My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (32 page)

Maybe it was the vision of myself rolling in pig slop. I don't know. But words I definitely hadn't planned came rushing from my mouth. “I came here to see how you feel about me. But let me tell you how I'm feeling instead.” My voice was harsh, and I could see surprise in Cinco's expression. I didn't care. “I'm not one of your radio callers.”

“What?”

“That's how you treated me at class. Like a radio caller. Like the particular issue of lying was fair game for everyone, and that it could make for some lively entertainment if I'd given you the chance to debate it.”

“Leah, I didn't—”

“You embarrassed me.” He tried to say something else, but I held up my index finger. “And if we're going to talk about people's imperfections, you want to explain what good reason you could possibly have for punching out a reporter? Want to explain that?” Cinco's mouth actually fell open. “Didn't think so!”

I slipped my sunglasses back onto my face, turned, and left. Cinco's opinion was that I needed to wallow in some pig slop? I was one rotten corncob away from it.

Even though I was raised in church, I couldn't remember ever actually kneeling to pray. Or going to the altar. Or being in church any time other than on a Sunday morning. I knew they kept the doors open, and so here I was, alone in the church sanctuary, kneeling.

I felt weak.

And by coming here in the “off-season” to pray, I was admitting that. Yet I still couldn't get over the irony of it all. This truth had played through my mind for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

I was a doormat. I always had been. A self-sustaining doormat, maybe, but a doormat nevertheless.

Cinco telling me I was worthy struck me.
Worthy
had never been a word I would've used in the same sentence with my name. The idea that I was worthy haunted me, because I knew that not an ounce of me felt it.

The only worth I felt was when I was being an acceptable addition to people's lives. So in every way I knew how, I would try to be what they wanted me to be for them, whether that was the straight-and-narrow daughter, the dependable girlfriend/fiancée, the always available friend, the up-and-coming playwright, the uncomplaining tenant . . . the list went on and on.

I wondered if I was the only doormat in the world that didn't know I was a doormat. I thought of myself more as . . . compliant. A complement, if you will, like a good Syrah is for a filet mignon. Or, well, maybe the house wine for the chopped sirloin. Whatever the case, I was a complement.

It was a tough thing to swallow, a tough thing to accept—that I didn't need to be all those things to be me. I needed just to be me. And I now understood this not to be selfish, but in fact to be just the opposite—unselfish. The selfish thing to do was to play to everyone's needs to feel accepted. The unselfish thing to do was to be the person God created me to be, to serve him and people, to speak the truth, even when the truth wasn't going to make me popular. And the truth was, I hadn't been doing any of these things.

Was I a perfectly likable human being, even when I didn't fulfill people's expectations?

All these things came to me as I prayed. I felt refreshed deep inside my soul, where I hadn't even bothered to look in a long time. I wasn't even sure what was in there.

My soul was like one of those cabinets you have in your house, the one you've been meaning to clean out for years, but you don't bother because you're sure no one's going to look in there anyway. But then, one day, somebody mistakenly opens it, and your mess is exposed.

I prayed for strength and wisdom for what I needed to do. Things were bound to get messier. I would have to call my entire family and tell them the wedding was off. For Edward's sake, I would have to offer to leave this church that Edward and I had attended together for two years and find a new one. The fallout might last for weeks or even months. There was nothing neat and tidy about what I was doing.

In fact, it was starting to look a little like a pigsty.

As if I'd adopted a new mantra for making sure that whatever I was doing was the worst it could be, I arrived at Edward's at 9:45 p.m. I buzzed his apartment, and by the full minute it took for him to answer, I knew he'd been asleep for well over an hour and a half. He groggily answered, and when I told him I needed to come up, he unlocked the main door and grumbled something inaudible. When I arrived at his door, he opened it for me. All the lights were off inside except a single lamp in the living room, which he'd probably clicked on while stumbling to answer the intercom. His hair was mashed on one side of his head, but remarkably his pinstriped pajamas looked like they had just been pressed and starched.

“Hi,” I said.

“Is everything okay? Is something wrong? Did something happen to your dad?”

I shook my head. “No, I just need to talk.”

He was still squinting. “It's kind of late.”

“I know. But it's important.”

He opened the door wider and swung his arm in the direction of the living room. “You want something to drink?” he asked. “I can make tea.”

“No, that's okay.”

He sat down in the chair next to the couch I came to sit on. He appeared to be waking up a little more. The grim look on his face indicated his awareness that the visit was rare, and if rare, probably serious.

“What's going on?” he finally asked. I was having a hard time starting the conversation. I'd taken the T, instead of my car, to Edward's. Doing so had given me enough time to think through thirty different ways to break the awful news to him. Now, sitting there, I couldn't think of a single one.

“Edward,” I began, already choking up, “this is prob ably going to make no sense to you. And that will be completely understandable. But . . . well, it all started at the French restaurant. And maybe it didn't start there; obviously it didn't start there, but anyway, one night I wanted to order flaming pancakes, and that totally threw you. You couldn't imagine why I would want to order flaming pancakes, because they're kind of a spectacle. And so you suggested I order cod, which really is the anti–flaming pancake, if you will. So I ordered the cod, because I didn't want to make a scene over dinner choices. And we were eating, and you mentioned there was an odd spice in the food.

“Your comment got me to thinking about spices and life, and somehow I ended up at your work party in that pink dress. I kind of liked the pink dress. I thought I looked pretty decent in it. But you were embarrassed. And ever since then, I've just kept thinking there was this spice missing in my life, you know? And I've tried to compensate for it. I ordered a hot pink wedding cake, for crying out loud, with flames around it. But what I'm realizing is that . . . I liked the dress. I liked wearing the pink dress. And I want to order flaming pancakes. Not every meal. But every once in a while, just to stir things up. I don't want to eat at the same restaurant at the same time every week. Sometimes I want you to be running late, be harried . . .”

