Nobody’s Perfect

Chapter 8

I had set my alarm for seven. On a Saturday.

This was a mistake, a huge mistake, a colossal mistake because I was hungover.

You have got to stop drinking so much wine. Or at least remember to drink your Alka-Seltzer before bed.

Nevertheless, I got up because I d sent myself a note the night before. It said, New and improved Vivian needs to kick her asshole husband out of HER house. Okay, so it really said, Kickboxer tour as should au jus benefit out of FOUR house, but I was fluent in Vivian s-fat-tired-fingers texting.

I sat up, remembering that I was in the guest room sleeping on a futon. My body ached in odd places, and I groaned. No more futon for me. I wasn t the one sleeping around and wrecking good marriages, so I would be reclaiming the new queen mattress with five-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that I bought at five in the morning on a Black Friday using a coupon because I was a good steward of our money.

Lucky jumped into my lap, and I idly petted her as I listened for any noise. Faintly, I could hear Mitch s snoring. There was another layer to the silver lining I was trying to imagine: not having to put up with his snoring. I could feel more than hear that Dylan wasn t home, but I knew that because Abi had texted last night to say that she had invited him to sleep over.

She was a good neighbor and an even better friend for that.

Carefully, I went to the kitchen, stealthily pulling out a cookie sheet and a large metal serving spoon. No need to wake the former Master of the House just yet. I crept down the hallway but paused with my hand over the doorknob.

Vivian, this is going to hurt you more than it hurts him.

True, but I currently had two headaches. If I could get Mitch out of the house, then I d be down to one.

Wait a minute. Why did this have to hurt me? I crept back to the coat-tree by the front door and extracted a set of Thomas the Tank Engine earmuffs that had been there for, well, a very long time. With the cookie sheet under my arm, I maneuvered the earmuffs over my head.

With a deep breath, I proceeded to the bedroom and tiptoed over to his side of the bed.

He continued to snore.

He looked innocent, peaceful almost. It was hard to believe that a man with such a worry-free face would ever betray me. My heart tugged at me.

This is your husband, the man you promised to love forever no matter what.

Yeah, well, he promised me, too, and we all saw where that got us.

Suddenly the urge to smother him with my pillow was strong. Fortunately for him, my hands were full.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

What? Why? Where?

Mitch tried to sit up, but he got tangled in the covers. He managed to extricate himself but tripped, falling out of bed with a satisfying thud.

Vivian, what the hell?

I removed the earmuffs from my left ear. I m sorry, did you say something?

What. The. Hell, Vivian?

Oh, my little makeshift alarm clock. Consider this your eviction notice. Collect your bare necessities and get the hell out of my house.

Your house? Oh, that confused look on his face was utterly adorable.

Remember when this house came up on the market and you were in San Diego? Remember how your credit was awful due to student loans-especially the ones that you didn t pay off in a timely fashion before we got married-and I took over the finances? Remember how it would just be so much easier if Mom and I bought this house and got the better interest rate and then you didn t have to waste your time signing all that paperwork? Oh, I do.

Confusion turned into panic, then into ashen fear. Somehow, he d forgotten this fact. But I ve been making the payments.

Actually, I ve been making the payments from our joint account, I said sweetly.

His emotions swirled to anger, and he gave me a scowl I knew well. This is ridiculous. I m going back to sleep.

I allowed him to get back into bed, wrestle to untangle the covers, and even burrow underneath them. I waited patiently until his breathing had evened out ever so slightly. Then I banged the hell out of that cookie sheet again. This is your snooze alarm! Time to get up! Rise and shine and get your ass out of my house!

He only jumped once before getting out of bed. I kept banging.

I m up, I m up!

I allowed my arms to drop to my sides and forced my face to hold a pleasant smile in spite of the fact that I kinda wanted to throw up from the noise since children s earmuffs could only do so much. There would be time enough for upchucking after Mitch had collected his things.

