Love – sparkledame

Monster

I miss you.
At least I think I miss you.
Though sometimes I wonder if I’m confusing you with someone else, like a man from a novel or a poem.

I’ll remember feeling adored by you, it felt so good. Only then I’ll realize that it wasn’t me who felt adored, it was Keira Knightley’s character in that classic mid-90’s period drama. She was adored by that lanky guy with the swoop-y hair. It wasn’t me.

There is such deep grief in remembering, even in the fake memories there is deep grief.

Why haven’t we developed a machine to excise grief from our psyches? We could go to a Wellness Spa and get Reiki, followed by a Blue Algae Facial and then a session of Grief Excising with Lily, the Nurse Practitioner. She would gently rub a rose gold wand over our cranium. The grief would be sucked up and out the wand and Lily would then tap gently on a triangle signaling the end of our session. Grief Excising would probably have to be done every 3 months, like botox. Wait too long or miss a session and risk having your psyche saturated again with darkness.

I miss us.
Perhaps I miss an us that never existed. Or perhaps I have slightly enhanced the memories, sweetened them. But that’s okay, a rose-tinted view is always prettier. So I guess I miss that rose-tinted version of us.

What to do?
What does one do with this kind of grief?
Write in a journal? “Dear Diary, I’m sad.”
Talk to a therapist? “How do you feel today?” “I feel sad.”
Exercise? “This long walk is reminding me of the long walks I used to take with you.”
Do Ayahuasca in the desert? “I’m so hot and sweaty and I’m not having any magical breakthroughs. I feel like vomiting and all I want to do is lie down in an air conditioned hotel room.”

Or maybe we surrender to the grief. Let the grief monster consume us, let it fucking devour us. And then if we’re lucky, the monster will spit us back out. We’ll look raggedy, like we just came off a scary ride at the county fair, but we’ll be free.

Laundry Day

Tossing laundry into the washing machine, Tessa paused, looking at a ratty old pair of plaid boxer shorts.

“These are gross. How is Jordan even still wearing them? What is wrong with him?”

Irritated, Tessa continued loading the machine. Her own underwear was pretty: black cotton with black lace trim. And of course she had some sexier ones too. The point was that she put effort into keeping herself lovely – for herself and for her husband.

“These are literally ten years old. I’m not going to have sex with him until he buys new underwear.”

A few pairs were even ripped –

RIPPED!

She angrily balled them up and tossed them in the garbage. A moment of guilt swished over her:

The underwear would end up in a landfill, polluting the planet.

She considered cutting them into rags. It was the right thing to do, but Tessa wasn’t that committed to the planet. Plus, they had a cleaning lady – Veronica – and Veronica was very particular about her supplies, so much so that she brought her own with her. Veronica would never use underwear rags, it was beneath her.

Later, as Jordan and her sat on opposite sides of the couch with their laptops, Tessa burst out:

“Do you still love me?”

“What? Of course I still love you. Why are you asking?”

“Because you never buy new underwear.”

“What does that have to do with me loving you?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes everything. You no longer make an effort. You don’t romance me. You don’t surprise me with little treats. You never wear the nice clothing I buy you. You never change up our routine to keep things interesting. Your nasty old boxers are symbolic.”

Jordan tilted his head:

“I bought you a gift a few days ago – that pink Christmas poinsettia.”

“Doesn’t count. You were at the grocery store picking up beer, plus it was wilted and 75% off.”

“Now you’re just sounding immature and petty. But if my underwear is so triggering I’ll buy new ones.”

Tessa started quietly weeping, as if she was at a movie theatre and didn’t want to disturb anyone.

“Why are you crying? Are you menopausing? Is that what’s really going on here?”

Tessa’s nostrils flared:

“FYI – menopausing is not a word. Also, that’s insulting, it invalidates my tears. I’m crying because I feel emotional about the state of our relationship.”

“It just seems like you would not be crying if you had seen nice underwear when you were doing laundry. And that’s nuts.”

