Nobody’s Perfect

Chapter 4

The good news was that I successfully lost myself in baking. The bad news was that I forgot to eat supper. A quick glance out the breakfast room windows told me night had fallen. I pressed a hand to my aching lower back and looked around me: two loaves of banana bread, one batch of brownies, a batch of sugar cookies, and a pound cake.

Good heavens, Vivian, are you trying to throw a one-woman bake sale?

I sat down at the caf table in the breakfast room. My stomach growled, and I looked down at it in wonder. So I still got hungry? Interesting.

I couldn t convince myself to get up and eat something-not even with a counter full of baked goods.

That was when I heard my phone ping. Apparently, lots of people had been trying to get in touch with me while I was having my baking moment of Zen. Two missed calls from Mitch, then a text:

Sorry. Had to stay an extra day. I ll see you tomorrow.

Pain and anger and grief roiled around inside me. How dare he stay an extra day and prolong my suffering! Should I call him? If I did, what would I say? Hey, found some divorce papers. Something you want to tell me?

Just the idea sent me racing to the bathroom in fear I might throw up.

I didn t.

I wouldn t.

I straightened and went to the sink to splash my face with cold water. There was no way on God s green earth I would give Mitchell Quackenbush the satisfaction of knowing he d made me toss my cookies.

Not that he would know, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

My stomach growled again.

Speaking of cookies . . .

This time, I paired my white wine with a sugar cookie. Not great, but beggars couldn t be choosers, and I needed to do something with my ridiculous surplus of baked goods.

I had lost my mind.

And who wouldn t, really?

What was I supposed to think when I found a packet of papers for a do-it-yourself divorce in my husband s sock drawer?

You should call him.

No way. No way would I call him. He d bully me on the phone.

So what? He ll bully you when he gets here.

No, he won t. I can handle him. I ll-

Why was I arguing with myself? And did I really see my husband as a bully? Just past the kitchen sink and into the living room, I could see an example of his bullying. I d wanted a fabric couch and chair, something classy but inviting. Mitch had wanted a leather sectional with recliners on the ends and built-in cupholders.

No matter how many times I told him that I didn t think the leather was practical with a cat or that I d prefer to have something a little more traditional in the living room, he d said over and over again, But, Vivian. It s our living room. We should be the ones who are comfortable.

I d brought out every argument in my arsenal, every pin from my vision board on Pinterest. Nothing worked. He basically refused to buy a sofa until I agreed to his leather monstrosity.

I hated that damn couch.

If he leaves, then he can figure out how to get it through the front door and take it with him.

Wait. Was I really contemplating my husband s leaving? I needed to think this through. He wasn t here to defend himself. No one was going anywhere.

But you re still not calling him on the phone because he ll feed you a line, and you ll buy it hook, line, and sinker.

Why was I having these thoughts about my husband? For heaven s sake, I d promised to love, cherish, and-yes-obey him thanks to a Southern Baptist preacher who d conveniently ignored my request to not have that last bit be a part of my vows.

I was afraid to call Mitch. I couldn t call my mother. I didn t want to alarm my son. What was there left to do?

Drink more wine, that s what.

At some point I stumbled back to the bedroom. Now that the wine had dulled my senses, I was ready for bed. But sleep didn t hold peace for me.

I drifted from reality back into the past, back to the night I learned that not everyone got a happily-ever-after. Only eight years old and wearing my favorite Garfield gown, I crept to my parents bedroom door. I had to get a field trip form signed before tomorrow. It really wasn t my fault that I d forgotten about it and forgotten about it and forgotten about it.

Everyone knew I had trouble remembering things.

Maybe, if I were lucky, my parents would let me snuggle between the two of them and watch some Johnny Carson.

Probably not, but maybe.

My hand was on the doorknob when I heard low, hissing voices. Who could possibly be in their bedroom? Mommy and Daddy didn t talk like that. No, Daddy had a deep, almost Santa-like voice, and Mommy spoke kinda low, too. They certainly didn t hiss like angry snakes.