He went to the bathroom (expected) and then returned to the bedroom and headed for the door (unexpected).

Where are you going? I asked.

To get some coffee.

You can get coffee on your way out of my house. I m not playing, Mitch. Get. Your. Shit. And. Go.

If looks could kill, I would ve been murdered in an instant. You know what? You re a real bitch.

That word froze me dead in my tracks, widening my eyes and causing a chill to go through my body.

Vivian, remember your mother s rules. Don t ever let him know that s he s gotten to you.

I forced my lips into a smile. Oh, good. Then that s my Bitch Badge. Achievement unlocked!

He looked at me as if I d lost my mind, his body still tense because he d been gearing up for a fight. I continued to smile and stare, smile and stare. To my surprise and relief, he returned to his closet and took down his travel suitcase from the top shelf.

I sat down on the bed but kept the cookie sheet and metal spoon handy.

Do you really have to watch me do this?

Yes.

You re being ridiculous.

Am I?

Well, it s your fault it s come to this, he said as he took socks and underwear from his drawers. Then he started on T-shirts, workout clothes, and scrubs. He had to leave some behind because he only had a carry-on suitcase. I could ve gone upstairs to get one of the bigger suitcases, but I didn t offer. My days of being the cheerful, helpful wife were over.

He went for toiletries next and then grabbed the garment bag for some of his nicer shirts and suits. I m running out of room. Now what?

This time I did get up, taking my alarm implements with me because I didn t trust him any further than I could throw him. I returned with a box full of garbage bags. You can take yourself and your things out properly now.

Such a bitch, he muttered under his breath.

The nausea surged again, but I held it down by sheer willpower. No way would I give him the satisfaction. After what felt like an eternity but must ve only been fifteen minutes, he took all his stuff out to his car. I sat on the bed, listening for the garage door to go up, for his car to start, and then for the garage door to come back down.

Only then did I go and purge myself of the contents of my stomach.

I sat at the breakfast room table, idly drumming my fingertips on the table. I d managed to get my headache and queasy stomach back to normal thanks to a combination of coffee, fried potatoes, water, and ibuprofen.

Only one question remained: What to do now that Mitch had left?

I wanted to talk to Dylan, but also the last thing I wanted to do was talk to Dylan. What could I possibly say to him that would make anything better? To make matters worse, I d come across some disturbing facts while googling things to say to your children about divorce. Apparently, lots of parents would wait for their children to go to college and then get a divorce. The last thing I wanted to do was make things difficult for my son, who was trying to learn how to be independent.

There you go again, Vivian, taking full responsibility for something that isn t your fault.

Well, no, it wasn t my fault, but Mitch had obviously checked out of our marriage. He certainly wasn t going to help me. He hadn t taken Dylan s feelings into consideration any more than he d taken mine.

Rage flashed through me.

Or was that a hot flash?

Hard to tell the difference these days. Lord knew my usual hot flashes were bad enough. The last thing I needed was to add rage hot flashes to my hormonal repertoire.

I should ve just smothered him. A jury of my peers would not have convicted me.

Mom?

Dylan s voice was accompanied by the whine of the front door-note to self: get WD-40-and I stood to greet him.

Hey, Buddy Bear, I said, surprised by the sadness and fatigue in my voice.

Where s Dad? Dylan asked the question in a tone that didn t reveal which answer he wanted to hear.

He s gone, I said.

He didn t say anything, but his shoulders sagged in relief. The gesture was so Mitch that I had a flashback to earlier that morning when my husband had shown his relief in just such a way. Love and hate mixed up together and created a knot of indigestion in my still-sensitive stomach. For the rest of my life I would be reminded of Mitch every time I looked at Dylan. Only now, instead of bringing comfort and contentment and pride, I would be reminded of Mitch s betrayal.

Dylan plopped down at the table, and I sat back down, too.

So, he said.

So, I echoed.

Can we go ahead and have this conversation and get it over with?

What conversation would that be? I asked.