“What’s nuts is that you’re on auto-pilot. Ever since we got married it’s like you stopped trying. You’re in this relationship passively, not actively, and that makes me feel like shit.”

“I thought one of the cool things about getting married was that you could just chill with your person, you didn’t have to be “on” all the time.”

“You don’t have to be “on,” but you do have to participate in creating a life together. You do need to give our relationship some of your energy. You have a beautiful spirit – that’s why I fell in love with you – but some of that spirit needs to be directly funnelled into ‘us.’”

“Okay, okay, I get it. At least I think I get it and I’m sorry. I’m on Nordstrom.com right now ordering boxers.”

“Thank you. And since you’re already shopping – I like the new Marc Jacobs purse, it’s called the Mini Bag. In lilac, not black.”

“Okay, gimme a second. Wait, you want this purse? It’s like crazy-tiny.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so chic.”

“I will never fully understand you.”

“And you don’t need to. You just need to love me.”

https://www.marcjacobs.com/us-en/the-leather-mini-bag/2S4SMN080S02-533.html

J + D

I’m walking in my favorite forest. It’s not a forest forest, it’s a city forest, but still, it makes me happy.

I see a heart carved into a tree, with the initials J + D Forever. I see many more hearts carved into many more trees and I wonder if any of the couples are still together. Did some of them marry? Adopt a dog? Visit Italy? Have babies?

I wish there was a couple update on each tree, to let us know how they fared:

Jess & Maria fell in love, married and adopted two cats. Maria had five affairs before asking Jess for a trial separation. When Jess found out about her infidelity he said: “you’re kidding me about the trial right? I mean we’re obviously skipping right to the divorce part. And by the way fuck you and I’m keeping the cats.”

AND

Mike and Robert fell in love, then out of love, then in love again and this continued for three years. When they had used up all of their therapy sessions – the ones covered by medical insurance – they called it quits.

AND

Tara & Finn are still together. They live next door to each other in a duplex and share a silver Prius and a grey Schnauzer named Marty. They can’t decide if global warming makes having a baby selfish. Would it feel like welcoming a child into the apocalypse?
“So sorry about the fires, earthquakes, heatwaves, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes and ice storms. But we hope you thrive and live your best life little one!”
Tara has frozen her eggs until they can reach a decision.

I’m trying to remember if I ever carved my initials into a tree when I was young. No, I don’t think I did. Though there were some really cute early romances and I wish I had taken photos, (this was pre-cell phones), because my God it would be fun to look at my fashion & boy choices.

Instead of carving initials into a tree I would play the game True Love. Not sure if it still exists, but this is how you play it:
1. Write your full name + the full name of your potential love interest on a piece of paper.
2. Below the names write True Love.
3. Now the math begins: How many letters do your names have in common with the letters in the words “True Love.”
Example: Mary Ellen Brett + Eric Shields
T – 2
R – 3
U – 0
E – 5

L – 3
O – 0
V – 0
E – 5
Total: 10 + 8 = 108%
Oh My God, Eric Shields and I are meant to be! We are 108% matched together!

True Love was an early version of the dating apps. If you liked someone and you scored only 68%, it would give you pause. Although like any other red flag, we probably ignored it.
🚩

Slay

You know how balloons sometimes look over-inflated? Like they might burst at any moment? That’s you.

When you explode, will your anger come blasting out like a dragon spewing fire? That’s what I imagine. Not sure what I’ll do, dragons are hard to slay.

I’ve never experienced having to walk on eggshells and I don’t like how they feel. You might think egg shells wouldn’t hurt, but you would be wrong; my feet are scraped raw.

Don’t know how we got here, but it’s not a destination that I ever wanted to visit. I would like to leave immediately. Can we hop on a plane? Maybe if we go someplace tropical your anger will melt away.

Surely the universe or God wants better for us. Then again I’m not sure I believe in God. I pray every night, but that might just be a leftover habit from two excruciating years of Catholic school.

