Die Before I Wake

I had half a mind to march back downstairs and tell the woman exactly what was what. I’d never been one to mince words or to retreat from a fight. If there was one thing I’d learned firsthand from my dad, it was that quitters never win. Dave Hanrahan had been the poster child for how not to live your life. He’d allowed a run of bad luck, a few lousy decisions, and the hazy comfort of alcohol to destroy his future. Because I’d been witness to his slow and painful deterioration, I’d vowed that I would never let life defeat me the way Dad had. No matter what, I stood up for myself and for what I believed in. And I never, ever backed down.

But, damn it, the woman was Tom’s mother.

And I was the woman who wore Tom’s wedding ring.

Scooping my hair back from my face with both hands, I let out a ragged breath. None of this was his fault. I couldn’t blame Tom because his mother was a monster. He already knew that. He’d been living with the woman for nearly forty years. That was punishment enough for a lifetime. How could I justify giving him the added burden of lunatic behavior?

So I didn’t go back downstairs. For tonight, I’d let it go. Today had been stressful for everyone. Maybe tomorrow, in the clear light of day, things would look different. Maybe tomorrow, after things settled down, Jeannette would see the error of her ways.

But as I stood in the shower, steaming hot water pounding down on my shoulders, I wasn’t at all sure it would happen. Tom’s mother seemed so unyielding that I wondered if there was more going on here than I was privy to. Was there some deep, dark secret that Tom hadn’t bothered to tell me? Was it possible that Jeannette’s train had simply run off the tracks? There’d been something in that look Tom and his brother exchanged at the airport, something about their mother that remained unspoken but understood by both of them. I couldn’t help wondering if a woman so determined to deprive her son of happiness might be a little unbalanced. Would a sane, rational woman attempt to poison the minds of her grandchildren because she didn’t want their father remarrying? No matter how I looked at it, there was no rational explanation for her behavior.

One thing I did know as I stepped from the shower and toweled my hair dry: I’d never felt so alone in my life. Not even after my baby died and the world became a barren, empty place. This was far worse. The world after Angel’s death had been indifferent to my pain; I’d experienced none of the malevolence, none of the deliberate and focused hatred, that I felt here in this house.

I was wrapped in my fluffy white chenille robe, yanking a brush through my wet hair, when Tom came back. He closed the bedroom door quietly behind him. Brush in hand, I paused between strokes. Our eyes met: his uncertain, mine accusing. “Hi,” he said.

“I heard you,” I said bluntly. “In the kitchen. Arguing.”

He grimaced. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

“Jules,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”

“That makes two of us. I don’t understand, Tom. Make me understand.”

“I don’t know what to say. My mother’s overprotective. She’s always been that way.”

Overprotective? Was that what he called it? If so, we might as well be speaking different languages. “I can think of a few other adjectives that fit even better,” I said. “How about mean? Spiteful? Vicious? Just for starters.”

“I don’t have a response for you, Jules, because you’re right.” He raked slender, pale fingers through his dark hair. “I knew things would be a little awkward. I knew she wouldn’t be happy about our marriage. But I never thought she’d be insulting to you.”

“She called me a gold digger! And my father a wastrel!”

“And if you were paying attention, you know that I stood up for you.”

“Yes. You did. And I’m grateful. But if this is the way she’s going to treat me, I’m not sure how long I can refrain from giving her a large piece of my mind.”

“Aw, honey.” He took a step toward me. “She’ll adjust. Just give her a little time.”

“That’s not everything, Tom. There’s more.” I told him what Taylor had said to me, the terrible things his mother had taught her, and he winced as if in pain.

“Christ, Mom,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. “What the hell are you thinking?”

I hated to see him this way. Hated even worse knowing I was the one who’d put that look on his face. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I thought you should know.”

“I swear to God, Jules, I had no idea I was bringing you into this kind of nightmare. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away. It would kill me, but I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I take my marriage vows seriously. For better or for worse, remember? I’ll do whatever it takes to win her over. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll just have to learn to live with her. Somehow.” The picture that painted in my mind was bleak enough that I had to shove it aside.

“I’m not sure it could get much worse. This isn’t fair to you. It’s unacceptable. If Mom keeps this up, she’ll have to live somewhere else.”

