2. Elizabeth
Two
Elizabeth
I stand in the parking lot of the van rental place, staring at the giant box truck.
It looks much too big for me to drive. I wish I’d decided to hire movers.
But a small voice inside had urged me to drive the truck myself.
To physically be the one to drive my life away from my husband and all his bullshit nonsense.
Ex-husband. I say it out loud again, hoping this time the truth of it sticks. I am free.
I wave to the rental guy, staring at me with some trepidation as he taps his pen on his clipboard. Blowing my bangs up out of my eye, I swing open the door and climb inside. I pull the seat up as far as it goes and adjust the mirrors.
Slowly, painstakingly, I make my way to the house I’ve never liked much.
A sprawling brick monstrosity on a rolling suburban lawn, the house is situated in an “upscale” neighborhood, which has never meant much more than uppity rich people moaning about the state of the world as they sip gin at the club.
As I turn into the driveway, I sneer at the topiaries Todd insisted we plant. Looking around, seeing no one, I give the wheel to the truck a quick jerk and I giggle as the front tire crushes the green shrub. Let the realtor deal with it, I think.
Jake and Lisa are making piles in the driveway when I pull the truck to a stop. “See,” she says, ruffling my son’s hair. “I told you your mom could manage perfectly fine.”
Jake frowns. “Is a commercial drivers license required to drive a truck of that size?”
I shake my head. “Nope. We’re good.” We get to work loading our things in the back.
It’s not much. His bed. The couch. Our clothing.
Todd and his lawyer were relentless in cataloguing “marital property” and insisting it all be sold and the proceeds divvied up according to our divorce agreement. Which is fine with me.
Jake hates change, but admits to feeling excited at the idea of selecting his own furnishings with me.
We can sit on the floor to eat for a few weeks until the sale closes.
Between the three of us, we get the truck loaded up in a few hours.
I try not to notice as Lisa sneaks in a few bottles of wine from Todd’s collection.
“He must have drunk them himself when he went out with Slutty Malone,” she says, referring to the leggy blond Todd had been screwing on the side until I discovered them. Now he’s screwing her exclusively.
I walk inside, wanting to make sure I get everything this one trip.
I don’t ever want to come back here. The walls seem to pulse with my years of unhappiness and loneliness, of years of infertility heartbreak and the unraveling of my marriage in the 15 years since Jake finally arrived.
I don’t care that Todd is trying to wheedle out of paying alimony, not really.
I’m glad to start fresh, start relying on myself. I’ve got some good leads on jobs and between the child support payments and the soon-to-come proceeds from selling the house, Jake and I will be comfortable. I smile now, excited about the house we’re renting.
We drive to the city with Lisa following, winding our way over the Highland Park Bridge and around the impossibly tight turns leading into Morningside, the sweet neighborhood full of elderly Italian families and cute houses with postage stamp lawns.
“I grew up in this neighborhood, you know,” I say, smiling at Jake while trying to navigate the big truck down the narrow street.
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve told me that 17 times, Mom,” he says.
I’m sure I have told him exactly that many.
He keeps track of such things. I open my mouth to emphasize some more benefits, but he cuts me off.
“I can walk to see Grandma and Grandpa if I want, and I can walk to Rite Aid to spend my allowance and there are three bus lines with regular service.”
I laugh at his summary. “See,” I say as much to myself as him. “We’re going to be just fine here.”
I slow down a bit more to make sure I don’t miss the house.
I see its yellow siding up ahead. Nearly too late, I spot a car pulling out of the driveway across the street.
I gasp and make a screeching turn into the small driveway.
Checking the mirrors, I see that the small car had stopped in time and is now zooming down the street.
“Woooo,” I say, turning off the engine. “I do not love driving this.”
“Probably because you do not have a commercial drivers license,” Jake points out.
He walks around the back, eager to work his way through the checklist he’s been studying.
We prepared for today over and over again, reciting the steps we’d take.
Pack our things in boxes, put them in the truck, drive the truck to the new house, and on and on.
Jake quickly figures out the mechanism for the rolling door on the back of the truck and seems relieved to notice his things right where he put them.
Methodically, he begins to unload and carry one small item inside at a time. Lisa drapes her arm around my shoulders. She must have pulled up while I was catching my breath. “You’ve done good, Beth,” she says. I nod.
Together, we start hauling inside some lamps and most of the clothing.
Jake and I struggle with the couch, but I love how perfectly it fits in the small living room.
It seemed such a small piece of furniture under the cathedral ceiling in the suburbs.
Here, it fills the room, making the space seem cozy.
I turn around the room, deciding where we will put the television and the lamps I’d like to buy, when Lisa nudges me and gestures out the picture window.
“Check out your neighbor,” she says. There’s a man about my age across the street, stretching long, muscled legs, looking like he’s ready to take off for a run.
There’s something familiar about him and I squint, trying to see if I know the man beneath the graying stubble.
“Geeze, Beth, I didn’t think you were going to lick the damn glass. ”
Lisa startles me and I realize I have indeed pressed my face against the window to see him better. But I want to be sure. He grips the mailbox as he pulls back his heel to stretch his quad, and then checks his watch in a gesture I recognize immediately. “I know him,” I tell her.
“Can I meet him,” she says, staring after him as he starts moving. I swat at her.
“He was my high school boyfriend,” I tell her, watching him go.
“Well this just got a lot more interesting,” she says, pulling out one of the stolen bottles of Todd’s wine. She twists off the cap and drinks from the bottle, passing it to me. I take a swig, thinking about Kellen Brady for the first time in over 30 years.