Kitabı oku: «Mood Swing», sayfa 3

Monica felt a jolt of shock, followed by a deluge of humiliation. He tossed her application onto his desk, pushed away from it and stood up.

Oh, God. He was brushing her off. How could this be happening?

“But…but I’m a very fast learner,” she said, “if only you’ll give me a chance.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I know I’m a little shy on technical knowledge, but I’m perfectly willing to—”

“Thank you, Ms. Saltzman.”

Just like that, rock bottom sank even lower.

Monica rose from her chair, feeling a little shaky, but she forced herself to thank him for his time and walk away with her chin up because she had more class than this big, blind bozo could ever hope to have.

She opened the door to his office and stepped into the lobby. Another woman was waiting there now to be interviewed, a platinum blonde who looked as if she’d cut cheerleader practice short to make it on time. And suddenly a different man was standing in Cargill’s fake leather shoes.

“Well, hello, there,” he said with a smile, practically tripping over himself to usher the woman into his office. As he closed the door behind them, Monica stared with disbelief, feeling like a wallflower at a high school dance.

“Well, she’s a shoo-in,” the receptionist said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she’s got all the qualifications he’s looking for, if you know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky he didn’t hire you.”

“Why?”

She leaned over and whispered. “Because he’s a dirty old man. I’ve got more bruises on my ass than I can count.”

When she turned back to her Cosmo, it occurred to Monica that she used to read that magazine herself when she was younger.

About twenty years younger.

During the other job interviews she’d had recently, she’d told herself that she just wasn’t pouring on enough charm to get the attention of her prospective employers in a tight job market. But now she had to face the truth: she had nothing left that even a man like Cargill would be interested in.

One of two things was going to happen here. She was going to cry, or she was going to get mad. Since getting mad had recently bought her eight weeks in an anger management course, she left the office and hurried down the hall to the ladies’ room, where she grabbed a tissue from her purse just in time to keep mascara-laden tears from rolling down her cheeks.

She turned her gaze up to the mirror, leaning in to take a closer look at herself, and maybe for the first time in years, she saw herself as she really was.

Lines she swore had never been there before fanned out from her eyes. Skin sagged slightly at her jawline. Wrinkles had crept onto her neck. She’d been coloring her hair for so long that it could be gray all over by now for all she knew. But time had marched on, in spite of all her efforts to halt it.

All her life she’d had only one thing going for her, and that was her looks. It seemed to astonish everyone that anyone so strikingly beautiful could have been raised in such a dirt-poor family. In light of that, her mother had dragged her to beauty pageants from the time she was old enough to twirl a baton. She learned how to wink at those judges long before she knew that about half of them were dirty old men who loved looking up little girls’ skirts. Because she’d always been told she was all beauty and no brains, she’d goofed off in school and skipped college, doing what a lot of beautiful but brainless girls did—she set out to marry a rich man. And she’d almost accomplished that goal. Three times. But something always happened to nip her plans in the bud.

The first man had a wife he hadn’t bothered to tell her about. The second one decided, after a three-year relationship, that it was time for him to come out of the closet. The third time around, when Monica actually had a ring on her finger, she told herself that for the Highland Park lifestyle, she could overlook her fiancé’s drinking habit. And she did, right up to the moment he got his third DUI and a judge threw the book at him. Conjugal visits during that five-year sentence just hadn’t seemed all that appealing to her.

Somehow she turned thirty-five. Then she was pushing forty. During those years, she hadn’t bothered to acquire job skills beyond basic clerical ones, telling herself that marriage was just around the corner, only to realize that the pool of wealthy, available men was drying up, at least those wealthy, available men interested in her. And she was still working in the same low-paying, dead-end jobs she had been for the past fifteen years, so her financial future looked pretty bleak.

Then, one night at an uptown bar, she met Jerry Womack, a vice president at First Republic Bank. He was fifty-four and recently divorced. As he stared at her breasts, he told her his executive assistant was leaving and Monica might be just the woman he was looking for to replace her. The next day when she went to his office to talk to him, she discovered that the job came with a bigger paycheck than she’d ever seen in her life and very few responsibilities.

At least, very few responsibilities within the confines of the office.