Living in anger’s house is exhausting. I have never been this tired. But, my spirit is slowly re-awakening. It’s as if my spirit went for a spa weekend and came back feeling renewed – remembering how to sparkle again.

And guess what? I just found out that sparkle can slay dragons.

Art by Lou Benesch

Dry Hands

Let’s do it
Let’s jump together
Into lightness, into frivolity
I know it’s not usually where we hang out
We usually hang out in the darkness, in the heaviness
But I don’t like it here anymore
It’s sad and it’s hard to breathe
Please, take my hand and let’s jump together
No, I can’t promise anything
It might not work
Maybe we are not meant to live in lightness
Maybe in a past life we were horrible people and now we have to live in the darkness, you know like karma
But I think that’s unlikely
I think if we jumped into lightness, into joy
I think we would really like it there
We could laugh and sing and eat cake
I mean who doesn’t like cake?
Let’s try, it’s worth trying isn’t it?
Take my hand
I know my hand will probably feel weird because you’re not used to holding it
And it might be a little dry because I always forget to moisturize
But we deserve silly nights together, going to the fair and eating cotton candy
True, we don’t have an actual fair in this big angry city we live in, but think of it more like a metaphor
Take my hand and let’s just try
Let’s jump
And if you don’t like the light you can go back to the darkness
But I think I’m going to like the light
I’m ready for the light
Truthfully I’ve never liked living in this dark heavy place
I guess I should have told you that I didn’t like it here
But I felt like I wasn’t allowed to say anything
And it really is getting so hard to breathe
So please, won’t you take my hand and jump into the lightness with me?

Art by Willy Pogany

All The Candy You Want

It is both a beautiful blessing and kind of an odd curse to be so close with your parents. I cannot imagine my life without them.

Every time my mother falls, often hitting her head, I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat. Yesterday she fell while I was visiting and though I was able to help her somewhat, I was not able to lift her up. So I made her comfortable on the floor and I fed her ice cubes while we waited for my father to return home from golf (she did not want me to call 911). Apparently they had perfected a way of him lifting her up:

“He should be finished his game by now, but he might be having lunch at the club. Call the restaurant.”

I called and he had just left. God forbid my dad actually bring his cell phone with him. So my dog Lexie sat with us on the bathroom floor for 45 minutes and every so often she tried stealing ice cubes from my mother’s mouth, convinced they were treats.

Having just turned 80, my dad is in relatively good health, but recently he’s been looking much older. When it’s hot and humid out and he insists on playing golf three days in a row – even though he returns home looking haggard – I’m tempted to call the club and scream:

“How could you let this man play so many days? He’s going to die out there and I swear to God I will come for blood if that happens!”

Of course I am not that un-hinged, at least not yet, so instead I use my loving daughter skills to convince him to take a day off. I think he’s happy to have the rest. On some level he knows he needs it.

At dinner he regals us with funny stories from his youth. Like the time he drove an out of town date to a garbage dump to watch bears scavenge for treats (he grew up in Northern Ontario):

“You did not do that dad!”

His face lighting up, he answers:

“I did.”

Chiming in, my mom says:

“He was hoping the girl would jump in his arms for protection.”

Almost every day my mother falls asleep at the breakfast table. Many times I have found her slumped over, newspaper on the floor. Fearing the worst, I shake her frantically:

“Mom, mom wake up, WAKE UP!”

Though her feet and ankles are gnarled like old trees from arthritis, my mother still jazzes up her orthopaedic sneakers with brightly colored shoe laces. I love that about her. She also keeps jewelry in pill boxes and stays up until 3 AM writing cards to relatives. After her children were grown and out of the house, she went back to university and got her Master’s Degree and PhD. My mother lives for literature, ceramics, art and gemstones. Everyone loves chatting with “Mary” and everyone knows her:

“Oh is this cappuccino for Mary? Are you Mary’s daughter? Say hi to your mom for me,” Starbucks staff say.

The idea of my mother not being around to write me cryptic, all CAPS emails, signed “L, MOM” is inconceivable.

