Something New (9781101612262) Read online

  “I’m sorry. What was the question?”

  He laughs. “I was asking if you’d like to try something new with me.”

  The entirety of the Kama Sutra does a sprint through my brain, and I shake my head to clear it.

  “No, huh?” Ben says, mistaking my head shake for a negative. I should let him think that I’m saying no. Because whatever it is, whatever “something new” he has in mind—and I know it’s not related to sex or he would never have asked—I shouldn’t, should not do it. No way, never, not a chance, in that order.

  “What is the something new?” I really need to buy myself a muzzle.

  “I’m going to learn to surf,” he declares proudly.

  I give him a wide-eyed stare. “Surf.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know how already.”

  “Hey, I grew up in the Midwest. The only waves in Indiana are the—”

  “Waves of grain,” I finish for him, and he smiles.

  “You’re quick,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat toward me. “I’ve always wanted to learn. There’s something about it that seems so, I don’t know. Freeing, I guess.”

  “A surfing detective.” I grin. “Sounds like a movie I saw once.”

  He matches my grin. “Point Break. Only they were feds. I saw that movie about twelve times. Of course, if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll have to kill you. My wife doesn’t even know that about me.”

  A tendril of pleasure uncurls in my stomach and I have to suppress a giggle. “Your secret is safe with me.” I don’t mention that I also watched Point Break more times than I can count, having had a huge crush on Keanu Reeves at the time.

  “I’m going to start with stand-up paddleboarding,” he continues. “It’s the latest thing, apparently. One of my new co-workers told me about this place in the marina that rents all the gear.”

  “Well, good luck to you.”

  “You don’t want to try it?”

  “Uh, no,” I answer.

  “You should. You look like you have good balance. I bet you’d be great.” His eyes sweep over me, and I shiver involuntarily.

  “You do know it’s March,” I say quickly, rubbing the gooseflesh that has popped up on my arms. “The Pacific Ocean is freezing this time of year.”

  “Nothing a little wet suit can’t fix.”

  Yes, I think. Problem is, my wet suit wouldn’t be little. Plus, I’d have to shave my legs, unless I wore the kind that goes to your ankles. Then I could get away with just shaving my feet. I would definitely have to get a pedicure.…

  “Be-en!” comes a woman’s siren call from somewhere to our right. Nina Montrose nearly falls out of the bleachers in her haste to get to him, smacking Rita Halpern so hard in the right eye with her pointy breasts that I fear Rita might be rendered blind.

  “Jesus ever-loving Christ!” cries Rita. “Those goddamn tits are dangerous!”

  “Rita! There are children present,” Tina Sinclair admonishes from the front row.

  “Well, keep them away from Nurse Ratched!” Rita fires back. “Someone could lose an eye!”

  Nina is totally oblivious to her less-than-graceful bleacher dismount. Breathless, shameless, she stalks right over to Ben, who is looking at me with an expression one might wear when heading to the firing squad. I smile sweetly at him and watch as he paints on a pleasant face.

  “Oh, hi, Ellen.” Nina acknowledges my presence with a quick turn of her head, but her attention is unabashedly on Ben. “Is everything okay with work?” she asks him in a throaty, conspiratorial whisper.

  “Yes, fine, Nina, thanks,” he replies, his smile glued in place.

  “So where is the little woman?” Nina asks without a hint of self-consciousness.

  “Home,” is all Ben offers.

  “You know, that’s how my marriage fell apart.” Her voice is steeped with false regret. “My soon-to-be-ex-husband stopped coming to all of the games, then all the school functions. I thought he was working, but he just didn’t have any interest anymore. Not in the kids, and not in me.” Her lower lip starts to tremble and I suddenly feel like I am about to puke. “Anyway,” she sighs. “I’m sure your marriage is just fine.”

  To his credit, Ben doesn’t take the bait, merely crosses his arms over his chest and peers out to the soccer field. “Marriage can be tough,” he says noncommittally.

  “Amen,” I agree under my breath, but Ben catches it, and I feel his speculative gaze turn toward me.

