Life Without You
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“Oh?”
“Yes, many things.”
Bette ran a hand through her very thick, very raven hair to tuck it behind a heavily pierced ear.
“Name one.”
I opened my mouth, ready to start my verbal rundown.
“Besides work, Dellie.”
My mouth slammed shut as I thought.
Bette crossed her arms as she settled further into her chair, a smug look on her face.
I narrowed my eyes at her.
“For one thing, my apartment. I can’t just leave my apartment empty for that amount of time.” I shook my head, knowing that I probably sounded like I was grasping at straws. “Maybe it would be different if it was a house, and I had a neighbor I trusted to look after things. But in my apartment?” More headshaking. “Not really the best idea. Somebody might break in, and then what?”
“What am I, chopped liver?” she asked, looking slightly hurt.
“No,” I replied, puzzled. “But you’ve lost me. You live an hour away from my place, so it doesn’t really put you in the best position to keep an eye on things. And besides that, you’ve got work and Steve and—”
“And Steve could use a shake-up of his own,” she broke in, reaching again for her dwindling pile of French fries, now undoubtedly grown cold.
I watched her, a knot of apprehension growing in my gut. “What do you mean?”
She chose a fry and bit into it forcefully, funneling her aggression to the helpless spud.
“Let’s just say that Steve isn’t exactly keeping his priorities straight, and I think we could use some distance for awhile,” she replied. She swallowed. “Not forever, but…he needs to be reminded of some things.”
“Things being?”
“Things being that he has a wife who loves him and a marriage that he’s supposed to be committed to.” She sighed, looking sad.
I stared at her in dismay. “Is he cheating on you?”
Bette shook her head.
“No. Not yet. Not out-and-out cheating,” she said. “But there’s something going on with some woman he works with.” She blinked at the tears that I could see collecting in her eyes. “He just seems so distant all the time, like when he’s with me, he’s not really with me. And every time I try to talk to him about it, he pretty much just shuts down and changes the subject, says he’s got a lot going on at work and he doesn’t want to get into it. So I think a little time apart might do us some good,” she sniffed.
I plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and held it out to her. I’d never seen Bette get so emotional before, so this was new territory for me. Normally, she was the tough, show-no-fear type. The ball-crusher. And now she was showing a softer side that I wasn’t quite prepared for.
“So…?”
“I could stay at your place,” she said simply, regaining her composure as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with the napkin. “I’ll pay you a month’s worth of rent, and I promise to keep it spic and span.” She smiled. “No wild parties, I promise.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why does that phrase not reassure me?” I asked.
She spread her arms, shoulders raised toward her earlobes as she gave me a look of innocence. “I have no idea,” she replied. “Who on Earth do you think I would invite to a party?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Aren’t you running for some new position in the League?”
She cocked her head sideways, still managing to appear angelic, somehow. Her eyes widened in a look of guiltless surprise as authentic as the color of her irises. And those babies were courtesy of 1-800-Contacts.
“Oh, that’s right. The vote’s coming up soon.” She shook her head. “You know, with everything else that’s been going on, I guess I forgot all about it.”
“Uh-huh. And your granny’s famous pecan pie is really a Sara Lee.”
“Don’t go dragging Granny into this, or you’ll regret it,” Bette growled. “Uh-uh, no ma’am,” she cautioned. “And especially don’t be insinuating that she buys her pies.” The last three words were whispered, eyes huge with the scandal of it all. “Uh-uh.”
For a minute, I thought she might actually genuflect and cross herself—even though Bette came from a family as un-Catholic as kosher wine.
Not that she was Jewish, either.
In fact, Bette’s family hadn’t stepped foot in a church of any kind since 1977, when the preacher at her parents’ church had railed against the evils of television from the pulpit. The man was positively off his rocker; but ever since then, the Martin family had eschewed Sunday morning service in favor of a soul-strengthening, artery-hardening Southern-style breakfast at the diner on the end of their street. At the time, Mr. Martin worked for the local ABC affiliate, so television kept a roof over his children’s heads and put food on the table. The negativity spewed from the lips of the preacher was unforgivable, and they’d never gotten over it. No matter that the man had long since retired or that there were any number of other churches in the area from which to choose. Mr. and Mrs. Martin had been soured on the church because of one pastor’s misplaced condemnation, and now they judged the institution as a whole by that measure. Sad and ironic, but true.