Until the age of three I was very happily an only child, when much to my dismay my brother appeared. According to family lore I tried murdering him by pushing his baby carriage down a steep hill. That sounds a tad dramatic to me, I mean I was only three. But my mother swears I tried to kill him. A year and a half later another brother came along and I remained un-impressed. I had loved being an only child and didn’t understand the need to complicate our lives with these loud, ridiculous boys.

Speaking of dramatic, my father has developed the most dramatic, terrifying cough, apparently due to “particles in his lungs.” Of course he only got that diagnosis (and an inhaler), after my mother and I badgered him for six months:

“You sound like you’re dying, could you PLEASE go to the doctor?” we pleaded. He keeps his inhaler in their antique writing desk and likes demonstrating the correct way to use it:

“You have to attach the inhaler to this thing – the chamber – and you have to inhale TWO times, not one.”

When my father needs my help with something having to do with emails, his computer, or things like vaccine paperwork, he often slips back into his “I’m a lawyer and you’re my secretary” mode and I have to check him:

“Dad, don’t use that work voice, I’m not your secretary.”

He loves wearing only one hearing aid so that multiple conversations are happening simultaneously:

“The Russians invaded Ukraine,” I’ll say.

“I know, there’s too much rain here,” he’ll answer.

The idea of my father not being around to drive me nuts is inconceivable too.

“When you were a baby we drove to New England with you in a laundry basket in the back seat,” he tells me over blueberry pie and ice cream.

“Ummm, that’s a little crazy!” I answer laughing. He loves seeing me get worked up over his stories.

Recently I said to my mother:

“You guys can’t die, I can’t live without you.”

“I know. But you’ll get through it. The grief will be horrible, but then it will start coming in smaller, less intense waves.”

Hugging her I said,

“No, I won’t get through it.”

“You can have me made into jewelry and wear me.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked my mother horrified.

“You can turn my ashes into a diamond, I read about it in The New York Times.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Then again, it might not be such a crazy idea. Better than a Catholic funeral. I remember my grandmother lying in her coffin in Hartford CT: the mortician had done a half assed job of sewing up her mouth. I leaned down close to her face, (closer than is proper etiquette), fixating on her stitches.

“But imagine if I lost you. Like if I lost your ashes-to-diamond jewelry?”

“Not a problem. You’re really good at finding things.”

That’s true. Whenever my parents lose something I usually find it within minutes.

Pre-grieving my parents’ death is of course an insane way to live, so I’m trying my best to stay in the present and enjoy every minute with them and write down all their stories:

“The neighbourhood boys tied me to a telephone pole because I wouldn’t give up my candy,” my mom recounted casually one day to me over shortbread cookies.

“OMG! That’s horrible, how scary.”

“I know and I was really upset because they took all my candy. When I didn’t come home from the store my mother went looking for me and and when she found me tied to the pole she said:
‘Mary, you could drive a saint to drink.'”

“That’s a horrible reaction, she was blaming you,” I said, but then we both burst out laughing. Later that night I noticed that there were several boxes of candy in the kitchen cupboard: chocolate balls, jujubes, hard toffee with creamy insides, turtles, mints…Now she gets all the candy she wants.

Maybe if I had kids of my own I would be too busy raising teenagers to spend so much time fixating on my parents. They would have loved to have had grandchildren. Instead my mother buys her grand-dog cozy velour blankets in every shade of the rainbow; Lexie has her own section in their hall closet. And my father adores her:

“You’re the best dog aren’t you? You’re the very best dog,” he says as he pets her lovingly.

In the TV room Lexie sits next to my father on the couch as he watches the news, or above his head on top of his giant reading chair as he reads The Wall Street Journal.

I’m fiercely protective of them and the older they get the more Mama Bear like my love for them becomes. Now if only I could find a way to keep them safe and healthy forever.

The Fuchsia House

I’m lonely without you, though you are sitting right next to me. Decades spent together but I can’t remember how your lips taste.