  “Excuse me,” I say quickly, sidestepping away from the two of them. “I have to deliver a candy bar before my daughter goes hypoglycemic on me.”

  Nina’s eyebrows slam together in puzzlement, battling with her Botox, and I realize I have just used a five-syllable word in front of a woman who can barely spell her own name. Oops. I shrug and head over to Jessie, leaving Nina to slobber all over Ben.

  “Stand-up paddleboarding,” Ben calls to me, and I give him a two-finger wave without turning back.

  I reach Jessie and lower myself into my seat, absently handing over the Snickers. Her eyes go wide at the sight of it.

  “King size!” she exclaims reverently. “But, Mom, it’s only like eleven thirty-five.” She clutches the candy bar to her chest like a precious gift. When Doris had laid it on the counter, I hadn’t noticed that this particular Snickers bar was the size of an SUV. I contemplate taking it back from my daughter. Surely it will lead to a sugar high of rehab proportions, but instead I merely shrug.

  “It won’t kill you to eat it before noon,” I tell her, and she smiles beatifically.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Watching the two teams jog to their places for the start of the third quarter, I hear the crinkling of the candy wrapper as Jessie strips the Snickers bar naked and takes a huge bite.

  My eyes are on the field, but my thoughts are roiling and bubbling like a pot of stew on high heat. Why, oh why, didn’t I stick with my resolution to stay away from Ben Campbell? Now look what’s happened. He has just given me a bona fide invitation. Not a lewd and indecent suggestion that I meet him at the Motel 6 on Steinway, mind you, but an invitation nonetheless. Our meetings up to this point have been the result of random encounters, fate having its way with us. But an invitation is different. It is premeditated, an assignation, a—dare I say it?—a date. This is not running into each other at Ikea and grabbing a soda.

  True, I did decline his offer, but before I go and pat myself on the back for my restraint, I must consider the fact that I have absolutely no desire to go stand-up paddle surfing (except, of course, to see Ben Campbell in a skintight wet suit). But how, I now ask myself, would I have responded if he had suggested something that did interest me, like, say, a day at a swanky spa or a trip to a vineyard for a wine tasting? I’d like to think my answer would have been the same. But if I am completely honest with myself, I’ll admit I am not sure.

  I have always considered myself a good person. Not Mother Teresa or Joan of Arc, maybe, but a decent woman with solid ethics and a sound moral compass. I always make the right decisions on the big stuff. And I know that this is part of my appeal as a wife, mother, friend, and person. Good old dependable Ellen. But the bottom line is that I have never had a moral dilemma shoved so squarely into my face before now. It’s easy to say I would never take a life when you’ve never had someone threatening to harm your children. It’s easy to say I would never knock over a liquor store when you’ve never been a slave to crystal meth. And it’s a no-brainer to declare I would never cheat on my husband when you’ve never had a complete hunka-hunka show a heart-stopping amount of interest in your bod.

  I would have thought that at the ripe old age of almost forty-three, this situation couldn’t possibly crop up. Back in my thirties, maybe, when my waist was a bit smaller and the skin on my neck hadn’t yet started its downward journey. I honestly believed that once I hit the big 4-0 I’d be immune to this kind of temptation, if for no other reason than the fact that men in their forti
es and fifties who are having a midlife crisis or looking to stray tend to do so with twenty-somethings whose tits point skyward and who don’t know the meaning of the word Reaganomics. And forget about getting propositioned by a younger man when you’re in your forties, unless he happens to be European or you happen to be Demi Moore. So, really, I thought I had safely made it past this particular situation.

  I hazard a glance over my shoulder and am surprised to see Ben laughing at something Nina is saying. And his laughter appears natural, not forced or phony. Immediately, I feel my hackles rise, then subsequently chide myself for my stupidity at having ruminated so dramatically over something that probably isn’t even valid. Ben Campbell isn’t after me. How could he be? I mean, seriously. Look at me. If this handsome, charming hunk of burning passion were looking to cheat on his wife, and that’s a big if, he wouldn’t set his sights on a perfect candidate for Extreme Makeover. He’d be more likely to choose someone like Nina. And who could blame him? She’s not twenty-four, but her boobs definitely face the stars. And from what I’ve seen of her, Nina has no moral compass whatsoever. She’d drop and spread ’em without hesitation. That kind of characteristic goes a long way in the Cheating Husband’s Handbook. In fact, he’s probably inviting her to stand-up paddle surf at this very moment. The skinny bitch. And the superficial adulterous cad.