Edward looked so confused. He was genuinely trying to keep up and understand, but I knew he was lost by the way he was nodding at appropriate times, by how his eyes were kind of blank.

I could hardly fathom saying the words, and as I drew them out of my mouth, one by one, they sounded like an echo, like someone else was saying them, and I was just an observer.

“Edward, I'm so sorry, but I can't marry you . . . and I can't be with you.”

The words hung out there, and for several long moments I thought Edward had not heard what I said. He did not move a muscle or show any amount of emotion. His eyes didn't register that anything I said was extraordinary. I was about to repeat myself when Edward stood. His expression had morphed into a complex mixture of anger and pain.

My hand went over my mouth, and my eyes brimmed with tears. I couldn't believe I'd said it. And now I couldn't believe the look on Edward's face. I wanted to take it all back, tell him I was sorry, that I'd temporarily lost my mind, and that I would never wear pink again.

But I didn't. I simply sat still and waited. I'd also, on the way over, envisioned a nice selection of scenarios for how Edward would react. Yet, this very predictable man, the one for whom spontaneity was as challenging as athletics, did something I could not have predicted.

He didn't say a word, and instead, he turned and padded quietly down the small hallway of his apartment, closing the door to his bedroom with a single, solitary click.

I gave the engagement ring one last look, twisted it off my finger, and placed it gently on Edward's coffee table. The tears finally jumped off the cliff. I grabbed my bag and hurried out of his apartment. Outside, I found a quiet place in the shadows and cried into my hands.

Inside, I felt more pain than I thought I was capable of feeling. I'd never felt this much pain for myself. I didn't think I was capable of it. But to know that I'd hurt someone I cared deeply for was nearly unbearable.

It was official. Everything in my life was now undone.

Chapter 27

[Quietly, she closes the door.]

I
knew one person for which the hour of the evening was considered early. I called Kate on my way home and asked her to meet me back at my apartment. I gave her no details, but she could tell by the strain in my voice that it was important.

When I arrived, she was waiting outside my door. She took one look at me and formed an expression that most people reserve for funeral attendance. It made me want to burst into tears again. I unlocked my door, and she followed me in. As soon as she shut the door, she blurted, “
What
happened to you?”

I threw my things on the floor and fell onto the couch. Kate sat beside me, eagerly leaning forward to hear the details. I could hardly get myself to say it out loud. That meant it was real.

“I called off the wedding.”

“What?” Kate nearly fell off the couch.

While I nodded, Kate shook her head in disbelief.

“Why?” she asked.

My hands fell open. It was so hard to explain.

“I'm making tea,” she announced, going into my kitchen. “A few months ago, I would've made us Bloody Marys.” She laughed. “Times have changed . . . for us both.” She put the kettle on and returned to the living room. I could see compassion in her eyes, and before I knew it, I stood and we were embracing, crying together, and being like sisters should be. It was quite possibly the only thing that was right in my life.

“I sent Dad to the hospital with the news,” I said, wiping my nose. “I tore up my play and deleted it from existence. And I broke up with the only man Mother thinks is capable of loving me.”

She pushed the hair back from my eyes. “But Leah, you look . . . peaceful.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. Something in your eyes. I've noticed lately how strained you've been. The smiles and jokes can't cover the window to the soul.” She studied me. “You definitely look better. Except the splotching.”

“I wish there were a cure for that.” I sighed. But that was the least of my concerns right now.

“So what did Edward say?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He stood there like it took him a few seconds to register what I'd just said, and then he walked into his bedroom and shut the door. He didn't utter a word.”

“It must've come as such a shock. You guys have like, what, half the wedding planned?”

I started crying again, and Kate embraced me. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

I waved my hand. “It's not you. It's all of it. And poor Gammie. Poor, poor Gammie.”

“Gammie's going to be dead in a few weeks, so don't worry about her.”

I laughed and blew a snot bubble. Kate grabbed a tissue for me from the box on my desk. I was a wreck. An utter wreck. But when I stopped crying long enough, I realized Kate might be right. Something was different inside me. A sense of empowerment in the midst of complete loss of control.

“You know what Dillan's always telling me?” I shook my head. “That you have to do what feels right, deep inside yourself. And nobody can go that deep except you.”

I smiled. It wasn't Francis Bacon, but there was certainly truth to it. And if I was going to get that picky, I should consider the ironic way Bacon died . . . from pneumonia after packing a chicken with ice to see if that would preserve it. So maybe Dillan was the next great philosopher.

“Dillan's a smart guy,” I replied.

“Leah, you're going to find the right man for you, just like I have. And if Edward's not the right man, then you were right to let him go, no matter how long you two had been together. If you're not going to be happy until eternity, then you should move on.”

I nodded. All things I knew. But what nobody realized—what I hadn't realized until now—was the fact that I didn't take into account my own happiness much. I watched Kate walk back into the kitchen to get the whistling kettle. She'd been happy dressing bohemian. At the end of the day, she was who she was supposed to be, and not what anybody wanted her to be. Even her new transformation was on her terms, not anybody else's. Sure, she'd made really bad choices in her life. But she'd certainly faced the consequences.

And maybe, just maybe, that was why she called our mother Mom instead of Mother.

“Here you go,” she said, bringing me a mug of steaming tea. I tasted it. It was loaded with sugar, just the way we used to drink it as kids. We used to have to attend so many stuffy political receptions that doctoring our hot tea with this kind of flavor was our only saving grace.

“You know,” Kate said, “sometimes things don't make sense until after they're over. Hindsight, you know? Sometimes what you see—what's right there in front of you— isn't always the truth. And it isn't always real.”

That was the truest thing I'd heard all day.