35. Lizzie
THIRTY-FIVE
LIZZIE
The day after the most disastrous Christmas of my life, I spoke to the kids in the morning, then stood in my quiet, creaky house while I wondered what I was supposed to do with myself. Staring out the patio doors to the graying wood of the deck and the bare trees and bushes lining the backyard, I tried to remember what I did the other years that the kids had spent the holidays with Isaac.
Laundry, probably. Or I’d go over to my brother’s house and babysit his kids while he and Emily had time to themselves. Or I went to help my parents clean up.
Gritting my teeth, I squared my shoulders.
Not today.
I wouldn’t spend one single minute serving other people. Not when my brother had looked at me with such bare disgust on his face. Not when I’d been run out of my parents’ house for daring to chase one bit of pleasure for myself.
My phone was plugged in to a charger on the edge of the kitchen counter. I marched over to it and turned it off. Inhaling deeply, I stared at the dark screen and felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I hadn’t turned that device off for years. I’d always been ready for a call, for an interruption. Always been ready to be needed.
Well, today, I needed me. I marched upstairs and got dressed in warm clothes, then packed my camera up and made sure both batteries were charged. I found an extra, blank SD card in the front pocket of the camera case, so I popped it into the appropriate slot and slung the camera strap over a shoulder. Then I grabbed my wallet and keys, and I left.
I drove to the coast and parked at a trailhead in a local nature reserve. Inhaling the fresh, cold scent of winter, I glanced up at the overcast sky and wondered how long I’d have before it would begin to drizzle. Didn’t matter. I was here, and that was enough.
Setting off down the path, I took photos of trees and moss and dead branches. I took pictures of the gray sky through scraggly trees. I fumbled with my camera settings and struggled to remember everything that had been instinctive all those years ago. I made it to the cliffs and shuffled my way to the edge, then took photos of sea birds crying out at the crashing waves below.
I thought about nothing except the camera in my hands and the world I wanted to capture. For the first time in years—at least since my kids were born—I didn’t worry about what anyone else needed. I breathed in crisp, fresh air and I took photos. Most of them were bad, and it didn’t matter.
When my stomach rumbled, I realized it had been hours since I’d eaten. I made my way back to the car and drove down the coast until I found a town I’d never stopped in, and I chose a restaurant at random. I ate by myself at a table by the window, and I watched people walk and drive by. I drank a leisurely coffee and went through the photos I’d taken.
I thought of nothing and no one except myself. When I left the restaurant, I walked by a bakery that had gleaming, sugar-encrusted pastries. I bought three and ate them all while I sat in a small park by myself, listening to the movements of the town around me.
When the cold began to seep through my jacket, I stood. A snowflake landed on my outstretched hand, and I glanced up at the sky. Not a drizzle, after all.
I drove home and drew myself a bath, then filled it with dried rose petals and bath oil that had come in a gift set that I’d been saving for a special occasion. The water loosened my stiff muscles, and I leaned against the edge of the tub and closed my eyes.
This was a special occasion. It was the moment that I realized it was okay to take care of myself.
When I got out of the bath, I reached for my old pink robe, and hesitated. It was more gray than pink now, and it had turned so rough with hundreds of washes that I wondered why I even kept it around at all. Huffing, I stomped, stark naked, to the linen closet and grabbed myself one of the nice towels—the ones I’d always saved for guests. Why? Why did I give myself the worst of everything?
Wrapped up in soft, nearly new terrycloth, I marched back to the bathroom, grabbed the ratty old robe, and walked it down to the kitchen garbage so I could toss it out. The cabinet door slammed when I closed it, and I stood there, hair dripping wet, fluffy towel clasping me in its soft fabric, feeling three feet taller than usual.
And I smiled.
Glancing at the time, I figured it was about time I turned my phone back on so I could talk to the kids. Messages popped up on the screen—mostly from my mother, but there was one from Aaron and another from Laurel. I ignored them all and let my ex-husband know that I was available to talk to the kids if they wanted.
Then I went upstairs, opened my closet, and stared at all the old rags with which I’d dressed myself for years.
Not anymore.
I wasn’t a martyr. I was a mother. They weren’t the same thing.
With a kind of feverish intensity, I grabbed all the hangers from the rails and dumped the clothes on the bed. Every drawer got ripped open and dumped out. I stared at the mound of clothing and got to work.
All but four pairs of underwear were either stained, ripped, or so stretched out they sagged in the butt when I put them on. They had to go. Old T-shirts with baggy collars got tossed in the same pile. I found dresses that no longer fit—they went too. I was done feeling bad about myself every time I opened my closet. Done dressing myself in worn-out, ill-fitting clothing because I thought it was all I deserved.
The only items I kept were ones that actually fit me and ones that made me feel good. That pile was pathetically small.