Even when Bette had come to her own decision as an adult to find and become active in a church, her parents had refused each and every invitation she had given them to join her for a service. But that was hardly the issue at hand.
I smiled at Bette, raising my hands in surrender.
“God forbid I ever do that,” I said, shaking my head. “I love your granny. And I know she’d sooner give up her prized collection of bake-off trophies than ever stoop so low as actually letting a store-bought pie pass through her doorway. Much less a Sara Lee.” I felt the smile slip a bit. “But you and I both know that you’re angling for a spot, and having a tea or mixer or whatever-the-heck y’all Junior League ladies do would help you along.” I shrugged. “You can admit it. I just don’t know that having it at my place would really be the best idea, in the end. It might actually hurt your chances.” I paused, looking for the best way to frame my argument without slamming my own living conditions or making her feel like I was judging her for whatever was happening between her and Steve.
“I’ve never had any issues with the neighbors on either side of me; but there’s a guy in the next building who likes to give everyone in the complex an eyeful, and the couple in the unit below mine has loud disagreements all the time. Much slamming of doors and hurling of Spanish expletives happening,” I said, deciding to lay it all out on the table and hoping it would be an effective deterrent.
“You speak about as much Spanish as an English bulldog, Dellie,” Bette replied, looking dubious. “How would you know what they’re saying, expletive or otherwise?”
I shrugged. “Educated guess.”
“Uh-huh. You’re just trying to talk me out of what you think I’m going to be doing while you’re gone. Which, for your information, my dear, is completely mistaken. I’m trying to be a good friend here, and you’re pooh-poohing it.” She clucked sadly.
Obviously, I wasn’t hiding my skepticism very well. “No, I’m just trying to help you see the bigger picture. My apartment isn’t exactly…Junior League material?”
“Honey, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Bette replied simply. Clearly, she had this all thought out. “I have no intention of letting my chances at the committee slip through my fingers just because Steve’s got his head up his rear and is thinking more with his weenie than with his brain.” She shook her head emphatically, looking smug. “He’s got some kind of corporate thing at work that day, so the man will be tied up and sadly unavailable to come in and ruin things. Or let the cat out of the bag that we’re having issues.” Bette’s eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s the last thing I need: one of the other women getting wind of the fact that Steve’s having trouble keeping his eyes on his own paper.”
“But what does that have to do with you being able to run for office?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Nothing,” she huffed, which sent her ample bosom heaving. Bette was nothing if not blessed with cleavage, and she knew how to work it. “But they like to gossip, and any inkling of scandal sets them off.” Her eyes rolled at the absurdity of it all. “Doesn’t matter that half of them have an entirely too intimate relationship with the wine bottle or that their own husbands are banging boots with the secretary. They look for any excuse to gossip.”
I snorted. “What year is this? And really, ‘banging boots?’ Since when do you say, ‘banging boots?’?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You want me to say something a little less ladylike?”
I shook my head emphatically. “No, no. I get the picture. Just call me curious. I’m a writer, remember? Comes with the territory.”
“Uh-huh. Back to the subject.”
“I think I’ve lost track of the subject,” I said honestly, wracking my brain to remember how we’d even gotten to this particular point.
Bette picked up the last French fry on her plate and pointed it at me. “You. Vacation. Your need for a break,” she enumerated.
How the woman remembered in the midst of all the verbal chaos was beyond me. In fact, I’d been holding on to a small sliver of hope that she really would forget this particular topic in favor of her own problems, but she was like a dog with a bone.
“But,” I started in protest.
“You’re not getting off that easy, lady.” Bette shot me a steely gaze. “I’ve known you way too long not to know your little tricks. You’d do well to remember that,” she warned.
