My First Short Story As A Romance Writer
I wrote this a few years ago when I was getting ready to publish Jersey Girl. And then…I got a job. In the process, I put away something that I love doing. Over the last few months, however, it has become very clear to me that you can’t put off what you love for another day…you may not have it. I know, I know…that sounds terribly cliche. Unfortunately, it’s also true. I see that now. So, in the spirit of new beginnings, I offer up the first short story I wrote for this blog back in February of 2013, with the promise of more to come. I hope you enjoy it.
Valentine’s Day. Romance. Marriage. Family. Life. Expectations. Goals. Dreams. This stream of consciousness thinking led me to my first and current short story of the month. I’m approaching forty this year and clearly, if you’ve read my work, some of the above are themes that have been on my mind more often than not lately. I’m not sure what to title this…every name I come up with sounds more cliche than the last - What A Woman Wants. Gag! I would never presume to think that I could represent what every woman wants. In fact, there are many days when I hardly know how to accurately represent myself. Still, I suppose I’ve been in sort of a feminist mood as of late. Who knows where it will lead me next? And I have been wondering what it is a woman really wants. I’ve started with the perspective of a stay-at-home-mom, but hope to reflect on some other life choices in the coming months. Anyway, whatever I choose to call it, I hope you enjoy…
My Little Snippet of Modern Married Life
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bradshaw. I hate to cancel on you last minute. I had no idea Nick was planning anything. I hope it’s okay?”
“It’s fine, really, Anna,” I answer, my falsely cheerful tone the only signal that things are not fine at all. At eighteen, Anna isn’t quite attuned to such nuance – taking my word that everything is, indeed, just fine. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. It’s only Valentine’s Day. Honestly, I don’t even know what Jamie was thinking anyway. I mean, we’re too old for this kind of stuff.”
“Thanks, Mrs. B.”
“No problem, Anna. Have a great time.” I hang up the phone and silently wonder just who the hell this Mrs. B. is. Surely, she isn’t me. I mean, Ms. B., maybe, but even now, after fourteen years of marriage, Mrs. B. sounds like my mother-in-law.
I head back to the small room that serves as my library/home office, and pick up where I left off with the dusting. I have no idea what compels me to continue with this monthly chore. It’s been ages since I’ve even read a book, much less one that requires any real amount of intellect. Still, the job usually brings me a small sense of peace. I go through the motions, waiting impatiently for the moment of Zen to kick in as I shift the books and clean – holding each tome lovingly in my hands, every single one a small extension of me. Except…not today. Not now. I feel a tear beading up in the corner of my eye and I bend my head in time to see it fall on the book in my hand. The Feminine Mystique. Perfect. Just perfect. I suck my breath in hard as more tears begin to fall.
“Screw you, Betty effing Friedan, all right? I am not perpetuating any gender stereotypes. I made a conscious decision. You hear me? You got that, lady? I made a choice to stay home with my kids. And I’m happy. So screw you!”
I hurl the book across the room and slide my body down to the floor as the book makes contact with the opposite wall. I am here by choice. It’s true. I love my children; my husband; my life. So why does it feel like I’m the subject of a Kate Chopin nightmare? I know I should be grateful. I’m lucky. We are lucky. In this economy, we’re managing to keep our heads above water…more than that. We’re doing fine actually. Sure, Jamie works long hours. Given his career in finance, it isn’t surprising. He’s rarely, if ever, home for dinner. But unlike so many other dads, he always makes it home in time to tuck the kids into bed. He manages soccer, does dishes, does laundry. He cleaned the basement last weekend without any prompting. Hell, he even changes diapers, though thankfully those days are nearly behind us. At three, Addie is still in a pull-up at bedtime, but she’s working on it. I smile at the thought of my sweet girl, conjuring up the image of her baby face – chocolate brown eyes, so much like my own. Her brown curls, a gift from her daddy. You wouldn’t know it to look at him now. It’s been quite a few years since his hair started receding, first at the temples and then at the back. But he took it in stride, pulling out his father’s old electric razor, buzzing the whole thing off. He said he would rather lose it all at once than slowly go down in flames. I remember laughing so hard at that…at his attempt to stave off old age. Now, on the floor, my head in my hands, crusted macaroni and cheese stains on my collar and smudges of chocolate lining my pant leg, it doesn’t seem so amusing anymore. I just sit and continue to cry, for no apparent reason at all. Except that Valentine’s Day seems to be ruined…which is pretty much a joke. We aren’t generally big VD celebrators anyway. In fact, I was caught off guard when Jamie approached me about getting a sitter for the night. Come on, Mags. It’ll be nice to get out for the evening. When do we ever go out? He said it casually, but I was still surprised. After all this time, I think I know my husband. I think I know our rituals. He always brings the requisite box of chocolates. Five pounds for me (like my thighs need it) and one pound each for Addie and Michael. And the requisite jewelry. He hasn’t missed one yet. And here I sit…an ungrateful shrew. Wishing I knew what the hell I wanted from this man.