  Wait! Here I go again, letting my thoughts run wild. They ought to have a support group for people who are addicted to creating wild scenarios in their heads and mentally dissecting every last nuance of every single moment, like I’ve been doing since I met Ben Campbell. They could call it the Walter Mitty Clinic for Delusionals and Serial Overthinkers. I could be their first patient, with the caveat that I simply must be treated with Class A drugs.

  I steal another look at Ben and Nina, and now they are both watching the game, side by side, casually conversing like two soccer parents. They are not copulating against the back of the bleachers, much as Nina would like to be. Ben is simply being nice to her, just as he has been nice to me this whole time. Because he is a nice man. Not because he has ulterior motives. Nor does he harbor any lascivious underpinnings. The sushi feeding was due to the sake. The hand-kissing was due to old-fashioned chivalry (and probably the remnants of the sake). The invitation to stand-up paddle surf was just that, nothing more.

  As the soccer game plays out in front of me, and my daughter chews her Snickers bar enthusiastically beside me, I try to put a name to the emotion washing through me. Relief. Yes, that’s it. Although the realization that I am not the object of someone’s desire is a blow to my ego, I have to admit that safety has its rewards. I don’t have to worry about making a tough choice. I don’t have to worry about smashing my own moral compass. I don’t have to think about the consequences of doing something extraordinarily stupid. On paper, it sounds exciting, like the perfect antidote to the crushing boredom I’ve been experiencing lately. But in reality, it is far too complex an issue for me to contemplate. Especially since I suspect that given the chance, I might just blow my reputation as the good girl straight to hell.

  “Want some?” Jessie asks me, holding out the mammoth chocolate bar.

  I am suddenly ravenous for something that is bad for me. I grab the Snickers, break off a chunk, shove it into my mouth, and laboriously chew, anticipating the sensual contentment that chocolate promises.

  Okay. It’s not so satisfying. But at the moment, it’s all I’ve got.

  • Seventeen •

  Jonah’s master plan was to be on the road by five a.m. in order to reach his parents’ house in time for lunch. But by six twenty-two, he is still scrambling to get his shit together. Having fulfilled my motherly obligations the night before, making sure Connor had his nasal spray (which staves off his nosebleeds in the dry Arizona climate) and Matthew had his clean underwear (which he always forgets to pack) and Jessie had her matching Hannah Montana shirt, jacket, and socks ensemble (which she can’t go anywhere without), I am now seated at the kitchen table, leisurely drinking my first cup of coffee, listening to the thump thump thump of my husband stalking through the second floor in search of all of the necessary items for his six-day sojourn. Normally, I would be helping him, cutting his prep time in half, as I know where everything is. But since he did not offer me an apology for yesterday morning’s noteworthy display of animosity and disdain, I have not offered him one iota of assistance.

  A half hour later, I stand in the driveway, faithful Sally sitting beside me, mournfully gazing up at me with her watery brown eyes as though wondering where her family is going and why are they going without her. My groggy children take turns kissing and hugging me good-bye as Jonah waits by the driver’s door of my Flex, which is packed to bursting. He impatiently glances at his watch, and instead of hurrying the kids along, I leisurely grab each of them and give them a second hug, telling them to be on their best behavior for Grandma and Grandpa. Then I watch as they all climb into the car and take a few minutes to get situated.

  Jonah looks at me, and I can tell he is waiting for me to give him some kind of sign that I want to kiss and hug him as well. Usually, no matter what state of conflict the two of us are currently embroiled in, we make a point of kissing good-bye and telling each other I love you—just in case, you know, one of us gets hit by a truck or struck by a bolt of lightning during our separation. But not this time. I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him.

  “I’ll call you when we get there,” he says.