I sighed. “I know. I guess I’m still afraid. You know how much I worry. And I can’t seem to stop doing it, either.”
Bette grinned. “My shrink would love you. Maybe she’d start to think I was normal!”
“Hey,” I said in mock insult. “I’m normal,” I insisted, trying—and failing—to convince both of us.
“Honey, you know I love you; but you’re far from normal.” Bette giggled. “That’s part of your charm.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You’re not winning any awards for normalcy, either.”
Bette grinned again. “Normal is overrated. What can I say?”
“Well, still,” I said, dropping my gaze to my hands in my lap. “Sometimes I think normal would be refreshing.”
Bette reached across the table to tap a finger lightly on my nose. “Hey, you. You’re tough, you’re beautiful, and you’re smarter than anyone knows what to do with.” Her eyes sparkled with emotion. “You’ve just had one hard run of it lately. But maybe this is just what you need. Like pressing ‘Control-Alt-Delete,’ if you want to geek out,” she concluded, echoing the words Charlie had spoken in our last conversation.
“Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “Maybe you’re all right.” My nose burned with tears. “I’m just chickenshit sometimes.”
“Honey,” Bette laughed. “You’re the farthest thing from chickenshit. Don’t sell yourself short. You just gotta go out there and remember who you are,” she said simply, looking pleased with herself for offering such sage advice. “You’re a strong Southern woman who takes no nonsense,” she insisted. “Make this an adventure, Dellie. Don’t hide behind your computer.”
Chapter Three
I stared up at the ceiling, wondering, not for the first time, when I’d let my life get so out of balance. When I’d stopped seeking new adventures and started hiding from them.
Bette was right. I’d been allowing myself to hide behind my computer, and it was time to stop.
Could I afford a vacation, though?
Airfare, a place to stay, food…all of that would be hugely expensive, especially if I was to take everyone’s suggestion and go somewhere for a month.
And besides that, where would I go? After all, I lived in Florida, in a part of the state that people regularly flocked to for vacation, shelling out thousands and thousands of dollars to lie on the sugary white sand of our famous beaches. We walked the fine line of still being part of the Deep South, with some very traditional Southern ways of thinking and living, even while so many people heard the word Florida and immediately envisioned places like Miami or Ft. Lauderdale, where the glitterati ruled and the air of sophisticated living was tempered only by the high population of the retirement communities. Here, we had Southern culture, lived a more slow-paced life, ate the food steeped in the traditions of the South. We said Ma’am and Sir and respected our elders. We welcomed visitors with open arms, still very much accustomed to showing people Southern hospitality.
In short, I was trying to plan a vacation away from the very place that many people vacationed to.
As I lay there in the dark, my mind was devoid of ideas. Sure, there were all kinds of places I’d always dreamed of going, but I couldn’t afford any of them—not for a weekend, let alone a whole month.
I closed my eyes and shifted under the covers, savoring the feeling of being snuggled up in bed. With the odd hours I kept, I didn’t spend much time between the sheets, but when I was there, it was like heaven.
Think, Dellie, I ordered my brain. If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?
To the bathroom.
The thought came so suddenly it almost made me giggle, which, given my current circumstances, would probably test my bladder far beyond its limits.
I tossed aside the bedsheet and blanket and shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, fighting back a grumble of frustration that was forming over my forced departure from the comfort of my bed, even if it was only a momentary one.
I flicked the light switch and blinked rapidly as my eyes tried to adjust to the harsh brightness. I tripped over my own feet as I blindly made my way further into the bathroom and somehow managed to knock over a small bottle of perfume I’d had resting on a narrow shelf above the towel bar. The stopper fell out; and perfume began to pour onto the shelf before I could set it upright again, releasing the heady scent of a fragrance that I’d never worn, one that my grandmother had loved while she was alive.
“No!” I howled, reaching for the upended bottle and trying to stop the spill before every drop was lost. I’d been foolish to place such a top-heavy bottle in such a precarious position on such a narrow shelf, but it was so pretty that I’d wanted to put it somewhere that I could see it and be reminded of my grandmother. My cramped little bathroom needed all the decorative help it could get, and the elegant, sparkling bottle had seemed the perfect way to spruce things up just a bit.