Aghast, I said, “You can’t throw her out, Tom. She’s your mother.”

“And you’re my wife! There’s another vow you should remember: forsaking all others. Yes, she’s my mother. But you’re my family now. You and the girls. If she’s determined to come between us—” he scowled “—or between you and my daughters, I won’t allow it.”

I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse. It was a comfort to know that Tom was solidly in my corner. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be responsible for the dissolution of his family. Wishing I could avoid asking, but knowing I couldn’t, I said, “Tom? What did your mother mean when she told Taylor I wouldn’t last any longer than any of the others?”

My husband rolled his eyes. “All those others,” he said. “All the screaming, swooning hordes of women I’ve dated since Elizabeth died.”

This was one thing we hadn’t talked about, not in detail. His sexual history. Mine. We’d been too busy falling for each other to get around to the topic of our collective romantic past. At first, we hadn’t thought much about it. Once we were married, it didn’t seem to matter.

But now, suddenly, it did. “Have there been screaming, swooning hordes?” I asked.

“Come on, Jules. Do I look like Jon Bon Jovi to you?”

In my book, he looked far better than Jon. Which was saying a lot. But he was deliberately missing the point. “I’m serious, Tom. How many were there?”

He crossed the room to me and took my hand. “Elizabeth’s been dead for two years.” He tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “I haven’t lived like a monk. I’ve dated a few women. None of them stuck around. None of them stuck around because I wasn’t serious about any of them. I swear, Jules, you’re the only one who ever screamed or swooned.”

Coyly, I said, “I don’t seem to recall any swooning.”

He leaned over me and buried his nose in my hair. “You smell so good. What’s that scent you’re wearing?”

“Strawberry. It’s my shampoo.”

“Don’t ever stop using it.” His chin brushed my temple, his five o’clock shadow grazing my skin. His breath warm on my ear, he crooned softly: “Julie, Julie, Julie, do you love me?”

“Stop,” I said weakly. It was a private joke between us, that hokey old Bobby Sherman song. “Please stop.”

“You know you love it. So tell me, Jules, is the honeymoon over yet?”

I toyed with a strand of his hair and said, “Not quite yet.”

“Then why are we wasting time? Hand over your weapon.”

I gaped at him stupidly until he pried the hairbrush I’d been brandishing from my fingers. “You could do a lot of harm with that thing,” he said, “depending on where you’re aiming it.”

“Ouch.”

“Exactly. So what do you say, Mrs. Larkin? Time to end the foreplay and cut right to the main event?”

I flashed him a huge grin and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

It was hours later and inky dark when his cell phone rang. Peeling his naked body away from mine, Tom fumbled on the nightstand until he located the offending object. He cleared his throat and said, “Dr. Larkin.” Listened a moment, then said, “Yes, of course. Not a problem.”

I raised my head and looked at the clock, then hooked an arm around him and pressed my cheek against his sleek, broad back. Leaning into me, he said, “How far apart are the pains?” A pause. Then, “All right. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

He hung up the phone and turned to me. “Sorry, Jules. Gotta go.”

Sleepily, I said, “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”

“Might as well get used to it. Life would be a lot easier if babies were courteous enough to plan their arrivals between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.” He kissed the tip of my nose and left the bed. I listened as he dressed in the darkness, then walked to the window and peered through the blind. Quietly, he said, “Looks like the storm’s over.”

“Be careful anyway.”

“Always. Go back to sleep, Jules.”

When I woke again, the blinds were open, the sun was pouring in, and the clock read 8:37. I rolled over and spied the note propped against Tom’s pillow. Didn’t want to wake you, it read, you looked so beautiful asleep. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa. Literally. Oh—if you want to go anywhere, the Land Rover’s all yours. Keys are hanging in the kitchen. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Love, T.

Smiling, I lay back against the pillow. I must’ve been dead to the world, because I’d never heard him return, never heard him leave a second time. It must have been the fresh Maine air or something. I got up, showered and dressed, then headed downstairs, anticipating a run-in with the dragon lady. But the house was deserted, silent, the morning sun flooding the kitchen with warmth. My new mother-in-law must be a cog in the wheel of the American workforce. Or else she’d fled the house because she didn’t want to deal with me any more than I wanted to deal with her. Wasn’t that the way with most passive-aggressive types? They tended to avoid conflict. And being nice to my face, then talking trash behind my back, was classic passive-aggressive behavior.

