Chapter 14
éPIPHANIE
Iwoke with the emptiest feeling I’d ever known and reached over to his side of the bed. Rory wasn’t there. I scanned the bedroom with foggy eyes. Philippe slept on his back with his legs in the air.
Feeling like I hadn’t slept at all, I closed my eyes and tried to drift away, but the emptiness wouldn’t let me.
It wasn’t that my mind was racing. More like I’d been stepped on and kicked so badly that even sleep was a chore.
I forced myself out of bed and stumbled like a zombie down the stairs.
I crept past Rory sitting in the living room and went into the kitchen, where I found the coffee still warm in the carafe.
I sat at the island, slouched over, with what had to have been a dumb look on my face.
As I gulped the coffee like a shipwrecked woman who’d found a bottle of fresh water, I waded through the sea of my thoughts.
What was wrong? I’d gotten Rory back. Jasper was home.
We were safe. The outside world would be cruel to us for a long time, but we were together.
And I now had the green light to do whatever I wanted to chase my dream. How could I possibly feel so deflated?
Rory entered and kissed the back of my head. “Good morning, dear.”
I intended to say, “Good morning,” but my words escaped as a grunt instead.
I must have been experiencing some sort of a delayed reaction to what had gone on over the past week, because his kiss and his voice spread through me like a virus, and an immediate rage like I’d never known before rose to the surface.
My muscles tensed, and I nearly spun around and swatted him.
I stopped myself. Was it always going to be like this?
My swallowing my emotions? My trying not to rock the boat?
I breathed through the feeling quickly. Sipped more coffee and took a deliberate breath.
As he walked around the island toward the sink, we met eyes for a moment.
Tapping into my years on stage, I smiled with everything I had and said, “Did you sleep well? I didn’t hear you get out of bed.
” I didn’t want him to see the emptiness, the doubt, the fear, and my newfound emerging rage.
“Very well, thanks. I missed being in our bed next to you. How about you?”
“It’s really great having you back,” I lied.
Rory walked up to the sink and began to refill our water pitcher. With his back turned to me, I glared at the man I’d chosen to forgive. Almost as a non sequitur, I found it repulsive that I’d ever thought he was cute in his pinstriped pajama pants.
Over the sound of the running water, he turned and asked, “Any news about the offer?”
I shook my head. Forcing my words, I said, “No. I told Erica to set up an appointment for us though. This afternoon, after your press conference.”
“Great.” He turned off the water and acted like this was all normal. “We’ll have some celebrating to do.”
Celebrating was the furthest concept from my mind. Was he for real? I lied, though. “Yes, we will. Are you sad?”
“To resign?” he asked, putting his hand on the counter facing me. “No. I’m ready. I’m so worn out and broken up over this whole thing, I’m just ready to get out. I’m ready to start living again.”
His words sounded good, but they didn’t fill my heart.
Not like they might have yesterday. Was he broken up over this whole thing?
He’d put himself in this position. I imagined it would be quite different if he hadn’t been caught.
He’d still be carrying on, business as usual.
How could he even make this about him being the one who was broken?
Unbelievable. I had to leave the room. I couldn’t even look him in the eyes.
“Be right back,” I mumbled, leaving the kitchen in a scurry.
In the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror.
Oh, God, the bags. Erica had said I reminded her of an anorexic.
I saw my skinniness in a disgusting way.
I looked like a skeleton. Saggy flesh draped over sad bones.
I looked into my eyes, like really into them.
There was no brightness, no life. I looked gray. I felt gray. A shadow of myself.
Was this more pressure I had to release? It didn’t feel like it. More like the opposite. Rather than exploding inside, I was caving in on myself. Imploding.
What was wrong with me?
Returning to the kitchen, I said, “I’m going to climb back into bed.” Would staying in bed be my future life? Would it be my way to hide?
Rory was scarfing down some yogurt. As if we weren’t living in a continuing nightmare, he replied, “Okay. I need to head to the office and tell everyone. I’ll let you know what time the press conference is. Assuming you want to see it?”