“No, no, no!” I moaned, seeing that there was only the smallest amount left. The liquid that had pooled onto the shelf began dripping onto the floor.
I was about to let out another whimper when a thought shot through my mind.
Grammie’s.
I wanted to go to Grammie’s.
Not that she was there anymore, but that was the way I would always think of the house in Hampton that she had shared for more than fifty years with my grandfather. I hadn’t been there in so long. Far too long. I’d missed the funeral earlier that year, explaining that I couldn’t take time away from work, that I didn’t have the money for the plane ticket.
Would Grandpa be welcome to the idea of me coming there to stay with him for a whole month?
But even if he was, there was still the issue of a plane ticket. And a car to use while I was there. And…
I shook my head, trying to shake away all the questions and quiet my mind. They would have to wait until tomorrow, when I could do some research and find out what plane tickets cost and I could call Grandpa to pose the question for myself. All the wondering in the world would get me nowhere if I never did that.
I finished in the bathroom, cleaning up the mess from the spill and doing what I’d come in to do in the first place, then toddled back to bed, trying to hush my overactive brain enough to let sleep come. Tomorrow was Saturday, one of the two days I allowed myself get the amount of sleep that a normal human being needed to function properly, and I savored those extra hours.
Once I was up, I’d start the quest for information.
And make a phone call that I should have made long ago…
My fate, it would seem, was literally in my hands as I stared at the flight itinerary that had been so thoughtfully sent to me by US Airways.
I was all booked on a flight out of Pensacola to Newport News, with a three-hour layover in Charlotte. It was real, set in stone—or whatever the Internet equivalent of stone might be. The flights were set and paid for, the seats that would anchor my overanxious ass preassigned and awaiting the arrival of my rump. The plane might have been ready, but I was not.
At least, not mentally.
My bags were hungrily awaiting their sartorial satisfaction, and every other bit of pre-trip preparation that needed to be taken care of had been thoroughly executed. Bette was happily counting down the minutes until she could take over her pied-à-terre, and my family was all quietly celebrating the victory of finally having convinced me that I really and truly did need some time away.
And so, less than a week after the initial proposition was made, cyberspace served up a bit of adventure and notified me that I could no longer keep the idea of a trip in that someday-maybe-I-should realm of unrealized musings.
Best to bite the bullet.
I clicked around awhile on my laptop, idly wondering what might be going on up in Virginia’s swingin’ city of Hampton during my month there, hoping I would find something to mitigate the overwhelming nervousness I felt.
I shook my head, wishing I could find that almost explosive sense of glee that I had always had as a child getting ready to go to my grandparents’ house. True, I wasn’t a child anymore, but Hampton was still Hampton. What had changed more than anything, I realized as I sightlessly wandered around the world in Wi-Fi, was the fact that Grammie was no longer there. The magic she had so unwittingly brought to her surroundings was now gone—residual, perhaps, in the memories—but no longer to be captured.
So was that what I was so afraid of? Facing that feeling of…loss?
Or was it that I was afraid to face myself, to push myself out of the hole I had created for myself and so deeply burrowed into?
It was safe there. It was secure.
It was controllable.
Nothing about this trip, if I was honest, was comfortable or truly controllable.
Which scared the absolute you-know-what out of me.
I picked up my phone and started punching out a text to Bette.
Wondering what to wear on flight to Virginia…and how many in-flight cocktails are allowed.
I plinked the words out, then hit Send.
I stared at the message of carefree bravado on the screen.
It sounded so que-sera-sera. So easy breezy.
So far removed from the roil of emotions that was actually running through me.
So very, very much braver than I felt. So very, very much the brave woman I wanted to be.
Fake it ’til you make it.
