The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,71
it comes up, I get the silent treatment. That, or he goes into this spiel about how I don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what?”
She shrugs. “Finance. The way the world works. Take your pick. It’s like my dad telling me money doesn’t grow on trees. ‘It doesn’t? For real? Well, where does it come from?’ Duh. There’s some other stuff too, but it’s all trivial. He’s just picking a fight, and I don’t know why.”
“You are happy, though? Overall, I mean.”
“Sure, Beth. Of course we are. I’m certainly not unhappy.”
“You’re getting what you need from the relationship?”
She pauses, fork in air. “What does that mean?”
“Just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes you seem a little lonely. We have that in common.”
“Lonely.” She weighs the word on her tongue. “Look, you know me. I don’t subscribe to the philosophies of the marriage-industrial complex. I’m not looking to a man to fulfill me completely. That’s a lot of pressure to put on anyone. I like my space. I like having my own friends. I like to be alone sometimes, but that’s not the same as being lonely.”
“I realize that—”
“You feel lonely, Beth?”
“Of course I do. Like you said, my husband lives in a shed in the backyard. If I didn’t have Deedee’s painting, I’d have forgotten by now what the man looks like.”
“Seriously, though. Before Rick went nuts. You were lonely? That makes me sad.”
“It makes me sad, Holly. I don’t want to be this way.”
“What way? You’re great just how you are. There’s nothing missing about you. You know that, right?”
“I think there is. I’m not like you. I didn’t stick it out in school. I didn’t fulfill my promise. I was all set for law school and then I got pregnant with Jed. The first half of my life pointed one way, and the second half pointed the opposite direction. All the things I intended to do—to be—none of that ever happened. I know it’s my fault. Nobody forced me to give up anything. But still . . . I miss it. I miss what I should have become.”
“It takes a village, Beth. A husband can’t give you everything any more than you can give him everything. But you have your kids, you have me. You’re not alone, and you’re anything but a failure. Are you kidding me? That’s crazy talk.”
I smile wanly. “It runs in the family these days.”
“You’re depressed because of Eli. Look, if it will help, why don’t I take a crack at him? He might be able to shrug Mommy off, but when Aunt Holly sinks her teeth in, that’s another story.”
“It’s not because of Eli,” I say. “But you’re welcome to talk to him. I’d love that, actually. It’s not like I can ask Rick to help.”
Whenever I spill my guts like this, I always feel sick afterward. How much of what I said do I actually believe? To be honest, it’s hard to tell. Sometimes, when you process out loud, you say things you don’t mean at all. I’m not sure this is one of those instances. These existential complaints of mine, they all ring true in my ears. If that makes me superficial, the victim of midlife regrets, then what can I say? Guilty as charged.
“At least eat your food,” Holly says. “I can’t have you lonely and starving. That would be too much on my conscience.”
Some people have dessert after a meal. Holly likes to window shop. When she’s really in a funk (there’s that word again!) she starts trying things on, modeling new outfits in the mirror until I give her the thumbs-up or thumbs-down. This afternoon, as she disappears into one changing room after another, my head churns with conflicting ideas.
I don’t know what to do about Eli.
I’m afraid Jed will have his heart broken.
My cheek still stings from the slap Mother Zacchaeus gave me—not literally, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Something’s unsettled there.
“Is that a metaphor or what?” Vernon’s words keep coming back to me, the soundtrack to a confused crosscut of mental images: the worship team projected on-screen, Rick looking at the painting of himself as a saint, the Reflecting Pool casting no reflection of the stormy sky above. The square opening in the roof of a Quaker meeting hall that can never be found again, no matter how often I retrace my steps. Everything means something, only I’m too dim to make the necessary connections.
In my pocket, I carry the enamel pin with the image of