Or maybe she was just a two-faced bitch.

With some satisfaction, I pondered that possibility before telling myself to let it go or it would spoil my day. And what a day it was! Abundant sunshine and cloudless cerulean skies. Not a hint of the storm that had raged a few hours earlier. Except, of course, the damage it had left behind. With a bowl of Cheerios in hand, I flung open the French doors that led to the patio and stepped outside. The lawn was littered with branches, leaves and assorted debris. A small tree had been uprooted, and it lay forlorn, felled by the storm’s fury. I found a wooden chair that wasn’t too wet and sat down to eat my breakfast. A pair of bright yellow birds flew past, darting and swooping and twittering before they disappeared in the branches of a massive elm tree. I thought they might be goldfinches, but I wasn’t sure. On the ground beneath the bird feeder, a cluster of sparrows pecked at spilled seed.

Around the corner of the house, a chain saw started up, its obnoxious whine tearing a jagged hole in the smooth fabric of the morning. Startled by the noise, the sparrows scattered. I finished my Cheerios and went back inside to put the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Then I went in search of the chain saw.

It wasn’t hard to find. The noise level was appalling. In Riley’s capable hands, the lime-green monster sang its own peculiar aria, the whine working its way up and down the scale. Dressed in a Hard Rock T-shirt, jeans, and safety glasses, Tom’s brother finessed the saw with smooth, efficient motions. The branch that had fallen was as big around as my waist, and the chain saw protested loudly as he sliced it into neat, foot-long segments. I stood watching him until he became aware of my scrutiny. Then he took a step back, turned off the chain saw, and removed his safety glasses.

Birdsong filled the sudden silence, and for an instant I felt awkward, remembering what he’d witnessed last night and wishing he hadn’t. “Sleep well?” he said.

“As well as can be expected.” I raised a hand to shade my eyes from the bright sun. I knew we were both thinking about our last meeting. I might as well bring it into the open instead of dancing around it. “Your mother,” I said, “doesn’t seem to like me.”

Fiddling with the pull cord to the chain saw, he said, “You did seem to bring out the worst in her.”

“It’s a talent,” I said.

He balanced the butt of the saw against his booted foot. “I wouldn’t let her get to me if I were you.”

“I don’t intend to. I’m indomitable.”

He studied me with blue eyes very much like Tom’s. And the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

“So where, exactly, is she this morning? Your sainted mother?”

“She’s at work. Tessie’s Bark and Bath.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Tessie’s Bark and Bath?”

He grinned. “Mom’s a dog groomer.”

“And I’ll bet she frightens the poor things into submission.” Changing the subject, I pointed to the pile of wood he’d cut. “This pine branch is enormous. What’ll you do with all this wood?”

“Split it. Stack it. Come winter, it’ll keep the house warm.”

“Winter,” I said. “That seems like such a foreign concept. I’m a Southern California girl. I’m used to sunshine. The beach. I’ve never done winter. Does it really get as cold as I’ve heard?”

“Take whatever you’re expecting and multiply it by ten. February may be the shortest month, but it’s also the coldest. And the darkest. You’ll want to buy an extra-warm coat. Fur-lined boots. Thick gloves. And a wool scarf. That is, assuming you’re still here come February.”

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Are you saying there’s some reason I might not be here?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“She’s not going to drive me away, Riley.”

“I didn’t say that, either. It’s just—”

“What?”

His blue eyes studied me, but I couldn’t decipher what was going on behind them. “Nothing,” he said. “I have to get back to work. This tree won’t get cut up by itself.”

I stepped away as Riley fired up the chain saw. He adjusted his safety goggles, nodded to me, and went back to cutting.

I suspected I’d been snubbed, although I wasn’t wholly certain. But I was definitely starting to feel as if I’d stepped through the looking glass and into some otherworldly dimension where everything was a little off center.

