The Good Life (5 page)

“Has your sex life changed any?”

“No. We had sex during ovulation week, just like every month.”

“Oh. I guess it didn’t work.”

I looked down at my hands and started pushing my cuticles back. This was a sensitive subject. “No.” It didn’t work. Again.

At first, we had taken the casual approach to baby-making. I stopped taking my birth control pills about two years ago thinking
if it happens, cool
. When it didn’t happen, I started a more serious approach. And then it still didn’t happen.

Most couples would have seen a reproductive specialist after a year but Caleb was against any help in that department. He said it was unnatural and creepy, and he kept giving me that ever-popular line of bullshit called, “
If it’s meant to be, it will be
.”

That was when I started researching Old Wives Tales (OWTs). Some were based on mystical beliefs, like when I bought a Native American Kachina doll on the internet. Some were based on new studies, like the one that prompted me to track down an authentic African yam at a Ghanaian market. And some were minor things, like standing on my head for an hour after sex, which isn’t that bad if you lean against a wall. I did poses much harder than that in yoga class.

Every month during ovulation week, we had sex dates. In the TTC world (TTC means Trying to Conceive) this kind of baby-making sex is called FWP (Fucking with Purpose). I know scheduled sex doesn’t sound very sexy
,
but unfertilized eggs only live for a few hours. There wasn’t time for spontaneity.

For a few weeks after the FWP, I stayed hopeful. I would daydream about sippy cups and chubby thighs and work on my baby registry while wondering if a boy named Anakin would be taken seriously.

Every month, exactly four weeks from the last, I would get my period. I would spend the whole day crying, moping around and commiserating with all of my fellow TTCers on internet forums. And the cycle would start over again — literally.

TTC was a bit like a full time job. I guess you could say I was now being laid-off. I actually smiled at the irony of the term. But then I realized what that really meant. It had been hours since the D-word had first been mentioned, but it wasn’t until then I realized I wasn’t only losing my husband. I was also losing my future children.

That was when I felt it – the pain in my heart. Some people say heartbreak is a myth, but it was real as ever to me. I touched my chest and reminded myself to breathe. I wished then that I hadn’t left for the beach.
Whose idiotic idea was this?
All I wanted was to be home in my bed under our down comforter so I could cry in privacy. Instead I was blinking back tears while on my way to the Hamptons, wearing a bikini that was one size too small and creeping up my butt crack.

The Hamptons were pretty quiet since it was only Thursday, which was fine with me. I preferred to visit in the off-season because the beaches were more beautiful without all of the pompous assholes ruining the views. I know, I was supposed to learn to mingle amongst them but I was never going to fit in with that crowd and I knew it. They were old-money, I was new-money. I could learn to walk the walk in my red-soled 120s, but I would always end up being a sheep in a bear’s costume or a wolf dressed as a sheep or however the saying goes.

They grew up eating caviar with silver spoons. I grew up eating neon orange macaroni and cheese with a flatware set my mom bought on clearance at Kmart. Maybe one good thing about a divorce was that I could stop pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And I could eat all the Kraft mac and cheese I wanted without any shame.

Hope leaned her head back on the headrest and turned to me while we were stopped at a light in Southampton. “What sounds better?” she asked. “A glass of wine or Cooper’s Beach?”

“A whole bottle of wine,” I said dryly.

“Even better.”

“
At
Cooper’s Beach.”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t believe alcohol is allowed on the beach.”

I shrugged. “Then we’ll have to do it guerrilla-style.”

“I love gorillas,” she said with a wicked smile.

When I was in high school, my friends and I thought it was cool to sneak in drugs and alcohol. We would come up with different methods, more for the thrill than anything else, because it’s not like anyone really wants to multiply fractions with a buzz. At the time, we thought we were pretty clever. A few years later, when a decent amount of my friends were watching our commencements from the bleachers, they probably didn’t feel quite as good about it.

Now, here I was, a grown adult, pouring wine into a plastic cup I got from a gas station’s soda fountain. I had to admit, the thrill was still there.

I thought it was best to check in to our hotel before I drank too much. That way, if I got sloshy drunk, Hope could take me directly to our room and minimize my opportunities to make an ass out of myself. Hope had no qualms about getting wasted but I don’t usually get drunk. As I’ve mentioned before, I am a bit of a control freak, and it is hard to control anything when I feel like my head’s on backwards. I also have a tendency to get pretty stupid, as witnessed by my wedding guests all those years ago. But if ever there’s a good time to lose control and get stupid it’s the day one’s husband tells her he wants a divorce, right?

Cooper’s Beach was named the “Most Beautiful Beach” in the country a few years ago. I have seen a lot of beaches in my life and there are definitely prettier beaches out there, but for New York, yeah, it’s not so bad. We rented a few chairs, laid our towels down and relaxed in the sun with our fountain cups.

At first, I was a little nervous. I had forgotten to pack sunscreen and my average amount of paranoia had my imagination running wild thinking of all of the cancerous cells that would undoubtedly be multiplying by dinnertime. I was also thinking about Caleb, the quality and quantity of my eggs and the fact that I hadn’t worked a day in six years and was suddenly going to have to find a job in a weak economy and try to support myself,
by
myself.

But the more I sipped, the less I cared about any of it.
This is why people drink,
I
thought as I relaxed into my beach chair, suddenly feeling more optimistic about starting a new life.

I could be a waitress again. It was about the only thing I knew how to do anyway. I’d gone from serving coffee and Grand Slams at Denny’s when I was in high-school, to serving Jaeger bombs and buffalo wings in college, to serving overpriced martinis and tapas to the overconfident business class of NYC. So bring on the apron and the short shorts! It’s not like a Bachelor’s degree in Social Work was going to get me anywhere better.