Halfway through my manic Marie Kondo-ing, my phone rang. I picked it up and swiped when I saw Laurel’s name on the screen.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, sounding amused. “I heard rumors about the Butler Christmas dinner that I was hoping you’d confirm or deny.”
My bedroom was a disaster, and I was still naked. I glanced around the room, then perched myself on the edge of my bed. “Shoot.”
“You were caught kissing Sean Hardy.”
“True.”
Laurel gasped. “And your brother went bonkers.”
“Pretty much.”
“He attacked Sean.”
I glanced down at my toes. It was time to book a pedicure. “Maybe. I left.”
“You left?”
“Seemed like the right thing to do.”
“And Sean?”
“What about him?”
“Are the two of you together, or what? What happened with the kiss?”
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “We’re done. It’s fine. It was a bad idea to get involved to begin with. I’m not surprised it all blew up in my face.”
“You sound different.”
“I’m cleaning out my closet.”
“Huh.”
“I’m sick of wearing things I don’t like. And I’m also not saving the nice towels for guests. Those are mine now. And I don’t have special-occasion candles and bath stuff anymore. I’m using everything on me. And I’m buying nice undies.”
Laurel was quiet for a moment, then let out a soft breath. “Good, Lizzie. That’s really good.”
My throat got tight, and I wasn’t quite sure why. “Yeah. It’s good.”
“You got plans for dinner?”
“I think I have a frozen pizza in the freezer,” I told her.
She snorted. “You sound very calm for someone having a nervous breakdown.”
“That’s offensive.”
Laurel laughed. “I had dinner at Audrey’s last night, and she sent me home with way too many leftovers,” she told me, naming one of her best friends that had recently married the town mechanic. “They’re having a quiet family day today, so what do you say I come over and we make turkey and stuffing sandwiches? I can help you with the closet clean-out project, and then we can watch bad made-for-TV movies.”
“And make sure my nervous breakdown doesn’t escalate?”
“That too.”
I laughed and was surprised to find it felt really, really good. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
When I hung up, I saw a message from Isaac. I called him, and he put the kids on for a quick conversation. They were thrilled with their days and admitted they’d eaten chocolate for breakfast. When I hung up, I was still smiling.
I’d taken the day for myself, done exactly what I wanted to do, and everything had worked out just fine. My kids were still happy, and I was no less of a mother for having used the nice towels and spent the day thinking of myself.
By the time Laurel came over, I’d finished sorting most of my clothes and found some sweatpants and a cozy sweatshirt to wear.
She gave me a tight hug, stared in my eyes, and nodded. “You decide if you want to tell me what happened between you and Mr. Hunky McHunkerson and The Butler Christmas Disaster.”
Even an oblique reference to him sent a spear through my chest. I wasn’t ready to face the storm of feelings lurking beneath the surface. “I think that might be the least interesting thing about the past couple of days, to be honest.”
She grinned. “Sounds like it. Show me the damage you’ve done to your closet.”
I made a detour to the kitchen, where I poured us both vats of wine, and then led Laurel up to the bedroom. She whistled at the sight of the piles on the floor. I kicked the first one and said, “Trash,” then the second, “Donate,” and then the third, “Keep until I can replace with things that fit properly.” I pointed to the scant few items that had survived my purge. “Those are the clothes that actually fit that I still like.”
“I’m going to call Audrey tomorrow and tell her about this. She’s a closet organizer. She can change your life.”
“I’m not sure I can afford her.”
Laurel waved a hand. “Friends and family discount,” she said. “Don’t you want a gorgeous closet that makes you happy every time you open it?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. “Yes,” I finally told her. “I do.”
Laurel’s eyes sparkled as she grinned, then she took a sip of wine. “I like this version of you, Lizzie.”
The empty closet before me felt like it was full of possibilities. I took a deep breath and said, “I like this version of me too.”
We didn’t talk about Sean or the kiss or anything that had happened before or after, and I was grateful that Laurel didn’t push it. We drank wine, ate leftovers, then watched enough TV that we got hungry again and made the frozen pizza too. I felt a little bit naughty, but mostly I felt great.
And I realized, when she finally left, that today hadn’t taken anything away from my life as a whole. I hadn’t suddenly become a bad mother or a terrible, irresponsible adult. I just felt more like me.
There was space in my life for more than just motherhood, more than just giving.
As I finally got into bed, I glanced at the pillow beside me and remembered the warmth of Sean’s skin pressed against mine. It was like cracking the lid on a storm of emotions just enough to check that they were still there. I slammed the lid back down and turned my back to the empty space in my bed.
I wasn’t going to chase after a man who called me a mistake. I wasn’t going to mourn a relationship with someone who told me pretty lies and then failed to defend me when things got hard.
I’d been through that before, and I wasn’t going back.