“I’m not sure I do,” I admitted. “I feel sick all of a sudden. Come home afterward. We’ll celebrate, okay?” Celebrate? How could I even say that word? Swallowing my disgust, I went up and kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck, dear. I’m happy for us.”
A giant lie. Happiness was light years away.
Upstairs, I snuggled with Philippe in the bed.
I was too tired to think, but still too tired to sleep.
The hollowness consumed me. Tears dripped from my eyes, but I wasn’t crying.
It felt more like I was drying up, dehydrating.
It soon occurred to me that I might be dying.
I could see how people can feel so depressed that their bodies follow suit and fail them.
My body was becoming more frail, my bones shrinking
Lying there, I felt like I was trapped in a coffin, and I couldn’t handle it anymore.
I jumped out of bed, desperate to escape myself.
Have you ever felt that way? Where you couldn’t even stand to be in your own skin?
You couldn’t stand to be you. It’s the worst feeling, because if there’s anything you can’t ever do, it’s separate from yourself. Not without inflicting harm.
Usually, I can cook my way out of the worst of moods. But at that point, the thought of cooking made me want to throw up. I never wanted to cook again. I wanted to burn my kitchen down!
What to do?
I looked in the closet at my running shoes.
Thought about going for a jog. And then I remembered that there might be lingering journalists waiting to snap a shot of the mayor’s wife crumbling amidst the chaos.
Especially with the press conference today.
Rory’s announcement would bring another week of the press camping out in our neighborhood.
Finally, I figured out how to keep myself busy.
As you can imagine, the house was a wreck.
I hadn’t let the housekeeper clean this week, because I didn’t want anyone in my house, and I hadn’t cleaned.
Rory had taken out the burnt rug and cleaned the floor of the room upstairs, but the entire upstairs still smelled of smoke.
Jasper had tried to help, but I’d always done most of the cleaning, so he wasn’t very good at it.
Maybe cleaning the house would be a step toward internally cleansing myself.
I feverishly moved throughout the house, working on table surfaces first. Sweat quickly gathered on my brow.
Then I cleaned the windows. I scrubbed the showers, baths, sinks, and toilets.
Nope, not with his toothbrush, you sadistic voyeur, you.
I vacuumed and polished the hardwoods. I started the laundry.
Lastly, I entered the kitchen to finish there.
I felt horrible in this place that used to bring me comfort, and that was scary. A stew with chopped up bits of Rory sounded more appealing than any other recipe in my arsenal. But I wasn’t even interested in cooking Rory, to be honest. I hated this kitchen.
Well, while we’re at it, I think I’d start with a bone broth, then add an onion, a bay leaf, and a whole head of garlic. Simmer that for thirty minutes and then get to the good stuff.
Wait, you don’t think I’m serious, do you? Lighten up.
Instead of starting on the Stew Made of You Know Who, I put my head down and cleaned and sterilized.
When the vinegar cleaning solution I used wasn’t enough, I found a bottle of Clorox and pulled on yellow gloves and hit every nook and cranny.
I pulled out all the items from the fridge and scrubbed the shelves.
I threw out the old food, as if this simple act might help me throw out all my old emotions.
When the trashcan was full, I removed the bag and navigated our icy back stoop toward the large trash bin.
The chilly air felt more cleansing than anything else I’d done that day.
I barely looked at the snow on the ground, covering our beautiful yard, as I dropped the bag into the bin.
Returning to the house, I almost slipped on the steps on the way back but caught myself on the railing.
I put a hand to my heart, thinking of how badly a fall could have hurt. I needed to be more careful.
Back inside the kitchen, I retrieved the small blue recycling bin that spilled over with the glass jars I’d removed from the refrigerator.
I stepped back outside and navigated those slippery steps again.
A cold wind rose out of nowhere, and it made me shiver.
That’s all it took to knock me off balance.
My feet flew forward on the ice, and I fell backward with a scream. My lower back hit the edge of a step and my head snapped back, smacking the brick. I yelled in pain. The recycling bin emptied on top of me, and bottles and jars rolled over me and crashed onto the steps, many of them breaking.
I sat up, reached to the back of my head, and felt warm blood trickling from a gash. “What is happening?” I asked to no one in particular. “Why is our life being destroyed?”