At first, the whole situation made Monica a little sick to her stomach. Marrying rich was one thing, but putting out to keep a job was something else.

But the money. God, the money.

Suddenly she could afford to shop at Neiman Marcus rather than sift through the junk at outlet stores. She could buy a car that didn’t end up in the shop once every three months. She could afford a condo in a decent neighborhood rather than rent an apartment next door to a guy she was pretty sure was dealing crack.

So she did it, telling herself that maybe one day she’d marry that boss she was sleeping with. A couple of times Jerry even suggested it might be a possibility. So when the bank president had retired and Jerry ascended to that position, Monica had been thrilled. Only, it wasn’t Monica whom Jerry decided to bring with him to the executive suite. It was pretty, perky, young Nora O’Dell.

You understand, Jerry had the nerve to say. It’s just business.

So she showed him some business in the form of a flowerpot right thought the windshield of his lemon-yellow Hummer. And right now, she was thinking about the fake potted palm in the corner of Cargill’s office, wondering what kind of car he drove.

No. She had to get Cargill out of her mind. This had just been a fluke. He was simply a man who needed to rescue his own aging self-image by surrounding himself with young women. And losing out on those other four interviews had simply been a run of bad luck. That was all.

She repaired her makeup and left the bathroom, telling herself that everything was going to be fine, that a new job was just around the corner. Still, it was hard to ignore the scary little ball of nerves rolling around in her stomach, the one that was telling her that finding a job was going to be a far greater challenge than she’d ever anticipated.

CHAPTER 4

The gymnasium at Parker Heights Middle School was old, musty and smelled like dirty athletic socks, and every time Susan climbed the bleachers to sit on one of the metal benches, she actually wished she were back in the hospital, which smelled like antiseptic and sick people. The bounce of basketballs echoing off the gym walls and the squeak of shoes on the wood floors grated on her nerves the way nails against a blackboard grated on other people’s. But she still showed up with a smile on her face, cheering when she was supposed to, because that was what moms did.

She sat down on a bench by herself, thinking about how she’d always felt sorry for the single and divorced moms who showed up alone to school events. They always had that look in their eyes as if they were frantically trying to remember everything they had to do. At the same time there was a droopy-shouldered weariness about them that said completion of those tasks was going to be impossible. Now she was one of them. Of course, in a world where divorces were more common than lifelong marriages, she was really just a face in the crowd.

She turned to see Lani hopping up the bleachers. “Mom, gimme a hair scrunchie.”

Susan dug through her purse, eventually having to put half its contents on the bench beside her before finally locating one wound around a box of Band-Aids. Lani grabbed it and swooped her hair toward the crown of her head.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you remind him?”

“Yes, honey. I reminded him.”

“Did you tell him I was starting?”

“Yes.”

“Then why isn’t he here?”

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

She hoped he would be, anyway, because Lani didn’t handle it well when he didn’t show up. Lani didn’t handle much of anything well these days. Susan’s happy, perky daughter of a few years ago seemed to have vanished, replaced by an adolescent girl whose moods were so volatile that Susan never knew what she was in for from one moment to the next. In the span of an hour, she could go from crying to laughing to being angry to shutting down communication completely, and there was no way to predict which one it was going to be.

“He didn’t come to my last game,” Lani said.

“He had to work late.”

“I’m starting tonight. What if he doesn’t get here until the second half?”

Lani! We’re divorced! Don’t ask me these questions! Ask him!

“He told me he was coming, so I’m sure he’ll be here.”

Lani frowned. “Is he bringing Marla with him again?”

“I really don’t know.”

“I hope not. It’s weird when she’s here.”

Susan had to agree with that.

Lani hopped back down to the gym floor to warm up with her teammates. Susan had thought when she signed those divorce papers it meant she was no longer her husband’s keeper, but somehow it hadn’t turned out that way. She stuck all the stuff she’d unloaded from her purse back into it again.

“Hello, Susan.”

At the sound of the woman’s voice, Susan turned around to see Linda Markham sitting down next to her. Please. Not her. Not now. Not anytime.

“I just wanted to thank you for the pound cake you sent for Teacher Appreciation Day,” Linda said.

Which had been a while back, so what did she really want? “You’re welcome.”

“I think on the whole the teachers enjoyed it, even though it wasn’t homemade.”

