there’s work to be done, it’s suddenly freezing out.”
Greg shook his head. “Why do you always have to do that?”
Two! I wanted to yell.
“Do what?” I said instead.
“Why do you always begrudge me the things I enjoy? I could be out drinking or gambling or screwing around. . . .”
“How about this,” I said. “Help me get the house on the market and I’ll buy you a girlfriend to celebrate.”
Greg took a few steps in the direction of the house, then stopped and turned around again. “The thing I don’t understand is, what’s the big rush?”
One! I could have yelled. It was like I was Drew Barrymore, only older, and instead of 50 First Dates , I was stuck having the same day over again, day after day, week after week, as the female lead in 50 First Fights .
I had my lines down cold. I opened my eyes wide to show my incredulity. “ Rush? ” I said. I shook my long-suffering head. “It’s been practically forever.”
“I think we’re making good progress.” Greg had his lines down, too.
In most fights, one of you gets to win. But in a marriage, you can’t even savor the thrill of victory. By definition, you’re supposed to be on the same side, which really takes the fun out of trying to beat an adversary into submission. The best you could hope for was to make the fight go away.
“Listen,” I said, taking a stab at some improv. “I know it’s a lot of work, a lot of stuff, a lot of memories. Sometimes it feels overwhelming to me, too. But the sooner we finish, the sooner we can get on to the next part of our life.”
Greg looked at me. “What I want to know is what’s so wrong with this part of our life.”
After Greg disappeared into the house, I stood outside for a long time. I wasn’t even sanding anymore. I watched the fiery orange sunset drop and turn the night from dusk to dark. A scattering of stars began to twinkle, and the full March moon peeked through the tall evergreens flanking the edge of the driveway. I’d read that because it heralded the time to start tapping maple trees for syrup, it was sometimes called the full sap moon.
And if I let my husband confuse me, then I’d be a full sap, too.
CHAPTER 9
“B UT I LIKE IT in the bedroom,” Mrs. Bentley said.
“Sorry,” I said. “An elliptical machine in your bedroom isn’t going to get this house sold. It’s bad feng shui. The only working out going on in here should be of the romantic variety.”
Mrs. Bentley’s cold hard stare made me think that not a lot of hot sex was happening in her bedroom.
But who was I to talk? Resentment between Greg and me was growing like spit in a petri dish. Before we knew it, we’d be sleeping in separate beds, and couple time would mean watching the same show on televisions in different rooms. Luke would feel the vibes and start cooking his ramen noodles on the radiator down in the bat cave.
Even when they were little, both kids could smell a fight between us, no matter how calm we pretended to be. Luke would climb under the kitchen table with one of his plastic dinosaurs and pull his blankie over his head.
Shannon was more direct. She’d stamp her foot. “Go hug Mommy,” she’d say to Greg.
“Mommy doesn’t want to be hugged right now,” I’d say. “Even though she loves Daddy very much, sometimes she gets mad at him, and that’s okay.”
Shannon would give Greg a push. “Hug her anyway.”
Greg and I both grew up in households where outbursts of rage were followed by long stretches—weeks, even months—of frigid silence, and then suddenly everything was all right again. Nobody ever explained to us how people got from one stage to the other. So we spent our first years together figuring it out on our own.
If something bothered me, I’d get it out right away and move on. Greg, on the other hand, let the little things go. Then some random day one of those same little things would set him off, and he’d present me with a detailed list of every other
Greg shook his head. “Why do you always have to do that?”
Two! I wanted to yell.
“Do what?” I said instead.
“Why do you always begrudge me the things I enjoy? I could be out drinking or gambling or screwing around. . . .”
“How about this,” I said. “Help me get the house on the market and I’ll buy you a girlfriend to celebrate.”
Greg took a few steps in the direction of the house, then stopped and turned around again. “The thing I don’t understand is, what’s the big rush?”
One! I could have yelled. It was like I was Drew Barrymore, only older, and instead of 50 First Dates , I was stuck having the same day over again, day after day, week after week, as the female lead in 50 First Fights .
I had my lines down cold. I opened my eyes wide to show my incredulity. “ Rush? ” I said. I shook my long-suffering head. “It’s been practically forever.”
“I think we’re making good progress.” Greg had his lines down, too.
In most fights, one of you gets to win. But in a marriage, you can’t even savor the thrill of victory. By definition, you’re supposed to be on the same side, which really takes the fun out of trying to beat an adversary into submission. The best you could hope for was to make the fight go away.
“Listen,” I said, taking a stab at some improv. “I know it’s a lot of work, a lot of stuff, a lot of memories. Sometimes it feels overwhelming to me, too. But the sooner we finish, the sooner we can get on to the next part of our life.”
Greg looked at me. “What I want to know is what’s so wrong with this part of our life.”
After Greg disappeared into the house, I stood outside for a long time. I wasn’t even sanding anymore. I watched the fiery orange sunset drop and turn the night from dusk to dark. A scattering of stars began to twinkle, and the full March moon peeked through the tall evergreens flanking the edge of the driveway. I’d read that because it heralded the time to start tapping maple trees for syrup, it was sometimes called the full sap moon.
And if I let my husband confuse me, then I’d be a full sap, too.
CHAPTER 9
“B UT I LIKE IT in the bedroom,” Mrs. Bentley said.
“Sorry,” I said. “An elliptical machine in your bedroom isn’t going to get this house sold. It’s bad feng shui. The only working out going on in here should be of the romantic variety.”
Mrs. Bentley’s cold hard stare made me think that not a lot of hot sex was happening in her bedroom.
But who was I to talk? Resentment between Greg and me was growing like spit in a petri dish. Before we knew it, we’d be sleeping in separate beds, and couple time would mean watching the same show on televisions in different rooms. Luke would feel the vibes and start cooking his ramen noodles on the radiator down in the bat cave.
Even when they were little, both kids could smell a fight between us, no matter how calm we pretended to be. Luke would climb under the kitchen table with one of his plastic dinosaurs and pull his blankie over his head.
Shannon was more direct. She’d stamp her foot. “Go hug Mommy,” she’d say to Greg.
“Mommy doesn’t want to be hugged right now,” I’d say. “Even though she loves Daddy very much, sometimes she gets mad at him, and that’s okay.”
Shannon would give Greg a push. “Hug her anyway.”
Greg and I both grew up in households where outbursts of rage were followed by long stretches—weeks, even months—of frigid silence, and then suddenly everything was all right again. Nobody ever explained to us how people got from one stage to the other. So we spent our first years together figuring it out on our own.
If something bothered me, I’d get it out right away and move on. Greg, on the other hand, let the little things go. Then some random day one of those same little things would set him off, and he’d present me with a detailed list of every other
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