  “Fine.”

  He gives me a curt nod, then gets behind the wheel and closes the door. I fleetingly wonder if Jonah and I have reached a crossroads in our marriage and whether we’ll be able to find each other again, to actually like each other again. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but I also know that marriages float on a changing tide, sometimes a lazy current that brings you safely into harbor, and sometimes a violent wave that catapults you straight into a rocky bed and pulverizes you. I can’t help but question which way the tide is turning for us.

  A sudden stab of regret slices through me as I watch Jonah tug at the safety belt and buckle himself in. What if he does get struck by lightning? What if this is the last time I ever see him alive? What would his last thoughts of me be just before he drifts off into the light?

  As he starts the engine, I walk over to the driver’s window and softly rap my knuckles against the glass. He looks up, surprised, then lowers the window.

  “Have a good trip,” I say, then bend down and give him a light peck on the cheek.

  “Thanks.” He doesn’t smile, but I can tell he is relieved by my paltry offerings. “Go easy on the Lexus, okay?”

  “What, no drag races?”

  “Just keep the hairpin turns to a minimum.”

  I allow myself to grin, and Jonah follows suit.

  “I love you,” he says, and I know he thinks he means it, just as most people in their second decade of marriage believe they mean the words that automatically tumble out of their mouths.

  “Love you, too,” I return, because although I’m not feeling it right now, somewhere deep down inside me, it must be true. At least, I hope to God it is.

  By eight thirty, I have done four miles on the treadmill; taken a leisurely shower, during which I actually shaved my legs from my toes to my thighs (little do I know I will be inordinately happy about this in roughly six hours); have brewed an entire pot of coffee for my own consumption (how decadent is that?); have roamed through each and every room of my blissfully empty house; and am now seated in front of my computer, waiting for it to boot up.

  I already know what today’s post will be about, having decided upon it the moment my Flex turned off our block and my six days of Me Time officially began. When I log on to my blog, I bypass the dashboard and immediately begin typing in the new post, not bothering to see how many hits I’ve garnered or to scan the comments posted by readers. These things make no difference to me anymore. I couldn’t care less whether I win the damn competition. The pro
cess itself has become the thing. The rhythm of my writing, the consistency of my words, the discipline of creating a new piece of prose every day, no matter how sophomoric it may seem to me. These things are what matter to me now. I have recaptured a part of myself that I thought was lost. No matter what Jonah thinks, I am a writer. By trying something new, I have rediscovered something old. Something, I realize, that has been dying to be set free.

  I have no idea where this literary reincarnation will lead; whether I will be an amateur blogger for the rest of my days, or finish my novel, or get a job on the local paper. But I do know that I will keep writing, just for me.

  As I write, I am basking in the knowledge that I am alone in my house. No one will pop his or her head into the kitchen asking for a snack. I won’t be summoned to break up any fights. I won’t be interrupted by my shrieking daughter as she searches for her missing Silly Bandz or by Matthew wailing about his dead goldfish, or by Connor demanding more time on the Wii. For six full days, no husband will ask if I picked up his shirts from the dry cleaner or noisily rifle through the fridge for leftovers. This state of being is as close to heaven as it gets. And it is exactly what informs my blog.

  Tenth Post: March 25, 2012

  SomethingNewAt42

  THE EMPTY NEST

  Everyone has heard the term empty nest. Books have been written on the subject. It’s been the focus of 48 Hours segments, sitcoms, and those Hallmark movies starring middle-aged B-list actresses that my nameless relative absolutely adores. A lot of time and energy is spent on understanding and dealing with this particular phase of a parent’s life. And I have one question in response to all the hoopla: Why?

  Okay, I haven’t yet experienced it firsthand. My kids are all still under my roof, and will be for the next ten years, so it might be that I am, as my friend Mia would put it, talking out of my ass. But speaking as someone who treasures every single moment of preternatural quiet that is so graciously bestowed upon me every time my husband and children leave the house, I just can’t understand the problem. I look forward to my children growing up and getting the hell out of my house. I just wish there were some way, when they do, that they could take my husband with them.