Speaking of not homemade, you came this close to getting a box of Ding Dongs. “Oh, I’m so glad,” Susan said. “I’m just so rushed some days that it’s hard to fit everything in.”

“I’m sure it is. If you’d like, I can recommend a wonderful time-management course. Why don’t I e-mail you the information?”

Why don’t you shove the information? “How sweet of you, Linda. I’d really appreciate that.”

“And next time, just let me know if you don’t have a Bundt cake pan. I have three. I’d be happy to let you borrow one.”

She gave Susan an angelic little smile, but Susan was sure she could see horns sprouting from the top of her head. Linda was one of those insidious women who masked their condescending nature with just enough cutesy smiles and sweet words that you couldn’t come back at them without looking like an ungrateful bitch. Susan’s theory was that motherhood was the only identity Linda had, so becoming queen bee of Parker Heights Middle School was her pinnacle of success. She’d guilt-tripped all the mothers into following after her like a bunch of mind-numbed minions, but still Susan wondered… If one of them ever got up the nerve to toss a bucket of water on Linda, would the others cheer as she melted?

Then Linda put her hand on Susan’s arm and dropped her voice. “Tell me, Susan. How are things since the divorce? Lani seems to be holding up well, but how are you?”

“It’s been a year and a half,” Susan said. “I’m good. But thank you so much for asking.”

“I know how difficult it can be. Not personally, of course. But I’ve had acquaintances who were divorced. It’s such a traumatic thing.”

Then she leaned in and spoke softly. “Is it true what I hear? That Don is getting married again?”

“Yes. It’s true.”

“So how do you feel about that?”

How do I feel about it? As if I’m losing some kind of race I never wanted to enter in the first place. That’s how I feel.

“His fiancée is a nice person,” Susan said. “I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Linda said, patting Susan’s arm. “You’re so brave.”

Susan had discovered that wrapping her hand around the neck of somebody who was bugging her didn’t make her feel that bad, and right now making history repeat itself was a pretty tantalizing thought.

Linda’s gaze drifted to one side. “Oh, I suppose I’d better hush. There’s Don.”

Susan turned, relieved to see her ex coming up the stairs. As Linda scurried away, Don sat down beside Susan, one of Lani’s textbooks under his arm.

“You were talking to Linda Markham?” he said.

“Yeah. Didn’t you know? We’re best friends.”

“Right.” He shook his head. “I always wondered what it would be like to be married to a woman who was that uptight. She probably keeps her vagina under lock and key.”

Susan blinked with astonishment.

“What?” Don said.

“Do you know that in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never once heard you utter the word vagina?”

He shrugged. “I always thought it would embarrass you.”

Right. She was an E.R. nurse. She blushed at the mere mention of genitalia.

No. If anybody had been embarrassed by the word vagina, it had been Don. He’d been the “lights out, no talking” kind of lover who would flatline any woman’s libido. But given the glow that seemed to surround Marla these days, evidently Don had gotten a whole new attitude where sex was concerned. They weren’t actually living together, which relieved Susan from having to deal with Lani’s feelings about that issue, but “not living together” didn’t mean “not having sex.”

Or maybe he’d finally found a woman who actually turned him on.

“Lani’s math textbook,” Don said, handing her the book under his arm. “She left it at my house yesterday.”

Susan took the book with a sigh. “What are we going to do about her forgetting stuff?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to her.”

“I have talked to her, Don. About a dozen times.”

“She’ll grow out of it.”

Yes, and in the meantime Lani would continue to get zeros on assignments she left at home. Thanks for the insight, Don.

Susan asked “So where’s Marla?”

“Late getting off work. She’ll be here soon.”

Susan didn’t know how she felt about Marla being so diligent about coming with Don to Lani’s games. Nice Susan thought it was a good thing to do, particularly since she and Don were getting married. But Bitter Susan was getting a little tired of Marla being so sweet and kind. Damn it, just once couldn’t she do something rotten and bitchy?

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Don said. “Marla and I are going away for the three-day weekend coming up, so I won’t be able to see Lani.”

“Going away? Where to?”

“San Francisco.”

Susan looked at him dumbly. “You’re flying to San Francisco for the weekend?”