You know, the one where you tell me that both you and my father will always love me, yada yada yada.

Well, we will.

What about my college?

We have your college savings plan for that, I said.

Dylan relaxed, but I frowned. I didn t remember anything from Mitch s stupid worksheets about an extra college allowance. I had seen a paltry sum for alimony, an insulting sum, if I were being honest. And Mitch had made no allowances for child support, because Dylan was eighteen.

Just because the kid was eighteen didn t mean we wouldn t have to pay for his car and insurance and clothing and food when he stayed with me and-

He wasn t grown! And we certainly hadn t finished raising him yet.

Maybe I d been too hasty in kicking Mitch out, because we still had several things to discuss.

Nope. I will take on two jobs, one as a trash collector, if that s what I have to do to make sure that Dylan gets what he needs.

I m going to guess that plan doesn t cover everything, Dylan said as he looked down at the floor. I ll just move home and go to Kennesaw State.

Honey, no! We ll make it work. I would make Mitch make it work. It wasn t as though he didn t have the money.

I stifled the urge to reach for my phone and check all the bank accounts again. I knew I could check all the college fund statements later. They were in my office.

And then I had the inheritance from my father. We could use that in a pinch. I have an IRA that we can use if we have to.

An IRA? Mom, that s your money. Dylan looked up at me, and I watched the emotions play across his face. Once again, it reminded me of all the emotions Mitch had shown. Only there was an extra one, an emotion that looked a lot like embarrassment.

Yeah, remember when Grandpa Richard died? He left me some money, and I put it away. It s not enough for your entire college costs, but it will help-especially considering the scholarship you got.

Mom, I m pretty sure I m going to lose that scholarship.

What?

I have a C in Latin. And in English.

English? Latin I could kinda understand, but English?

The professor is really, really tough. She didn t want me to skip English 101 and go straight into American Lit, and I m having a hard time making good grades in the class.

But you made a five on the AP exam. Have you been to office hours?

No, but-

No buts. It s October, and you can still pull your grades up, I bet. In fact-

Mom, I don t want to.

All his life Dylan had wanted to go to UT Knoxville, just like his parents. Mitch had taken him to football games and basketball games. He d worn orange even when it would ve been much easier to assimilate to Georgia Bulldog red and black. He d stuck with UT through some truly disastrous football seasons. The poor child hadn t really ever known a winning football team.

Not that he loved UT only for football reasons. Dylan knew that at least two of the Rhodes Scholars from UT Knoxville had studied political science, and he was interested in that topic as well as his stated major of communications. I hated to see him give up his dream due to some jitters or freshman weed-out courses or whatever the heck was going on.

Dylan, are you going to class? Studying all that you can?

I started off fine, but then I got a little off course in September.

Then you can just get back on course.

Mom, I don t like Knoxville like I thought I would.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I m going to tell you something I ve never told anyone but your grandmother.

He leaned forward, all wide-eyed, reminding me of when he was a precocious preschooler. What?

I hated my first semester at UT.

You did?

I nodded. My mother wouldn t let me come home until I d finished a year.

Grandma did that?

She might ve been hard on me, but Mom didn t believe in a universe where Dylan could ve possibly done anything wrong. She sure did, and I m grateful. All I needed was another semester to get my feet under me, and then I loved it.

So you re saying I have to go a year.

Yup.

But what about you and Dad?

My heart, already held together with cheap glue and Scotch tape that had lost its sticky, shattered all over again. We ll muddle through. That s what we ll do. We re the parents here.

And you re not mad at me about the Cs?

Look, I m not happy, Buddy Bear, but the semester isn t over yet. See if you can pull those Cs up to Bs. How about that?

I m going to FaceTime Grandma and see what she thinks! Dylan said. My shattered heart started melting back together at the thought of an eighteen-year-old boy who cared enough about what Grandma thought to ask her opinion.

But when Dylan disappeared around the corner to his bedroom, I lunged for my phone.