I finish up with the sobbing and mop my eyes with my shirt sleeve. It’s two-thirty five and I need to be at Addie’s school in fifteen minutes for pick-up before racing back home to get Michael off the bus by three-fifteen. I haul myself off the floor in concert with the ring of the phone and head off to the desk to answer it.
“Hey, Mags,” Jamie says. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m just about to go get Addie, actually. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. Listen, sweetheart, umm…” He breaks off and I wait.
“Jamie?”
“Mags, look, I’m really sorry, but…” I cut him off this time.
“Jamie, don’t worry about it. Anna cancelled a little while ago. You don’t need to rush,” I say nonchalantly.
“I’m really sorry, honey. I won’t be too late, maybe eight o’clock.”
He sounds sincere. I know he is. I can’t be angry. It’s just a part of our life. “It’s fine. I’ll keep something warm for you.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll see you later, Jamie.” I hang up the phone before he can hear my sobs.
***
I’m greeted with silence as I push the key in the lock and step through the door. Maggie must be upstairs with the kids. I kick off my shoes and use my feet to push them over to the mat Mags keeps by the door and then head off toward the kitchen in search of dinner. It’s eight-thirty and I’m disappointed that I’ve missed bed-time. Putting the kids to bed is my favorite time of day. I lay three boxes of chocolate on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. The table is set for three, with red placemats and napkins and china. I can see the remnants of dinner – heart shaped chicken nuggets and peas; a coordinating heart-shaped chocolate cake – minus the bottom. There are even three champagne glasses and an open bottle of sparkling cider. I don’t know how she does it. I know I couldn’t do it. Not day in, day out. She sacrificed so much to be home. If I’m being honest, until the other day I had forgotten just how much. Oh, I appreciate Maggie. She’s a great wife, wonderful mom. But it’s easy to get caught up in the daily grind; to take it all for granted. I walk over to the counter and grab a handful of chicken nuggets, chewing quickly as Maggie walks through the door.
“Hey, Jamie. I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, walking over and kissing me perfunctorily on the cheek. Ouch.
“I’m sorry I’m late, but here. These are for you,” I grin and hand her the chocolates.
Her eyes look tired. “Thanks, sweetie,” she replies. She places the box on the counter and begins clearing the table.
“Hey, it’s Valentine’s Day,” I say, placing my hand on her arm to halt her movement.
“That’s true,” she answers back with a sigh, continuing to clean.
“Don’t you want your other gift?” I ask.
“Sure. Just let me clean up.”
“Mags, hold on.”
“Yes, Jamie?” She looks up at me and I can’t help but smile. After all this time, she’s still the same…even if she doesn’t see it.
“I, um I… um, I have something for you. I’ll be right back.” I run off to the basement, leaving Maggie with a confused look on her face. I’m back a moment later. I’m not sure why I’m nervous – I’ve known this woman more years than not – still, I know that something isn’t right…for her, for us. She’s seated at the table now, pushing nuggets around on a plate.
“I have another gift for you. I mean, instead of jewelry. I hope you don’t mind. Well, not a gift really. I was cleaning the basement the other day. And I found some things.” I reach my hand out and place a couple of old notebooks by the side of her plate. Her eyes grow wide and tears begin to pool in them.
“Where did you find these? I thought they were gone,” she says.
“I couldn’t let you lose them. They were just hidden at the bottom of a plastic bin. We must have put them in there to keep out the mildew after the basement flooded back in ninety-nine.”
We sit in silence as she leafs through her old journals. I can’t tell if she’s pleased or disappointed, but she’s certainly engrossed.
“Anyway, they’re good, Mags. As good as I remember. You need to do something with them.”
“Jamie…I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. At least not until I give you your other gift.”
“There’s more,” she asks, stunned.
“Don’t get too excited,” I reply. I turn and pull up our old boom box, placing it on the kitchen table, and then hesitate before facing her again. Maybe this was a stupid idea.
“Holy God,” she whispers.
“Come on, Mags. Dance with me? Please?” I open the tape deck and slip in the old mixed tape, the one she made me years ago. Our first Valentine’s Day. I know, it’s cheesy. I’m surprised she isn’t laughing. Instead, the tears are falling steadily as the first few bars of Depeche Mode’s “Somebody” begins to play. I pull her close. She’s stiff at first, but I feel the pull of the music as our bodies begin to sway.
“I love you, Mags. I’m sorry that things…that life… aren’t quite what we expected.”
She doesn’t reply in kind, but kisses me again, this time fully on the lips. And, finally, I feel once more, the depth of her soul, the part of her that’s been missing for so long. I take her hand, feeling the need rise up in both of us and lead her away from the kitchen…grateful, that perhaps, she may be coming home.