I don’t know when this happened or how or why, but like cancer the loneliness has spread and there’s no cure in sight.

We sit side by side watching television. Or streaming. I guess we are technically watching streaming on television? What does that even mean? I don’t understand any of it.

Our one child, grown and long moved out of the house. All pets dead, their paw prints lining our hallway; it’s just us now. We’re like two old mannequins in an ancient storefront, dressed in out of date fashion, sitting on a vintage but not in a cool way sofa.

I want to go back, back to that old movie theatre we used to frequent with its stale popcorn and Bogart double features. Back to our lovemaking, which left our bedroom looking like it had been ransacked by a rock n’ roll group. Back to our eating canned tomato soup and grilled cheese for a year straight so that we could save up enough money for a down payment on our first home.

You ask me if I want a glass of sherry. I hate sherry and always have, but I say:

“Sure, thanks.”

Just like I don’t remember what your lips taste like, you don’t remember what I like to drink.

I sink into the corner of the couch and drink the sherry. A blanket covers my lap. It’s an ugly hand knit blanket that a close friend made for me. I’m unable to part with gifts from loved ones, no matter how ugly or useless they are. I have a whole closet full of such gifts. That one time, when you went a little nuts with spring cleaning and wanted to give everything away to The Salvation Army, I said:

“No. I’m keeping all my friend and family gifts.”

You called me a hoarder, which was mean. But sometimes you’re mean, it’s one of your character flaws. I’m used to it though. I pay the meanness no attention, shrugging it off like a cardigan – taking away its power. They’re just words, I can handle words.

You pass me a shortbread cookie. Since when do we eat shortbread cookies and drink sherry? What are we like 85 yrs old suddenly? Jesus H. Christ.

“No thanks,” I say to the cookie.

I want to go back to Paris with you and eat pastries that look like art. And sit outside at cafes and people watch, kicking each other under the table when someone truly fabulous walks by:

“Did you see that woman? She looks like Catherine Deneuve. Stunning.”

“Did you read Sarah’s email?” I ask.

“She’s coming home for the long weekend next month. She’s bringing her new girlfriend, Jemima.”

“What happened to Chrissy?”

“They broke up. But Jemima sounds like a better match for her, I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Good. I hope your feeling is right. It’s time for her to settle down, we’re not getting any younger,” he said annoyed.

“I hate sherry,” I said.

“You hate sherry? Since when?”

“Since forever. I’m getting a glass of red wine.”

He sighed, annoyed again. Annoyed was his new go-to default mood.

In the dining room I poured myself a large glass of wine and stared at a painting that Sarah had made for us when she was eight years old. It was the three of us standing in front of a fuchsia-painted house with eight multi-colored cats at our feet. I had spent a fortune getting it professionally framed and honestly it looked like something that could hang in MOMA.

Back on the sofa we continued watching whatever it was we were watching. It was one of those shows where the female detectives all had shiny blow-outs and perfect manicures.

“I think I will take a cookie if there are any left,” I said.

He passed me one.

“That guy is bad news. He’s up to something,” he said, slurping his sherry.

I nodded knowingly:

“You’re totally right.”

It turned out that shortbread cookies and red wine went beautifully together – who knew?

“Should we go back to Paris this fall? We haven’t been since before we had Sarah,” I asked.

“I’m not getting on a plane, it’s still not safe with covid.”

“I really want us to go back while we’re still healthy enough to get around.”

“Go alone then, just don’t bring back covid.”

“You want me to go to Paris alone?”

“If you want to go just go. I’m not going to stop you.”

No wonder she couldn’t remember what his lips tasted like. Her husband wanted her to go to the most romantic city in the world alone. Lovely. Fucking lovely.

“I don’t trust Detective Monaghan, I think he’s corrupt.”

She ate the final bite of her cookie and took a sip of wine.

This was her life now: Detective Monaghan and his partner, the shiny-haired detective. And sherry. And shortbread. This was her life?

