A Way to Get By Page 8

  Bren-

  I’m writing this so I don’t have to say goodbye in person. It’s too hard to face you. It’s too hard to leave you. It’s too hard to be left with so many unanswered questions.

  And yet, I can’t do anything other than smile when I look around this crappy little place. I can’t believe I’m actually going to miss it. This is where we started, the place we chose to build our life together, and I can’t look back with anything other than gratitude.

  Tomorrow is my birthday. Eleven years ago on that day, we had our first date.

  You should know that I’ve loved you during every moment since then. I will love you every minute we’re apart. I will love you even when my soul is beyond soothing, my heart is still bleeding. I will remember your smile and your laugh and the smell of your skin, although I’ll be trying my damnedest to forget.

  I’ve loved these days.

  I’ll hate the days to come.

  Farewell, my love.

  Yours,

  Ed

  PART TWO

  PICK UP THE PIECES

  CHAPTER 15

  A Matter of Course

  BRENDA

  Thursday, November 27

  1980

  Seven. Weeks.

  It had been seven entire weeks since I spoke to Eddie. Almost two whole months without hearing his voice or seeing his face. Forty-nine days without his smile.

  Not that I could complain; it’s what I asked for. I just couldn’t quite get over the fact that he was finally on board with this whole thing.

  I suppose our separation would have been made a bit easier if I’d been kept abreast of what he’d been up to during our time apart. Gleaning that info should have been a piece of cake; Anthony was still in touch with him after all. I knew he was still working. I knew he was alive. But Virginia didn’t pass along much more than that. Anthony was still angry at me for causing this situation and was apparently filtering all available information as punishment.

  And Eddie had completely cut me off for forty-nine whole days.

  I can’t believe he did it.

  I never thought he’d let me go so easily. Well, not easily. I could see that it was killing him. But he did it anyway. He did it for me. He loved me that much.

  Did I love him enough to put his happiness before my own?

  Yes. Yes, of course I did. I’ve loved him forever. I’ll never stop.

  So why were we doing this?

  I paced around the living room, rethinking the whole divorce, wondering if we were making the right decision.

  Again.

  Oh God. I couldn’t do this to myself. Of course we loved each other; that was never a question. But I knew that love wasn’t enough. We both did. And as heart-wrenching as it was to see Eddie in such pain, I knew there was no other future for us. It was time to move on.

  Despite what Eddie made it seem like, I hadn’t been in touch with Beau throughout our entire marriage. I ran into him last winter and we started talking again, that’s all. Talking to Beau wasn’t something I ever tried to hide from my husband; Eddie never felt threatened because he knew I had zero romantic feelings toward my ex.

  But it was fun to think about.

  It was fun to dream of what my life would have been like if I’d ended up with Beau. Lounging around a pool all day; entertaining famous people at fancy dinner parties; shopping whenever I got bored. It was fun to feel wanted by someone who’d stop at nothing to have me.

  Like Eddie.

  But apparently, I had to choose between the two.

  The choice between love or money should be an easy one. When you’re young, you have the highest of ideals. Of course love is more important than money. Of course you would only marry a guy you were crazy about.

  I did. I married Eddie because I was in love with him. We had a perfect marriage until the debt became too suffocating; the pressure of everyday living just got to be too much for the both of us. Fact was, high ideals didn’t pay the bills.

  I put my hands to my face and cried for a solid five minutes before finally pulling myself together. I went in the bathroom to splash some cool water on my face and apply my makeup. Beau was on his way over to pick me up and I certainly didn’t want him to see that I’d been crying.

  He and I had been dating sporadically over the past weeks, but tonight, he was taking me out to celebrate not only Thanksgiving, but my finalized divorce. It was positively head-spinning to think how quickly the proceedings had taken. But when you had two people who weren’t contesting anything, who had no real assets to haggle over, when you were dating a guy who had lots of money to push the paperwork through and tons of connections down at the courthouse… a quickie divorce was a piece of cake.

  Divorce. God, what an ugly word. It conjured up images of loose women in questionable states of dress luring randy men to their boudoirs.

  I was holding our finalized papers in my hand when Beau, his “car,” and his driver arrived to pick me up at six o’clock. I shouldn’t have been so surprised but it was truly shocking to see a stretch limousine parked out front of my crusty building. The juxtaposition didn’t go unnoticed by Beau because he didn’t waste any time telling me that I “wouldn’t be very long for this place.” I supposed he’d already moved me into his mansion in his mind. Truth be told, it was a scenario I’d fantasized about a time or two. But having him actually say the words kind of blew my mind a little bit.

  An unexpected and unwanted side effect of dating a rich man was that I suddenly felt like a prostitute. And really, couldn’t an easy case have been made to support that? The man had paid my ex-husband for the chance to date me. He covered the money for our divorce to make me available to him like a concubine. Well, not exactly, but when you broke down the events of the past months, that’s pretty much what the situation boiled down to.

