Lonely
Barb
“Are you just going to sit around all day and mope?” Brody asks, tossing aside three celebrity gossip rags that I left on the couch.
“Easy for you to say. Your husband hasn’t up and left you.”
“Well, he kind of did, Mom. Dad left both of us,” he sighs and adjusts his visor from the chicken fast food place where he works. “Granted, I’m twenty-two and just kind of live here.”
I ignore my son and keep staring at the TV. Ever since my husband, Bill, left me a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been depressed and haven’t left the couch.
It all started after this year’s annual block party. He came home all flustered and talked about how he could get a younger and hotter woman than me. I had no idea what he was babbling about then, and I left it alone that night.
For the month after that, he ignored me even more than usual and wouldn’t even eat at the table with me. I finally confronted him and asked him if there was something that happened that I should know about. The jerk even ignored that conversation and just grunted. He left a few days later while saying that he was still a young, vibrant man and should go out and get a vibrant woman.
I’m vibrant, dammit! OK. Maybe we hadn’t had sex in months, and maybe I had to get my wedding ring resized twice in the last year from all the weight I gained during menopause. I got my salt and pepper hair cut a little too short and never fixed the huge gap between my front teeth. Maybe I haven’t kept up with nails and fashion styles like other women. I also don’t know what the hell Olivia March across the street did to her eyelashes, but she has to go to the salon every three weeks to get something done to make them look that long. I would never do that. It’s just not me.
I’m a lady that likes my comfortable granny panties and plain white tennis shoes. I don’t have any hobbies except reading cozy mysteries about witches and bakeries. My TV shows are old reruns of The Golden Girls and The Facts of Life, and I don’t even have Netflix.
I don’t like going on vacation because it’s too much work. I have to clean before I leave, do laundry and then do it all again when I get home. Bill always asked me why I had to clean before we left, and my answer was that I wouldn’t want robbers seeing my house a fright. He would roll his eyes, but all he ever did was fluff his dick and pack a duffle bag. I was the one that arranged the cat sitter, packed myself, packed my son, made the reservations, got an oil change before a long drive, and managed all of the minutiae of vacation. It became easier to just not go anywhere. Unfortunately, not going anywhere comes with not having anything to talk about when people ask me what I did for vacation.
I guess I understand why my husband up and left. At fifty-three, I’m not exactly a prize. Most people I know would even call me boring.
I don’t understand his mumblings about younger women, though. Bill is a man in his late fifties who wears golf shirts, pleated pants and is starting to look a little like Santa. If we were wealthy, maybe he’d have a chance. I’d even understand if he drove a hot car. However, Bill was an electrician before he retired last year, and I only work part-time during the school year as a substitute teacher. We’re solidly middle class, and Bill drives a Toyota.
“I’m going to work. Do you need anything?” Brody asks, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“No,” I say and shake my head. “I’m not cooking again tonight, so bring stuff back if you want.”
Brody grunts and tucks his shirt into his pants. He looks exactly like his father when he does it, and it makes my eyes water. He looks exactly like Bill, but he also has his facial expressions and same little movements.
“Sure. Even though we’ve eaten nothing but Chicken-For-Ya for dinner since Dad left. It would be good for you to get up and make yourself something, Mom.”
I glare at him from my spot on the couch. I haven’t been able to get up except to go to the bathroom or answer the door since Bill left. I’m glad Brody is around to bring food home and keep the house some semblance of clean, but he’s getting on my last nerve suggesting that I make my own sandwich.
“I’ll be fine. Go to work,” I yell at him as he slams the door.
I put in an old DVD and hear my phone ping just as Blanche, Dorothy, and Rose face off in the dance competition. Goddammit, this is my favorite episode. Who’s texting me?
Text from Kyle March – “Hi Barb. It’s Kyle March across the street. I got your number from Olivia’s phone, and she’s not really able to text right now. She wanted me to let the neighborhood ladies know that her mom died this morning. We’ll send arrangement information when we know.”