It was both comical and sad. No wonder she felt fucking lonely – he was completely checked out. She could probably go to Paris and he wouldn’t even notice she was gone.

Maybe Sarah would go with her? They could have a fun mother -daughter adventure. Except that Sarah was busy living her life. A delicious life full of fucking and discovering herself and finishing her PhD.

Maybe she should go back to school. She could get her Master’s Degree in Human Resource Management, or, just study something completely different like Italian or astronomy. She wrapped the ugly blanket around her, took her wine and walked towards her office.

“Do you want me to pause it?” he asked as she walked away

“No, don’t bother. I’m not coming back.”

At her computer she started looking up different university classes, but soon found herself on the United Airlines’ website. They had a seat sale to Europe, a really good seat sale, like they were practically giving away the seats. Work-wise this was the perfect time for her to travel, it was quiet and she had tons of vacation days saved up.

One of the seat sales included hotel accommodation. The hotel was located near the Louvre which was right near the most amazing patisserie called “Tartine, Toi et Moi.”

She sent a formal email to her boss requesting time off due to a family emergency. Then she purchased her ticket, bumping herself up to first class because WHY THE HELL NOT?

Wrapped in the ugly blanket and holding her half-empty wine glass, she went back to the living room.

“You missed a really good ending. It was a surprise ending, totally not what I expected.”

“I leave for Paris in two weeks. I’ll be gone for ten days.”

“What?”

Photo: Jane Fonda, 1961, Cafe de Flore

Valentine’s Day

In honour of February 14th fast approaching, I thought I would share a few of the gifts that men have given me over the years:

1) Cocaine and tickets to see B.B. King play at a famous, but dive-y Toronto bar. I had never done cocaine before and never did it again. I thought I would die. We did lines on a rusty toilet paper holder in a sketchy bathroom – only the best for me. But, the concert was excellent.

2) A stuffed crocodile in honour of the Lacoste shirts I wore during an extremely brief preppy stage in Grade Ten. My boyfriend’s favorite sport was fencing, which I thought was quite fancy and exciting.

3) Super hideous white sneakers. We later divorced.

4) A beautiful carved wooden box that I accidentally gave away to The Goodwill. Sorry.

5) Classic diamond stud earrings. I lost one of them within the first year. Again, sorry. I now have a vintage pair that my mom gave me and I never take them off.

6) A love poem – yay! But the same night my boyfriend ended up in a fist fight with someone, so that kind of dampened the spirit.

7) Kama Sutra book. Smart man.

8) Vintage lady head salt and pepper shakers with pearl earrings – fabulous! (see photo at top of my blog page)

9) Flowers. You can never go wrong with flowers, though I’m not a big fan of red roses. I think carnations are highly underrated. I especially love buying myself mini-carnations in fuchsia, orange and burgundy – so gorgeous together and they last longer than a fling!

10) Being serenaded with Guns N’ Roses songs and an acoustic guitar. I mean, it was the eighties people!

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone! And for the Love Of God, you don’t need a partner to celebrate! Buy yourself a lil’ something – we all deserve a treat after these last two years.

xo 😘

Snow Angels

When I was a child I used to make snow angels in our backyard with my youngest brother. Dressed in our bulky snowsuits, we would lie under the beautiful star-filled sky and move our arms and legs in rhythm. We would remain lying down and then just talk. I remember telling him all about the planets one time because I was obsessed with Saturn’s rings. Eventually we would get too cold, or our mom would call us inside, but before leaving we would admire our angels.

Now, this same brother thinks he is an angel, an actual angel. And not just any angel, but Archangel Michael, the only angel who is mentioned by name in the Bible, the Quran and the Torah. My brother told me this about two months ago when we were sitting outside on a patio on an unseasonably warm day. I was drinking wine and he was having a beer. I asked him what it meant to be Archangel Michael and he replied that he could create miracles.