“It’s kind of a spur of the moment thing.” He smiled. “We like being spontaneous.”

No, you don’t. Or, at least, you didn’t. What happened?

Susan couldn’t believe this. In sixteen years of marriage, Don had never once taken her anywhere on a plane. If they couldn’t get to it within five hours by car after weeks of planning, they didn’t go. It was a travel mentality that had led to some ultra-exciting trips to Sea World, the Best Western on Galveston beach and the Alamo, usually with Lani in tow. And now he was taking Marla to San Francisco, which meant a beautiful hotel, whirlwind sightseeing and romantic dinners.

All Susan had ever gotten was an ear infection at Hurricane Harbor.

“Why don’t you take Lani with you?”

Don went pale. “Take Lani?”

“Why not? If Marla’s going to be part of the family, it can be like a family vacation.”

“Uh…yeah. But I really hadn’t intended—”

“Intended what?”

“You know, we have just one room booked, and—”

“Then it’ll be really cozy, won’t it?”

“Uh…”

“Just say it, Don. You want to go away with Marla over the weekend, and you don’t want anything messing up all that fun you’d planned on having in the bedroom.”

Don looked relieved. “Then you do understand.”

Lord, this man was such a dimwit sometimes. “So what about my bedroom activities?”

He looked at her dumbly. “What bedroom activities?”

“Exactly,” Susan said. “I don’t have those. Not with a fourteen-year-old in the house.”

“So are you dating someone?”

“Did you hear what I said? I have a fourteen-year-old in the house.”

“Lani’s with me every Saturday and other times if you need me to take her. Why can’t you date then?”

“Because by the time Saturday rolls around, I’m too damned tired to do anything, much less get all dressed up to go out. That’s why.”

Susan didn’t like the way she sounded, all cranky and whiny and defensive. But the truth was that as much as Don saw Lani, Susan still felt like a single parent. Don merely visited every once in a while, took her out, bought her things, then brought her back home, where Susan had the privilege of nagging her to do her homework and telling her no, she couldn’t pierce her tongue.

“If you really need Saturday,” Don said, “we can stay home.”

Susan waved her hand. “No. It’s all right.”

“If you have plans—”

“I already told you. I don’t have any plans. Go.”

As soon as she said the words, she gritted her teeth with irritation. She’d spent sixteen years of marriage giving in. She’d learned that behavior from her non-assertive mother, who saw nothing healthy about the expression of emotion and would turn herself inside out to avoid a fight, which was probably the reason she had high blood pressure and a stomach full of ulcers. Susan had never wanted to be like her, and to this day she didn’t know quite how it had happened. How ironic was it that the one time Susan had jumped into a confrontation with both feet, she’d gotten arrested for it?

“Hi, Susan. How are you?”

Susan looked up to see Marla inching her way down the bench to sit next to Don. She smiled, that perfect, glowing smile that was more genuine than the Hope Diamond. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she had that helpless feminine thing going on that made men fall all over her. How she’d decided Don was the one, Susan would never know.

They exchanged a few pleasantries that only made Susan feel worse, so she was glad when she heard the buzzer signaling the start of the game.

Don and Marla stood up. “We’re going to sit closer to the court,” he said, and Susan knew it was because he wanted to be able to yell along with the other fathers in that annoying way men did, as if their junior high daughters were playing in the championship game of the NCAA tournament. Susan also had the terrible feeling that Don wanted to sit down there with the other men because he was with a woman like Marla.

As they walked hand in hand down the bleachers, it occurred to Susan that just once she would love to be the kind of woman men couldn’t take their eyes off of. Actually, not all men. One man would do. Just one, before she got so old and decrepit that the very idea of it was laughable.

Then she looked down at her jeans, her sweatshirt, her tennis shoes and her oversized, utilitarian mom purse, and she was overcome by the most terrible feeling that happily ever after was never going to happen. Getting by ever after was going to have to do.

CHAPTER 5

The following Monday, Susan hurried from the hospital to class and managed to slip into her seat with a whole minute to spare. Tonya and Monica were already there. Danforth was planted in his chair, too, looking as if he’d been prepared to get out the paddle if she hadn’t made it on time.

