for you?”

Bernadine almost can’t breathe. The thought of actually going through with this has been in her head for so long, now that the reality of it is here, she’s panicking. It’s difficult for her to take in air. She tries not to pant, but it’s impossible.

“Are you all right?”

She reaches inside her purse, takes out a Xanax and swallows it. Her forehead is wet. She wipes it dry. “I’m fine,” Bernadine says. “Sunday works for me.”

She calls John.

“I need to tell you something,” she says. Bernadine has no idea what made her call him first.

“I think I may already know. Whatever you need, Bernie: just say the word.”

“I need your help.” She also can’t believe she just came out and said this to her ex-husband. She has never asked him or anybody for help—until an hour and a half ago. “I have a problem,” she says.

“I know, Bernie. This is me you’re talking to.”

She’s trying her damnedest not to cry but it’s hard.

“It’s okay. Taylor told me you might be going somewhere. I found out it wasn’t a class. I told you, you can’t trust her with a secret, didn’t I?”

Bernadine starts laughing.

“She said she lost one mother, she didn’t want to lose another one.”

“Thank Ms. Big Mouth for me, would you, John? It’s Xanax and an occasional sleeping pill. I just want to get my life back.”

“Don’t we all? May I please say something?”

“Go ahead,” she says, somewhat apprehensively.

“I think I may have something to do with this.”

“What are you talking about, John?”

“I broke your heart.”

“You didn’t break my heart. You betrayed me but that was so long ago I barely remember it.”

“I’m the one who started this. Not James. I’m the one who disappointed you on a grand level.”

“Can we not go there?”

“No, I think it’s important that you know I accept some responsibility for the invisible bruises you’ve been walking around with all these years. James’s bullshit only exacerbated it. You haven’t deserved any of this, Bernie.”

“Okay. I thank you for caring.”

“Don’t try to brush this off. I’ve thought about this for years. Don’t think Kathleen’s exit wasn’t my comeuppance. I’m very much aware of that.”

“She made you happy, though, for years, John. Come on.”

“The same holds true for us, doesn’t it? We fell in love in college, Bernie. We were married for eleven wonderful years and I just took all of it for granted. Look where I am now.”

“You’ll be fine. Maybe Kathleen will come back.”

“She won’t be coming back anytime soon. We’re divorced. I’m glad, if you can believe that. She also wants Taylor to come visit her in London, but Taylor doesn’t want to.”

“Why can’t she come here?”

“Apparently she hates Phoenix.”

“Well, isn’t that just too fucking bad.”

“Taylor feels the same way. Anyway, we’ll be fine. I just want to make sure you’re going to be.”

“Thanks for what you just said, John.”

“May I ask you something, Bernie?”

“I’m listening.”

“When did you stop hating me?”

“I never really hated you.”

“You most certainly did.”

“Okay. I can’t remember.”

“Do you remember forgiving me?”

Bernadine gives that one some thought. Draws a blank.

“Something happened that allowed you to let me off the hook. You don’t remember what that was?”

Her chest sinks. She does remember. “It wasn’t one thing, John. After a while, I realized it was wearing me out inside. Not you. That resenting you, holding you hostage and blaming you for my pain wasn’t making it go away. You were living your life. I wasn’t. That’s when I decided to let it go.”

“Why can’t you do the same thing with James?”

“Because I haven’t tried,” she hears herself say. “Because I’ve felt that the longer I hate him, eventually he’ll feel it.”

“If that were possible, hypothetically speaking, then what?”

“Then we’d be even.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“No.”

“I hope not, Bernie. You need to let yourself off the hook. Because this isn’t about James anymore. Don’t you get that?”

“I’m moving in that direction. What I do know is all this negative energy has contaminated too many areas of my life. And I’m starting to see that my happiness is more important than my unhappiness. That’s the pill I need to swallow.”

“Okay. So tell me what I can do. You need me to pay for this? Just say the word.”

“No.”

“I know these places are off the chart. I don’t care how much, Bernie.”

“My insurance covers most of it.”

“That’s good. But what about your bills? The mortgage payment.”

“What about my bills, and what makes you think I have a mortgage payment?”

“I know how hard it’s been for you, Bernie. I know what that ass-hole did to you financially. You’ve just been too damn stubborn and proud to say anything to anybody.”

“What else do you think you know?”

“I know I’ve paid off the second mortgage and the lease on your old café for the next four years, and I cannot wait to see what kind of hip new restaurant you plan to put in it after you get back home and get your bearings.”

“Who said anything about a new restaurant?”

“Taylor, who else? Well, she told me all about your menus and she said she saw some design ideas from photos you’ve ripped out of magazines.”

“That girl.”

“Do something exciting, Bernie. Something outrageous and different. Make it joyful. I’ll pay for the architect. Renovations. Whatever it takes. Don’t fight this. Please.”

Bernadine is literally speechless. Her lips are trembling. She does not know what to say. Finally, she says, “Thank you, John.”

“No worries. By the way, check your in-box. I sent you the floor plans for some of the properties I’d like you to take a look at. None of them would work for a restaurant. You could certainly lease them out. Nothing like income property.”

“You’re the best ex-husband, John.”

“I’m your friend, Bernie. Now. You still haven’t asked me to do anything yet. I’m listening.”

“Would you be able to drive me to Palm Springs?”

“Of course.”

“In two days?”

“The sooner the better is what I always say.”

“Oh shit! Wait! I forgot! John Junior’s coming next week! There’s no way I can—”

“You can and you will. He’ll be fine. Our son is a grown man who’s going to be a father soon, so he’ll just have to be patient.”

“What can you tell him, John?”