It would be a lifestyle adjustment though. I can’t speak for all servers out there, but in my experience, being a server in a bar meant staying up until the sun was shining and sleeping all day. If I was feeling particularly reckless (which only happened
very
rarely!), it also meant doing lines of cocaine off the toilet paper dispensers in the bathroom and hooking up with coworkers and customers, sometimes both in the same night. Being able to do shots at work could make for a very interesting life, and I had a lot of fun in those days. It was certainly a lot more fun than playing June Cleaver for Caleb. But could I really do it? Just jump back in there at my age? Or am I too old to do things like that now? There comes a point in everyone’s life when it’s time to grow up. Just because I decided to do my growing up a little earlier than others did not give me a free pass to act like a strung-out floozy eight years later. Or was that exactly what it gave me?

“I wonder if Wes would give me my job back,” I said to Hope, who was reading a book on her Kindle in the chair next to me. Wes was the owner of the martini bar we used to work at together.

“Of course he would,” she replied, without looking away from her Kindle. “But you won’t need to. Caleb is going to have to pay you some big bucks. No doubt about it.”

But not forever.
I had researched a little bit on my phone, and it seemed pretty likely he would have to give me enough to maintain my lifestyle for a certain amount of time. Apparently, this is now called “maintenance” and not alimony. But he wouldn’t have to pay me forever. I needed some kind of income coming in. Oh yeah, and a place to live. Gosh, what a mess I was in!

Hope set her Kindle down and looked at me. “So I’m just gonna go ahead and say it,” she said.

Oh gosh, what does she know?
I looked at her with fear in my eyes. If this was a movie it would be the perfect time for the supporting actress (in this case, Hope) to reveal the details of a sordid affair Caleb had been having that everyone in the audience already knew about.

“I think this is great news,” she said.

“Huh?” I definitely wasn’t expecting that and I gladly let my breath out.

Hope swung her legs over to one side of the chair and took off her sunglasses so she could look me clear in the eyes. “When I met you, you were different. You were happy and fun, and you were optimistic, and you had plans to do good things for the world.”

I vaguely remembered something like that.

“And now,” she continued, “your life revolves around impressing people.”

Is that true?

“Throwing the best parties, going to the best salons, buying the most expensive jeans.” She put a hand on each of my shoulders to make sure I was listening to her. “Roxie, you’re already trying to get your unborn, not-even-conceived-yet child into the best preschool in Manhattan. I’m sorry if I sound like a major bitch right now, but don’t you see what a waste that is? I mean – it’s preschool! It doesn’t even count!”

Her words were a bit harsh, but if they were true, I needed to hear them.

“None of that stuff is for you,” she told me. “Even though I haven’t seen my old friend in awhile, I remember her, and I know she would be much more comfortable coming to the beach in a pair of Old Navy flip-flops than whatever expensive and complicated contraption that is you’re wearing now.”

I looked down at my turquoise patent leather platform espadrille wedges with the buckled ankle straps. They were gorgeous. Hope may have some valid points, but she was wrong about the shoes. I wasn’t wearing them for anyone but myself … right?

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “These are Brian Atwood. And they’re pretty amazing.” Hmm, I guess I did kind of sound like a douche.

Hope laughed. “You’re right. They’re perfect for the beach.”

I nodded in agreement and took another sip of my wine, smugly.

Hope stood up and kicked off her flip flops. “Let’s go stick our feet in and see if it’s warm enough for swimming.”

I set my fountain cup in the sand and, while Hope ran off to the shoreline, I arranged my body in contortionist positions while trying to unbuckle the ankle straps.

“Come on!” she yelled. “Hurry up. The water feels great.”

“I’m trying,” I yelled back as I struggled with the strap. The girls in movies always make this act look so graceful but I’d never quite mastered it and usually ended up falling on my face or giving everyone around me a view usually reserved for my gynecologist.

“I just saw a dolphin swim by!” Hope yelled from the shore.

OMG! A dolphin! And I was missing it because I couldn’t get my … oh. I realized then what she was doing. Very clever. “Ok, smartass!” I yelled. “I get your point.”

She laughed as she plopped back down on the seat next to me. “What were you saying about those shoes again?”

“Maybe they aren’t beach shoes,” I reluctantly admitted.

“They aren’t
you
shoes.”

I was still hesitant to agree with her. This
is
me now. And these are “me” shoes.

“And this life you’ve been living with Caleb,” she continued, “is not you, either. You sit in an apartment all day planning all of these things you want to do. But you never do them.”

“Like what?”

“Like you watch all of these cooking shows but you hardly ever cook anything that doesn’t come out of a box.”

“Caleb’s a picky eater,” I explained. Ugh, it was true. He had a list three pages long of foods I was not allowed to serve to him; mostly veggies and spices. And what could I cook without veggies or spices?

“And the vacations you plan that you never take.”

“You know he doesn’t get a lot of vacation time!” I argued in my defense.

“He doesn’t get a lot of
any
time!” she said. “He doesn’t have time for you, and if you did have kids, he wouldn’t have time for them either. Sometimes I think the reason you want a baby so bad is because you’re lonely and I don’t blame you for wanting some companionship. You’re like Rapunzel locked up in a tower. Instead of hair, I bet you could tie a bunch of expensive shoes together to make a rope.”

I was glad I had sunglasses on so she couldn’t see how much her words were hurting me. I wished she would stop, but she didn’t.

“Whether you think so or not, this divorce is your opportunity to get things right. You have the time and the money. So take the vacations, make the rosemary lamb chops, even have a baby on your own like the celebs do if you want. But as far as Caleb goes, run away and don’t look back because the guy is a tool and he’s turned you into one, too.” She stood up and grabbed our fountain cups out of the sand. “I’m going to the car to refill these.”