“Today we’re going to talk about the physiology versus the psychology of anger,” Danforth said. “Physiologically speaking, the amygdala is the part of the brain responsible for identifying threats and then sending out an alarm that causes us to react in order to protect ourselves. It sends that distress signal so rapidly, however, that the cortex, the part of the brain responsible for the application of thought and judgment, is unable to discern the rationality of our reaction.”

“Huh?” Tonya said.

Susan leaned toward her. “If we’re threatened, our brains are designed to react first and think later.”

“Precisely,” Danforth said.

Susan furtively rolled her eyes. If she’d said it so precisely, why hadn’t he?

He droned on about how they had to teach their prefrontal cortex to judge the consequences of the proposed action of their amygdalas. Susan was a nurse. Physiology was her thing. And still she was bored to tears. She could only imagine how much the other women wished they were anywhere else.

Then Danforth started in on the psychology of anger, with special emphasis on the differences in the way men and women express their anger. After what seemed like forever, he put that set of notes away and pulled out something else.

“Now that we understand the psychology and physiology of anger,” he said, “I’d like you ladies to learn a method by which you can express your anger constructively to the person with whom you’re angry. It’s known as the ‘I-Message.’”

Sounded like psychobabble to Susan, but what the hell.

He handed them each a sheet of paper. “I want you to think about a situation that has angered you in the past and fill in these blanks.”

Susan took a pen from her purse and looked at the form. The first line read, “I feel (be specific).” The second one read, “When you (give details of the behavior or circumstance).” The third line read, “Because (this is the why of your anger).”

They each filled in their forms, and a few minutes later Danforth said, “Ms. Saltzman. To whom is your I-Message directed?”

“My cousin, Sandra.”

“Read it, please, phrasing your statement as if you’re talking directly to her.”

Monica sat up straighter in her chair. “I get angry…”

“Yes?”

“When you call from New York at three in the morning to cry on my shoulder about all your problems…”

“Because?” Danforth prompted.

“Because I don’t like getting awakened from a sound sleep in the middle of the night.”

“Hmm. Would you be this angry with anyone else who woke you at 3:00 a.m.?”

“Of course.”

“Even if it were an emergency of some sort?”

“Well, no—”

“When she calls, what else do you discuss besides her problems?”

“Nothing, of course. It’s all about her. On, and on, and on. She couldn’t care less about anything going on in my life.”

“Ah. Then your I-Message statement would more accurately read, ‘I feel hurt when you call and monopolize the conversation to vent about your problems because it makes me feel as if you don’t care about mine.’”

“Sorry, no,” Monica said. “I’ve never cared whether she cares about me or not. It’s those middle-of-the-night calls I can do without.”

“In any case, you should discuss these phone calls with her in a nonconfrontational manner.” He gave her a pointed stare. “But do try to be true to yourself about what lies at the root of your anger.”

By the look on her face, Monica clearly thought she was right down at the very tip of that root, no matter what Danforth said.

He turned to Susan. “Ms. Roth? To whom is your I-Message directed?”

“My daughter. She’s fourteen.”

“Please read it for the class.”

“I feel angry when you bring notes home from school but don’t tell me about them until the last minute because then I’m rushed to complete whatever task I’ve been asked to do.” Susan looked up. “It’s no fun making brownies at midnight.”

“Simple solution,” Tonya said. “If she can’t get you the note in time, she doesn’t get the brownies.”

“Right. And then all the other mothers think I’m a slacker.”

Danforth tapped his chin with his index finger. “So the opinions of the other mothers are part of the reason you’re angry? You feel inadequate?”

“No,” Susan said. “I just want my daughter to give me the notes so I have time to do whatever I’m supposed to do. That’s all.”

“So time pressure is another part of the equation.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Susan said carefully, “if my daughter just gave me the notes.”

“Restructured, your I-Message might read, ‘I feel angry when you don’t give me notes in time because then I have to accomplish the task on short notice or risk alienation from my peers.’”

Alienation from her peers? Did anyone besides Danforth actually talk like that?

“You see,” he went on, “I sense that the problem doesn’t lie with your daughter, but with your resentment over having to do these tasks at all.”

“No, I really don’t think—”

“Dig deep, Ms. Roth. Get at the real reason for your anger. Only by doing that will you be able to manage it effectively.”