I’ve been dealing with my brother’s mental illness for many years now and I sometimes use humor to cope. So in my mind I thought:

“Fabulous! If you can create miracles then can you please start by eradicating Covid, (or as he calls it, “the plague”) and then next can you please cure me of Peritoneal Mesothelioma?“

Instead I listened to him, nodding my head and I ordered a second glasss of wine.

In some ways my brother is lucky. He lives in a nice apartment on a nice street and he has enough money to live comfortably. My parents supplement his disability – disability payments put you living at the poverty line by the way. And my mom buys him new winter coats and boots and running shoes when he needs them. He needs new running shoes fairly often because he self-medicates by exercising obsessively. Dangerously long jogs and bike rides in the middle of the night. He keeps vampire hours staying up late, then waking at dinnertime.

He will not see a doctor, let alone a psychiatrist. Based on years of spending time with him and research, I’m guessing he’s on the schizophrenia spectrum, the autism spectrum and has OCD. Of course I could easily be 100% wrong.

Had he been born into a different kind of family, he could easily be homeless. One time I saw him walking down the street having a very animated conversation with himself and I thanked God for bringing him to our family where he is protected.

This holiday season, like so many others, I am burnt out. I have nothing left to give or say. I just want to take a Xanax, curl up under a blanket and listen to old Kate Bush songs. I don’t want to decorate or bake or cook or make conversation. But oh what I would give to make snow angels with my brother again. To have him back for just one night.

Marissa

“Open the box,” said Henry.

“You bought me something?”

“It seemed like you needed a little pick me up. Last night you were saying the pandemic was making you feel hopeless. I thought this would help.”

The box was the color of brown craft paper and it was tied with natural twine ribbon. It smelled like patchouli.

Marissa hated the scent of patchouli. It reminded her of a faux hippie girl named Star who had stolen her boyfriend during sophomore year of college.

She opened the box and there lay a gray stone with the word HOPE inscribed on it.

Oh God.

“The salesgirl said you just hold the rock in your hand, focusing your mind on things that bring you joy while massaging it.”

Jesus.

“Wow, well…this is pretty cool. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m going on a run now, wanna Netflix at 9?”

“Okay.”

Henry kissed Marissa on the tip of her nose.

When he left the house in his olive Lulu Lemon running shorts, Marissa called her best friend Nica.

“Henry gave me a rock that says HOPE.”

“Oh my god, those gray ones right? The ones that say things like LOVE and GRATITUDE. Are they even real rocks? I’m sorry, that gift couldn’t be less you.”

“I know. And I feel like a horrible person because I don’t feel grateful. Whenever Henry buys me a gift I feel like it shows that he doesn’t really know me, like he doesn’t pay attention to who I truly am and that feels so shitty.”

“I totally get it. Like last Christmas when he bought you plaid, flannel pajamas – I wanted to strangle him.”

“Oh I forgot about those. I ended up wearing them all winter because what am I going to do? I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“Marissa, maybe you need to hurt his feelings. Maybe you need to scream ‘this is who I am! I need you to really see me.’ Feeling seen is all most of us want anyways.”

“You’re right. Why are you so damn wise? What are you and Jen up to tonight?”

“It’s date night, so we’re trying out that new Mexican restaurant downtown. Hopefully the tables will be spaced out. I’m not comfortable eating inside restaurants yet, but Jen really wants to go and we’re vaccinated, so…”

“You’ll be fine. Have fun and give my love to Jen.”

“Will do. Enjoy your rock tonight.”

“Very funny.”

Marissa put the HOPE rock on her desk in her office, then took a shower and applied a charcoal mask.

“What happened to your face?” asked Henry dripping sweat on their bedroom floor.

“It’s a charcoal face mask, it helps to clear out the pores.”

“You know that’s all bullshit right? None of that stuff actually works. It’s just skincare companies taking advantage of womens’ insecurities,” Henry said as he peeled off his drenched running gear.

Please stop talking.

“Do you mind not taking off your sweaty running clothes in the bedroom? It smells up the whole space,” Marissa said from her side of the bed where she was relaxing.