Heidi, why are you doing this? Daddy asked.

I did what you asked. I went on your stupid trip, and I simply don t feel that way about you anymore.

My heart beat funny. Stupid trip? Two weeks ago we went to Disney World. We all had a great time. Daddy had spun the teacup until I laughed so hard I cried. Mommy giggled when Mickey Mouse kissed her hand. They d had fun, too. I knew they did.

Hadn t they?

There was the time when Daddy got mad that we missed the tram to the parking lot and had to wait for another one to come. Once he left us eating ice cream because he said he was going to get me some mouse ears, but he came back empty-handed. Then there was the time Mommy ran off for a few minutes and came back smelling like cigarettes, even though she had promised me she would stop smoking.

But we d been together.

Richard, I m tired.

Then go to sleep.

No, I m tired of trying to make this work. I ll admit the trip was a little fun, but tomorrow I ll go back to work, and you ll do what exactly?

I don t know. Look for work?

How about you cook supper and make sure Vivian starts on her homework?

Nah, that s your job. You know I m not any good at it.

You could try .

Maybe. But don t bring home cold pizza again.

Look, I have a job, Richard. I m not sure how we re going to pay for the vacation that you insisted we take, but I m keeping us afloat right now.

Daddy made a guttural sound, one of frustration and anguish. Stop rubbing that in my face! I can t help it if most of our operations got shipped overseas!

I didn t say you could. I m just saying cold pizza is a small price to pay if I m able to bring in a couple of big commissions each month. Isn t it?

It s not what I signed up for. I just want home-cooked meals and to have clean underwear.

The washer and dryer are in the same place they ve always been. So are the cookbooks.

How could Daddy not know how to do laundry? I was only eight, but Mommy had taught me about sorting and water temperature and how much detergent to put in the washer. Engrossed in trying to figure out why Daddy just couldn t do his own laundry, I jumped out of my skin when he opened the door and bellowed, How long have you been there?

Not long, I said in a small voice. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Now he would call me a crybaby. I need to get this form signed.

Daddy did that thing where he pinched the bridge of his nose. I m sorry, darling. Take it over to your mother.

He brushed past me, and I took the form to Mommy, who fished around in the bedside drawer while muttering, Go see your mother. All the things I do, but it s never enough for him.

Thank you, Mommy, I said in an even smaller squeaky voice when Mommy handed back the form. She sighed deeply, then pushed aside the covers to get out of bed.

Let s get you back in bed. She took my hand and led me down the hall to my own bedroom. She tucked the covers under my body to make me a mummy for mommy, but I couldn t giggle this time.

I m sorry, baby, she said. I m sorry that you had to hear us fighting.

She rubbed the hair away from my forehead in a slow and soothing manner before leaning over to kiss me. One thing you need to remember is that we will both always love you no matter what.

But that wasn t exactly what happened.

I sat up straight in bed, my heart pounding against my chest. I wasn t eight. No, I was forty-four. I was the mommy who would have to tell the baby that she and Daddy would always love him. Only, I would know that parents can t make promises for anyone but themselves. I couldn t promise Dylan that Mitch would always be there. After all, I d thought Mitch would always be there for me, but I d found papers suggesting he had other plans.

I flopped back on the bed dramatically.

Lucky meowed on the other side of the bedroom door. We d tried letting her sleep with us, but she always wanted to sleep on my head and couldn t understand why that arrangement didn t appeal to me.

Vivian, you ve got to be patient. You don t have all the facts here.

Being patient had never been one of my strong suits. The cat meowed again, a reminder that she wasn t much on patience, either.

I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. My phone informed me it was five thirty in the morning, an hour I tried my best to sleep through. It wasn t happening this morning. And I had no idea what I was going to do to pass the time until Mitch got home.

You re going to do your research, that s what.

I rolled my shoulders back and went to google everything I could find out about Georgia divorce law and Mitch s mysterious papers.