And I was determined to make it. Part of a new project I’d begun since booking my tickets was to make a bucket list of things I wanted to do: some were things that were completely new for me. Some were things that I’d once enjoyed but that had been cut from my life, once I’d let my fear start running the show. One of those bucket-list items was to take a trip, which I hadn’t done since before I’d gotten married, even. Once upon a time, I’d felt bold and adventurous and audacious in hitting the road or booking a flight all on my own. Anxiety had shut me off from that, had robbed me of the excitement I used to feel and replaced it with a sense of dread at being out of control, away from the zone of safety to which I’d confined myself. Taking this trip to Hampton was one way to combat that, to try to reclaim even the smallest sense of adventurousness that I used to have. I’d felt a thick mixture of fear and triumph as I’d crossed that one off my list, determined to go, even if I was in a cold sweat when departure time came.
Another one of those bucket-list items involved flirty panties, something I’d enjoyed buying once upon a time but had stopped wearing after I got married. Finally having someone to see my flirty panties should have been a win, but the man I’d married had been less than appreciative, shooting down my confidence and making me feel as though this small luxury was completely ludicrous and extremely frivolous. Which made Buy Flirty Panties shoot straight to the top of my newly constructed bucket list.
For anyone looking at my list, it would have seemed simple and mundane. They would likely raise an eyebrow at the normal-looking activities—those like Eat Somewhere Unsafe and Eat Cake might seem somewhat odd—but for me, a woman whose world was so ruled by the dictates of anxiety, these were things that took tremendous amounts of courage to complete. My food and restaurant choices had become driven by fear, confining me to only a limited number of meal options and places that felt safe to eat. It was part of dangerous self-denial that was a coping mechanism for the lack of control I had felt so strongly during a very vulnerable time in my life. Food was controllable—the rest of the world was not. These were steps to my own victory…
1. Buy Flirty Panties
2. Take a Trip
3. Eat Somewhere Unsafe
4. Get a Makeover: New clothes? Haircut? Make-up, etc.
5. Break from Routine
6. Reconnect with Family
7. Eat Cake
8. Go on a Date
9. Learn to Dance
10. Take a Long Shot
My eyes wandered to the clock at the top corner of my computer screen.
Time to get back to work. After all, I had a trip to finish preparing for.
Bags to pack and a bucket list to conquer.
And according to the calendar on my desk, not many days to do any of it in.
I decided to ignore the silence of my unanswered text to Bette and tried to shift my focus to the article I was currently tackling. “Mid-Year Makeover: How to Shake Things Up and Make the Most of the Next Six Months.”
I arched an eyebrow, as I did every time I caught a glimpse of the uninspired title.
Who came up with these things?
I couldn’t help but wonder, as no one with any ounce of imagination would dream up such a lackluster title. It was blah and a bit cliché, in my opinion, for a women’s magazine; but it was one more article to pay the bills.
One more article that would put my name out there.
One more article to add to my portfolio.
Who knows, I thought optimistically as my fingers found their rhythm on the keyboard, maybe I’ll learn something interesting.
After all, who couldn’t use advice on how to reinvent the rest of their year?
Or, really, the rest of their lives?
I certainly could.
Maybe this trip would help me do that.
Chapter Four
I could feel a full-on pout coming.
Sure, maybe it was unreasonable to expect nylon boots to last more than a decade without looking like crap; but when you’re living the high life on a freelance writer’s budget, you tend to hope for miracles everywhere you can find them. And this was one place that I was hoping to find miracles. After all, I needed some boots to wear in Hampton. The weather was starting to turn a little bit crisp, since summer seemed to be outward bound, and I was sorely lacking good fall shoes aside from my ten-year-old Doc Marten Mary Janes. I raised an eyebrow.
Sensing a theme here. It seemed that many items in my closet were actually old enough to be at the upper echelons of elementary school. Maybe not something to brag about. Especially not to Bette, who already thought I was a perfect candidate for Extreme Cheapskates. I was beginning to worry that I might come home one night to be accosted outside my apartment by a TLC film crew dead set on capturing a reel of my very mundane, very budgeted life as a writer, which involved trying to squeeze blood out of every penny I could find.