“You’re in a mood tonight.”

Marissa couldn’t stand the smell so she went downstairs, grabbing a washcloth and towel from the linen closet on her way. When it was time she wiped off the mask with the warm cloth, then followed with a splash of cold water. She dried her skin and inspected herself in the hallway mirror. Her pores looked smaller and clearer and she felt good. What the hell does Henry know about charcoal face masks anyway?

She poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir and settled on the couch with her new book, “H is for Henrietta.”

“Are you going to read that whole series about witches?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t understand what you like about those books.”

“I don’t understand what you like about the war books you read.”

“Where’s your HOPE rock? Aren’t you keeping it with you?”

“Um no, it’s on my desk.”

“Well you can always grab it if you need it.”

“I will, thanks.”

“Do you want to watch that new documentary about the opioid crisis?”

“Not really, life is upsetting enough right now.”

Who is this man? What is wrong with him? Why did I marry him?

Henry poured himself a glass of wine and sat down on the couch.

“What about Justin Theroux’s new show on Apple TV?”

“Okay.”

A quarter of the way through the first episode, Marissa asked:

“Why didn’t we try harder to have children? I feel like we gave up too soon.”

“Can we just watch the show and discuss this later. Not that there’s anything to discuss, we’re better off not having kids – the world is a disaster.”

Marissa got up and opened another bottle of wine, even though the first one was still half full.

“That’s a really expensive bottle, why are you opening it?” Henry asked, his voice tinged with irritation.

“Because we’re living in a fucking pandemic that’s never going to end so why not drink the good stuff?!”

“You’re spiralling. You need your HOPE rock.”

“I hate that rock! You should know that I would hate that rock, you’ve been with me for ten years. I feel like a cardboard cut-out wife that you just project things onto. Like you think your wife should like HOPE rocks and plaid pajamas and rock climbing and Patagonia and cheap wine and fake diamond stud earrings and being childless and being pet-less. But I’m not that person. Why don’t you see me? Why don’t you want to see me?”

“Just because it’s a pandemic doesn’t give you the right to lose your shit. Get it together. And if you don’t like something, speak the hell up. How am I supposed to know that you don’t like Patagonia jackets?”

“Because I read British, French and American Vogue magazine every month. Because I’ve dressed beautifully every day of the pandemic instead of wearing sweatpants. That’s why you should know.”

“I can’t talk with you when you’re this emotional. If you want to calm down and have a rational discussion after the show is over that’s fine, otherwise I’m putting the headphones on.”

“Put them on then. I’ll read my witch novel and maybe I’ll find a spell that I can cast to turn YOU into a freaking HOPE rock.”

And hour later Marissa was in bed, still reading “H is for Henrietta” and still fuming.

Henry came into the bedroom and lay down.

“I had a vasectomy when I was 28. I’m sorry. I never wanted children.”

What?

Marissa felt her face morph into “The Scream” by Edvard Munch.

“When we were first dating you told me you wanted two kids.”

“I lied; I was in love with you.”

Marissa opened her bedside table drawer and took half a sedative.

“You shouldn’t take a pill, you’ve had wine, you – “

Marissa shot Henry a death stare.

“Okay let’s just go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning when we’re fresh. We can’t let this pandemic tear us apart. I just read an article about how Covid stress is causing the divorce rate to skyrocket.”

Marissa didn’t answer. Applying her favorite Dr. Haushka lip balm in the dark, she was thinking about the time she told Henry that she liked the names Olive and Ryder for their children and how he had agreed enthusiastically.

“I know I just told you something shocking and you have every right to hate me right now. But just know that I lied because I was scared of losing you. I love you Marissa. I’m just as in love with you now as I was ten years ago. And I’m sorry about the HOPE rock.”

Marissa applied more lip balm.

“I know we’re childless, but we don’t have to be pet-less.”

Marissa was starting to dose off, her mind tranquil like it had been glazed with marshmallow fluff.

“We could adopt a cat.”