He was dead wrong about this. Susan didn’t mind doing mom tasks. But she minded very much doing them at midnight, and that was about as deep as she intended to dig.

Danforth turned to Tonya. “Ms. Rutherford. To whom are you addressing your I-Message?”

“One of my customers.”

“Share it with the class, please.”

Tonya picked up her form and read. “I feel frustrated when you come into my shop with a horrible comb-over and expect me to cut it like that again.”

Susan and Monica snickered a little, and Danforth held up his hand to them. “Because?”

“Because then you go back to work or wherever and somebody says, ‘Hey, where did you get that…uh…great haircut?’ and you say, ‘Tonya Rutherford over at Tonya’s Hair Design did it.’ Then my reputation is in the toilet because everyone thinks I suggested that god-awful cut. Bad word of mouth can screw up my business something awful. But I can’t say anything because pissing you off as a customer would screw up my business, too.” She sat back and folded her arms. “So basically, I’m screwed.”

Danforth blinked dumbly. “Yes. Well. At least you seem to be in touch with the reason for your anger in this situation.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps instead of direct confrontation, you could suggest a new haircut to this gentleman?”

“Please. Like I haven’t tried that?”

“Hmm. Sometimes there are professional situations where confrontation, even constructive confrontation, isn’t the answer. Could you simply be unavailable in the future when he makes an appointment?”

“I take walk-ins. What am I supposed to do? Lock the door when I see him coming?”

“You’ll simply have to decide whether refusing to cut his hair if he refuses to change his style would be more helpful to your business than harmful.”

“Did I mention he tips really well? I don’t like losing good tippers. But that hair…God.”

“In future classes, we’ll be discussing how to manage the anger you’re forced to hold inside when the expression of it is inappropriate. I’m certain that will help with your dilemma.”

“Oh, screw it,” Tonya said, waving her hand. “Next time he comes in, I’ll just shave him bald.”

Danforth closed his eyes. Was he counting to ten, maybe?

“You know that kind of aggressiveness is completely inappropriate,” he said, as if Tonya would actually consider it.

Then again, maybe she would.

After that, Danforth turned on a video that showed people in a class like theirs sharing their I-Messages, as if they needed reinforcement on that particular method. By the time he finally dismissed class, Susan was more than ready to leave. She stopped by the bathroom on the way out, joined by Monica and Tonya.

“Thank God,” Tonya said, as they stood at the sink. “One more class behind us. All that ‘I-Message’ stuff was a crock.”

“I could have done without it, too,” Monica said.

“Dig deeper,” Susan said. “Why? As if I wasn’t angry enough about the issue already?”

“After all that, I still don’t know what to do about Comb-over Guy.” Tonya swiped on some lipstick. “I’m heading to that new bar and grill down the street for a drink. Anybody care to join me?”

“What’s the atmosphere?” Monica asked. “Is it up-scale?”

“Haven’t got a clue,” Tonya said, stuffing her lipstick back into her purse, “but I’m betting if you pay them six bucks, they’ll put a martini in front of you. So are you coming?”

“Sure,” Monica said. “I could use a martini. Or, after that class, three.” She turned to Susan. “How about you?”

“I don’t know. My daughter’s home alone.”

“She’s fourteen,” Tonya said. “By the time I was fourteen, I was drinking martinis myself.”

Susan decided it would be okay if she stayed for just a few minutes. Have one drink, then head home. She pulled out her cell phone and called Lani, who told her that of course she could stay home by herself, all night long if she had to, and to please stop treating her like a kid. Susan told her to make sure the doors were all locked, to finish her homework and to stay off the Internet.

By the time Susan clicked her phone shut, she could already taste that martini.

Fireside Bar & Grill was one of those places with lots of dark wood and brass, the kind of decor that made you feel as if you were in your father’s study—back when fathers had studies. The crowd was older and the music dull, but all in all it was a cozy place with generous martinis, and after a few minutes Susan felt a pleasant little buzz that took the edge off the irritation she’d felt in class.

Tonya lit a cigarette and took a hard drag. “You know, I’ve had it with Danforth. And it’s not anything in particular. It’s everything in general. The way he walks. The way he talks. The words he uses. The clothes he wears. That great big nose.”