Now I’m really depressed. Carol, Olivia’s mom, was a nice woman. She came to live with Olivia and Kyle a couple of years ago and had dementia along with some other health issues. I never got the full information of all that afflicted her. I didn’t feel like it was my business to know all about her health, so I never asked Olivia.
When she first came to live with Kyle and Olivia, she was somewhat cognizant. She came to a few book clubs or other events the neighborhood ladies had at their homes. Olivia even got her up to the neighborhood pool a few times. Over the last year, she went downhill quickly.
Olivia’s son, Aaron, helped a lot. However, he spent all summer as a camp counselor, so Olivia hired a caretaker for the summer. Eryl seemed like a nice enough girl, but I always felt like there was something off about her. She was way too chummy with Kyle, if you ask me. What was weird was that she was that way with Olivia, too. I don’t know what was going on in that house, and I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business anyway.
Text to Kyle March – “Tell Olivia that I’m so sorry for her loss. Carol was a really nice lady and always a class act. Let me know if you all need anything.”
Text to Rebecca Hastings – “Did you hear Carol died this morning?”
Text from Rebecca Hastings – “Yes. Kyle just texted me. Nate went over there last night to pray with Carol. Let me know if you hear arrangement information.”
Text to Rebecca Hastings – “You’ll probably hear before me. I’m sure Nate’s church will host the funeral. Are we doing meals for them? I’m not really up for cooking, but I can have Brody bring some chicken sandwiches home for them.”
I swear that I can hear Rebecca Hastings roll her eyes all the way from next door at the thought of my son walking over leftover lukewarm chicken sandwiches to Olivia and Kyle. She’s probably already making some elaborate casserole, homemade bread, and a pan of brownies.
It must annoy her that I’m not cooking. First, she would tell me that idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Second, she just doesn’t understand not wanting to cook for people. She organizes the production of a cookbook in her church every few years when the ladies of the church submit their best recipes. It’s then bound in a fun cookbook design, and Rebecca puts her name as the producer. Not only is her name the one that’s listed as the producer, but she always has entries in each section.
To be honest, Rebecca Hastings is someone you love to hate. She dresses like you’d imagine a fifties housewife would have dressed on a yacht vacation. Every hair is in place, her lipstick is never smeared, and she is always pleasant. She leaves you thank you cards in your mailbox when you trim your trees, and I’ve never heard her utter a bad word about anyone. She’s utterly fucking perfect.
Mostly, I want to strangle her.
On the other hand, if you want gossip, go to the pastor’s wife. There’s also something there just below the surface. You know the type. The type that’s perfect on the outside and seems to have it all together, but you wouldn’t be surprised if they do some weird stuff behind closed doors. I don’t know why, but I really feel like she’ll snap and lose her shit someday. I used to tell Bill that she’d be the neighbor we catch burying a body in her backyard. Then she’d gaslight her way out of it and bring us a thank you card and a casserole for keeping our mouths shut.
Text from Rebecca Hastings – “You are so sweet. I’ll organize the standard meal train. I made a spreadsheet a few years ago detailing every family on our street’s food likes and dislikes. I’ll send that out to everyone tonight.”
Leave it to Rebecca to know which neighbors hate mushrooms and are allergic to walnuts.
I do a commando roll off of the couch until I’m kneeling on the floor. My knees creak in protest as I put one hand on the couch to push off of the faded carpet. At the very least, I need to look presentable for a funeral in a few days.
I head upstairs to look in my closet to see if I have something suitable to wear for a funeral. I suppose the simple green dress I wear to church is appropriate. Carol wouldn’t have wanted people to be depressed, and God only knows Rebecca Hastings will probably wear something bright and colorful. She’ll do it to stand out but will tell everyone that the color represents the promise of new life and hope or some shit. Gag.
Trying the dress on is a bear. The weight gain is even more apparent in my dresses than with my wedding ring, and I hope I don’t rip the damn dress trying to pull it over my hips. Eventually, I tug it over my hips and grimace at the fabric gripping my stomach like a second skin.
I look at myself in the mirror and grunt. I know I’m no fashion plate at my age but looking at myself in this dress makes me feel even more powerless and sad. It’ll have to do.