“The truth, Bernie. It’s fine. And I’ll tell Onika when she gets home in two weeks. They know what time it is—as they say—so this shouldn’t be anything they can’t handle.”

Bernadine feels a sense of calmness inside. Xanax has never made her feel this way.

“Anything else you can think of?” he asks.

“No. Except. Thank you, again.”

“You’re quite welcome. It’s the least I can do.”

Is That Your Final Answer?

I’ve been having a fantastic pity party. I’m on day three. Tomorrow it ends. I’m suffering in bed because I feel worthless. I even think my soul hurts. I’m not sure yet if this sauvignon blanc is helping, but I’m giving this bottle the opportunity to lift my spirits. I can’t remember how to tell if you’re drunk or not. Savannah is coming over sometime this evening so I’m trying very hard to pace myself. I’m also watching Halle Berry in
Catwoman
. I would kill for her body and those cheek-bones. Bitch. Whoops! Not supposed to say that anymore. Huzzie!

I’ve been trying to read
What Should I Do with My Life?
by that fine-ass Po Bronson. Now that’s a white boy I would go out with. Maybe he could help me find another job. He did say something I thought was deep and totally agree with. Po said: “We want to know where we’re headed—not to spoil our own ending by ruining the surprise, but we want to ensure that when the ending comes, it won’t be shallow. We will have done something. We will not have squandered our time here.”

I don’t mind doing a little squandering today. Sometimes you need a break from the pressures of the real world. This is why I bought two bottles of this blanco. On top of trying to find a new direction for my life, I figured I could also be entertained. I’m surrounded by a sea of novels I’ve been meaning to read since forever:
What You Owe Me, Soul Kiss, Discretion, You Know Better, A Love of My Own
and
Understand This.
But where to start? I don’t know. You can get a lot of inspiration from books. First, you actually have to read them. What is Halle doing out on that ledge? Trying to save a cat? Is she crazy? I can’t remember how long it takes her to turn into Catwoman. I do not have all night. That’s not true. I do. I’m bored. For the hundredth time today. I wish I could concentrate on something for more than a few minutes. I fast-forward Halle a few scenes, then decide to watch TV until it gets to the good part. I saw bits and pieces of this movie with Sparrow and of course she had to narrate.

I’m still in my pajamas and I’m glad Sparrow’s out with her friends and not practicing the violin, which would probably send me right over the edge this evening. It’s so melancholy. I’m also glad she understands that her mom’s been feeling a little purple since she got axed. And I just need to play this all the way out before I get it back together. She’s never seen me like this although she seems to enjoy taking care of me. I can’t eat her so-called cooking. I also haven’t had much of an appetite. I’ve had oatmeal and raisins for breakfast and lunch. I have self-pity for dinner.

I wish Savannah would hurry up and get here so I can tell her I’m not going to Paris with her. I don’t want to be a burden. I know she was just feeling sorry for me. Well, maybe not
sorry.
She was caught up in the moment and, because she cares about me, opened her big mouth and invited me. I bet it was probably a matter of hours before she called Bernie up and said: “Girl, I think I made a major mistake.” And then Bernie would have asked her: “How?” And Savannah probably said, “I opened my big fucking mouth and invited Robin to go to Paris with me because she sounded so pathetic right after she got fired.” Savannah made it crystal clear on Blockbuster Night she didn’t want anybody going over there with her.

I don’t need to spend money for a vacation when I don’t have any coming in. Thanks to my dad, I’m somewhat set up, but I need to know what it feels like to be frugal. I spend way too much money on bullshit. Plus, Savannah didn’t say a thing about my staying in that apartment with her. I wasn’t about to ask. Everybody knows how expensive hotels are all over Europe.

I stare at the television and here comes yet another commercial about a cure for suffering from something. I take a tiny sip of my wine instead of a long slow one. Yes, I wanted to change jobs. One day. Yes, I did my job by rote. No, I wasn’t challenged. Yes, I’m worried about how I want to spend the rest of my life. No, I haven’t thought that far ahead. Of course I’m probably supposed to look at this as some kind of blessing. I’m not feeling it. Of course things happen for a reason and this is probably a chance for me to reevaluate what I might really enjoy doing. As of this moment, I have yet to think of anything that would lift my skirt.

If I see one more commercial for Viagra, I swear to God, I might just go out and find me a guy who’s been stricken with all the side effects, because at this point, I’d take a sixty-year-old blind deaf-mute on Viagra with a four-hour erection, three or four times a month, and call it a fucking day. How lucky could a woman get?

This wine is good.

What is
going on
? This is like the third or fourth or fifth commercial for an antidepressant I’ve seen tonight. As a matter of fact I’ve been noticing just how many prime-time ads all seem to be pushing pills for whatever might ail you. Apparently it’s a lot. Are we baby boomers the new geriatrics or what? One week I wondered if I had restless leg syndrome. Then I worried about fibromyalgia—whatever it is. Whatever happened to Crest? And Oil of Olay and “Where’s the beef?”

There are so many commercials for antidepressants that if you aren’t depressed you feel like maybe you’re the one missing out. I’m starting to wonder if I should get a few months’ supply of Cymbalta to help me wade through this rough patch, although I don’t think I make a good candidate for depression. Feeling sorry for myself takes too much time and energy. I’m also finding out how hard it is to do nothing. Three days is long enough to be blue. Tomorrow I hit the gym. I’m going to sweat out every drop of despair. And booze.

I switch back to
Catwoman
and there is Halle in her tight black jumpsuit, looking like the sexiest cat I have ever seen on two legs. You go, Halle. After a few more minutes I realize I’m not in the mood for watching her prey on folks.