But I didn’t allow myself to wallow in it; I had no sympathy for people who sat around bemoaning their fates. Pity parties aren’t my style. I had far too much to do. Since I’d decided against making a run for it, I needed to unpack and try to find space for all my things in Tom’s bedroom. Our bedroom, I reminded myself.

I headed back to the house, rummaged through my purse for a notebook and pen, and sat at the kitchen table to make a list of what needed doing. I’m a compulsive list-maker. I simply can’t seem to stop. Jeffrey used to make fun of me because of it, but list-making helps me keep my life organized and running on track. If I didn’t make lists, I’d never remember anything. I use them in both my private and business life, and my friends and coworkers always point out how utterly organized I am. I just smile enigmatically and accept the compliment, while mentally thumbing my nose at my ex-husband. What can I say? Sometimes even a mature woman has to let her inner child out once in a while.

First on the list: Go to bank. I’d already closed my bank account and had the balance transferred electronically to Tom’s account, but I still had to drop by the bank and fill out paperwork to make it official. I’d managed to put away a small amount of money in savings, and the sale of my Miata had added a couple thousand to that. I’d hated selling my car, and I’d nearly cried when the used car salesman drove it away. But Tom had said that come winter, the sports car would be useless in the snow, and he’d promised to replace it with a brand-new four-wheel-drive SUV of my choice. So I’d caved. My life in California was over. Big changes were taking place. If I intended to live year-round in Maine, I needed to start acting like a Mainer. I would drive the SUV, even if my heart did secretly ache for a two-seater sports coupe.

Items two, three and four on the list were more housekeeping stuff: Get a Maine driver’s license, Apply for a new social security card, and Notify credit card company of new name and address. Item five was more generic: Contact old friends I’ve lost touch with. People I talked to once or twice a year, exchanged Christmas cards with. Old school chums, friends of my dad, people Jeffrey and I used to socialize with. A couple of great-aunts. People I had little in common with, but that I didn’t want to lose complete contact with.

I paused at number six. Chewing absently at the cap of my Bic pen, I pondered. At some point, Tom and I needed to figure out where to store my household belongings, which were in a moving van headed east on an Interstate highway somewhere between California and Maine. My entire life, packed into a green-and-yellow box truck. The ETA was next Sunday; I expected it would take me some time to go through everything and decide what to use, what to keep in storage, and what to discard. But we hadn’t yet discussed where the boxes and furniture would go in the interim. Number six: Talk to Tom about storage! I underlined it, then circled it several times in heavy black ink just in case there was any chance I might miss it next time I looked.

I thought about putting Find a job on the list. I’d been working since I was fifteen. No slacker, I’d worked my way through college, then bounced around the L.A. job scene for a couple of years before I landed at Phoenix. There, I worked my way up the ladder to store manager. I’d always been a high-energy person, and it seemed odd to have no place I needed to be every morning at eight, hi-test cup of java in hand.

But looking for a job now would be pointless. Tom and I had talked it over, and in January, I was going back to school to get my master’s degree. I’d been thinking about it for some time now. Although I’d loved my job at Phoenix, I didn’t aspire to a career in retail. Actually, to my surprise, I’d realized that what I most wanted to do was teach. My degree in business management hadn’t prepared me for that particular career choice, so it was time to hit the books again. Tom had been extremely supportive, reassuring me that he was fully capable of supporting me financially while I trained for a new career.

When my list was as complete as I could make it, I went back upstairs to unpack. The master bedroom suite had been designed with his-and-hers walk-in closets. I opened the door of the left-hand closet and found Tom’s clothes, his suits and shirts and pants, arranged by color and hung with care, evenly spaced a half-inch apart. His shoes were lined up neatly on two shelves. Some fancy contraption built into the wall held his neckties, hung with a meticulousness that prevented any one tie from touching any other. Good God. I hoped he didn’t expect me to share his neatness fetish. I generally took off my clothes and flung them. If I managed to hit the chair instead of the floor, I figured I was doing exceptionally well.

