you want some help?”
What’s this? Donald’s offering to help me make dinner? I wave my hand at the fridge. “Sure. You could chop some ginger for the dressing.”
He rummages in the spice drawer and holds up a small jar. “Is this what you wanted?”
“You can’t chop powdered ginger. The fresh ginger is in the top crisper.”
Donald crouches down to dig through the drawers at the bottom of the fridge. “Do you have anything going on Saturday?”
“Don’t think so.”
“It’s the annual company barbecue. Would you like to come?”
Now I need to grab for my chest. Go out to a company barbecue with Donald? Will Lindsay be there? Probably. I set the salad spinner down on the counter feeling like my head was spinning.
“Why?”
“I just thought you and the kids might like to go.”
Donald shoves his arm blindly toward the back of the fridge and a bottle of soy sauce tips forward. I leap to catch it before it falls to the floor. “I said the ginger is in the top crisper.”
He yanks open the crisper drawer and fishes out the ginger root while I stare at the back of his head. Slowly I say, “I thought we were separated. That means I don’t have to go out to your company shindigs. If you want to take the kids, go ahead.”
He whirls at me with steely eyes. “Just thought I’d ask. You don’t have to come.”
He whips the ginger root at the sink, hard, and snatches up his suit jacket.
“Hang on.” I say. “Wait a minute. I don’t think you ‘just thought you’d ask me’ at all. You want me to play the wife. So you’ll look good in front of the CEO. You don’t get to have it both ways, you know.”
He rushes out of the house. I hear his car lurch out of the driveway.
I stalk into the living room to sit in the wingback chair. The couch is strewn with Olympia’s coloring books and crayons. Getting up, I gather all the books into a pile on the coffee table. I crawl around on the floor on my hands and knees to gather up stray crayons. I hate this old carpet. All of a sudden I hate the whole room. Everything needs to be redone, especially the ugly pesto-colored wallpaper, leftover from the previous owners.
The paper is lifting in places beside the fireplace. I finger the curling paper edge. Seizing the edge firmly, I tear off a long length, leaving a jagged white strip of bare wall. No turning back now. I rip off another piece.
Within twenty minutes, the walls are shredded, and my fingernails are torn and bleeding. In many places, the paper stuck fast. I need buckets of water, drop sheets, scraping tools.
I need to follow through. Yes. I need to change everything.
Bibienne has volunteered to help me shop for wallpaper. On the way to the mall, she asks, “How’s it going with you and Donald?”
“He isn’t around much lately. We just go our separate ways as much as possible and try to be civil with each other.”
I don’t mention our fight over the company picnic. Donald took the kids, and I stayed home to finish stripping the wallpaper. Since he moved into the spare room, he gets up at 5 a.m. and leaves hurriedly before anyone is out of bed. Most days he works past dinnertime, comes home and flops in front of the television with a sandwich. Now we communicate mostly by text and email to negotiate who does what with household chores and who is on deck with the kids. Basically he takes his turns with the kid’s baths and bedtime, cuts the grass and takes out the garbage, and I do everything else.”
“Do you have a separation agreement?”
“Donald says we don’t need a legal separation agreement to be separated. Anyway you cut it, the arrangement is still clunky.”
I glance down at my ring finger. When I stripped the walls, just before dunking my hands into the bucket of warm water, I removed my wedding rings and tucked them in my jewelry box for safekeeping. I forgot to put them back on. Now I’m not sure I want to.
“What do the kids think?”
“Serenity thinks
What’s this? Donald’s offering to help me make dinner? I wave my hand at the fridge. “Sure. You could chop some ginger for the dressing.”
He rummages in the spice drawer and holds up a small jar. “Is this what you wanted?”
“You can’t chop powdered ginger. The fresh ginger is in the top crisper.”
Donald crouches down to dig through the drawers at the bottom of the fridge. “Do you have anything going on Saturday?”
“Don’t think so.”
“It’s the annual company barbecue. Would you like to come?”
Now I need to grab for my chest. Go out to a company barbecue with Donald? Will Lindsay be there? Probably. I set the salad spinner down on the counter feeling like my head was spinning.
“Why?”
“I just thought you and the kids might like to go.”
Donald shoves his arm blindly toward the back of the fridge and a bottle of soy sauce tips forward. I leap to catch it before it falls to the floor. “I said the ginger is in the top crisper.”
He yanks open the crisper drawer and fishes out the ginger root while I stare at the back of his head. Slowly I say, “I thought we were separated. That means I don’t have to go out to your company shindigs. If you want to take the kids, go ahead.”
He whirls at me with steely eyes. “Just thought I’d ask. You don’t have to come.”
He whips the ginger root at the sink, hard, and snatches up his suit jacket.
“Hang on.” I say. “Wait a minute. I don’t think you ‘just thought you’d ask me’ at all. You want me to play the wife. So you’ll look good in front of the CEO. You don’t get to have it both ways, you know.”
He rushes out of the house. I hear his car lurch out of the driveway.
I stalk into the living room to sit in the wingback chair. The couch is strewn with Olympia’s coloring books and crayons. Getting up, I gather all the books into a pile on the coffee table. I crawl around on the floor on my hands and knees to gather up stray crayons. I hate this old carpet. All of a sudden I hate the whole room. Everything needs to be redone, especially the ugly pesto-colored wallpaper, leftover from the previous owners.
The paper is lifting in places beside the fireplace. I finger the curling paper edge. Seizing the edge firmly, I tear off a long length, leaving a jagged white strip of bare wall. No turning back now. I rip off another piece.
Within twenty minutes, the walls are shredded, and my fingernails are torn and bleeding. In many places, the paper stuck fast. I need buckets of water, drop sheets, scraping tools.
I need to follow through. Yes. I need to change everything.
Bibienne has volunteered to help me shop for wallpaper. On the way to the mall, she asks, “How’s it going with you and Donald?”
“He isn’t around much lately. We just go our separate ways as much as possible and try to be civil with each other.”
I don’t mention our fight over the company picnic. Donald took the kids, and I stayed home to finish stripping the wallpaper. Since he moved into the spare room, he gets up at 5 a.m. and leaves hurriedly before anyone is out of bed. Most days he works past dinnertime, comes home and flops in front of the television with a sandwich. Now we communicate mostly by text and email to negotiate who does what with household chores and who is on deck with the kids. Basically he takes his turns with the kid’s baths and bedtime, cuts the grass and takes out the garbage, and I do everything else.”
“Do you have a separation agreement?”
“Donald says we don’t need a legal separation agreement to be separated. Anyway you cut it, the arrangement is still clunky.”
I glance down at my ring finger. When I stripped the walls, just before dunking my hands into the bucket of warm water, I removed my wedding rings and tucked them in my jewelry box for safekeeping. I forgot to put them back on. Now I’m not sure I want to.
“What do the kids think?”
“Serenity thinks
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