Because snooping in my husband’s closet seemed like an invasion of his privacy, I closed the door and moved to the other closet. Not so much as a dust bunny inhabited its vacant space. Ditto for the bureau drawers. Tom kept his underwear and socks—stacked with razor-sharp precision—in the upright dresser. The bureau must have been Elizabeth’s territory. I was a little surprised to find no evidence that she had ever lived here. No clothes, no knickknacks, no wedding photos, no froufrou female stuff. At some point after her death, Tom had removed all her belongings. Now that I thought about it, I’d seen no evidence of her presence anywhere in this house. Downstairs, photos of the girls were displayed here and there: school photos as well as candids of them with Tom, and with their grandmother and their uncle Riley. But not a single likeness of Elizabeth graced the house.

I wondered why this made me uneasy. It seemed odd that a man who’d loved his wife, a man who’d spent years with her and made babies with her, would keep no physical reminders of her after she was gone. No little personal objects, no mementos of any kind. It was as if the moment Elizabeth was gone, Tom had tried to pretend she’d never existed.

Had their marriage been unhappy? Tom hadn’t mentioned any problems with his first marriage, so I’d simply assumed theirs had been a satisfactory union. On the other hand, I hadn’t bothered to ask. For all I knew, they could have been on the verge of divorce when Elizabeth died. If there were problems, that might explain why all trace of her was gone from the house.

Trying to rationalize away my unease, I told myself I was probably just identifying too closely with Tom’s late wife. More than likely, my subconscious was wondering what would happen if I died. Whether I, too, would be erased from this house as though I’d never set foot inside it.

Because that thought bothered me more than I cared to admit, I distracted myself with unpacking. It didn’t take long; I’d traveled light. Most of my clothes were packed away on that moving van. Until they arrived, I’d manage quite nicely with the jeans and casual shirts I’d brought with me. I’d packed only one “serious” dress, and I doubted I’d be needing it here; I couldn’t imagine that, as the wife of a small-town Maine doctor, I’d have many formal social engagements.

I managed to fill one bureau drawer, and I hung the rest of my clothes in the closet. They looked pathetic hanging in all that empty space, as did my toiletries, lined up on one end of the massive white marble bathroom counter. I sneaked a peek in one of the medicine cabinets. Empty. I opened the other and found Tom’s toiletries—razor, toothbrush, deodorant, aftershave—all shelved neatly, again carefully spaced so that no two objects touched. I closed the cabinet, looked at my cluster of mismatched items cluttering up the counter, and decided to move them to the empty medicine cabinet, where my neatnik husband wouldn’t be forced to look at them every time he walked into the room.

It was an improvement. I closed the mirrored door on my hair care products and perfumes, returning the powder room to its formerly immaculate state. Because I had no excuse to kill any more time up here, I headed back down to the kitchen. I still had the whole house all to myself. Except for Riley, but he was still outside, wielding the chain saw with its ferocious growl.

I took the keys to the Land Rover from the hook in the kitchen, let myself out the screen door, and marched over to where my brother-in-law was working. He shut down the saw and watched me approach. “Can you give me directions? I need to go to Tom’s bank, the DMV, and the social security office.”

He swiped at his brow with a shirtsleeve, picked up a bottle of water, and took a long swig. “The bank’s downtown,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “First National Bank on Main Street. You can’t miss it. Social security office is in the federal building across the street from the bank. Second floor, above the post office. The nearest DMV office is in Portland.”

I thanked him and headed across the lawn to the driveway. It wasn’t until I got into the Land Rover that I discovered it was a stick shift. Crap on a cracker. My Miata had been an automatic. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Bright yellow, automatic, four-cylinder convertible. You’re thinking, chick car. I plead guilty as charged. But I liked driving an automatic, and I was a disaster with a stick. Jeffrey had tried once to teach me how to drive his five-speed Corolla, but the lesson had been a catastrophe I didn’t want to repeat. The shifting part I got down without much trouble. It was the clutch, the dreaded clutch, that was my downfall.

In theory, I understood how it worked. The clutch goes to the floor, the car starts, the clutch comes up slowly as the gas pedal goes down. When it catches, you give it more gas and ease the clutch the rest of the way up. It sounds so simple, but a crucial piece of the puzzle, the kinetic understanding of when to ease up on the clutch and when to press down on the gas, had thus far eluded me. I could probably manage to drive the damn thing, but it would be a herky-jerky, humiliating experience.