  I was shaking as he ushered me inside the car.

  “You look gorgeous, Brenda Rosalinda,” Beau teased as I settled into the plush leather seats. He always used to tack my middle name onto my first back in the day. “I knew that dress would look perfect on you.”

  I looked down at the bronze evening gown he’d bought for me the day before and smoothed my hands over my legs, ironing the shiny fabric with my palms. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

  “You’re lovely.”

  I smiled shyly, then accepted his offered glass of champagne.

  As if to hit the ground running, our date was taking place at The Shermer Heights Country Club. It was only a town away, but it may as well have been on another planet. I’d worked there as a waitress ever since high school, and always considered it a decent job. But once all my former classmates finished college and started frequenting the place as members, it started to become humiliating. How could I serve eighteen-dollar steaks to people who used to worship at my feet? I was grateful when Beau suggested I quit on our very first date. I’m ashamed to say he didn’t need to ask me twice.

  Beau ushered me out of the car and into the grand ballroom. I’d worked numerous receptions over the years, always able to keep the thought from my mind about what a fairytale princess I’d been in this very room once upon a time. But tonight, I couldn’t seem to forget it was the room where Eddie and I had celebrated our wedding vows. Tonight, I was celebrating my divorce. It made me wonder if Beau picked this place on purpose.

  His mother and father were already waiting at a prime table near the edge of the dance floor and rose to greet us as we came near. Mr. Brummel was a rather tall man, and save for the bit of middle-aged pooch across his waistline, was essentially a stretched-out version of his son. Mrs. Brummel was dripping in jewelry, the large, colorful rocks at her neck and around her wrists entirely out of proportion with her tiny frame. I hadn’t seen either of them in years, but I remembered enough about his mother to see that she’d surgically altered the ravages of time. Her face was pulled tighter than a drum; I was surprised I wasn’t looking into her eyes through her nostrils.

  “Hello,
Mrs. Brummel,” I offered, clasping her outstretched hands in my own before nodding toward her husband. “Mr. Brummel.”

  Beau beamed with pride as he announced, “Mother, Father… You remember Brenda Rinetti.”

  Brenda Rinetti. The distinction wasn’t lost on me. I wasn’t Brenda Edwards anymore and Beau seemingly couldn’t wait to shout that information from the rafters.

  Beau’s mother smiled politely as we took our seats. “Yes, of course. How have you been, Brenda? It’s been so long!”

  “I’ve been very well, thank you.”

  “Gary and I were so very pleased when we heard that you could join us for Thanksgiving supper.”

  “I was very pleased to be asked, thank you.”

  “Is your family away for the holiday?”

  The fact was, my parents were away for every holiday. Although amnesty was offered to all the draft dodgers years ago, my family remained in Canada. Even after President Carter granted a full pardon they stayed away. My parents didn’t want to come home to a country that was so willing to risk their son’s life, and my brother didn’t want to leave them behind. I hadn’t seen them in over ten years, and it had been at least two since I’d spoken to them. I was always aware that I was the black sheep of the family but it took me a full decade to realize just how low I ranked on their give-a-shit scale.

  Even still, I was tempted to answer with some elaborate scenario that would make sense of their absence: They’re skiing in Aspen or Sunning on the Riviera. But instead, I simply went with an honest, if still evasive, “They don’t live here anymore.”

  Beau draped an arm around the back of my chair. “They’re in Vancouver. They moved there while Brenda and I were in high school, remember? Thankfully, they let her stay here and went on without her.”

  Mrs. Brummel gushed, “Ah yes. I remember Beau worrying about the possibility of ‘the love of his life’ moving away.”

  Mr. Brummel grinned. “You know, young lady, this boy was ready to marry you just to keep you here.” He shook his head, snickering down at the table. “Crazy kids. Married at eighteen. Could you imagine?”

  I plastered a strained smile on my face while Beau shared a chuckle with his parents. “Well, she was my high school sweetheart. You know how serious everything seems when you’re a teenager.” He gave me a squeeze against his side. “But what do a couple of kids know about something as serious as marriage?”

  Was that a dig on Eddie and me?

  “Well, I don’t know, son,” Mr. Brummel chortled. “You two were pretty serious back then. And look at you now! You obviously knew enough.”

  Beau beamed down at me with pride. “Some bonds are meant to stand the test of time.”

  I clenched my teeth, so annoyed that I almost screamed, Stop it! Stop bringing up the past as if we have some sort of storybook history. We dated for a few months, that was it. Eddie was my high school sweetheart. Not you.

  But instead of screaming, I took a deep breath. It settled my nerves and my heart, allowing my brain to take over.

  The truth was, Beau was a great guy and he deserved more than the shut-off version of me. I’d hardly given anything of myself over these past weeks. I smiled when I was supposed to and was polite and accommodating whenever we were together but I was seldom more gracious than that. He had to know I was holding back, and I gave him a ton of credit for waiting it out.

  Just look at all he’d done for me! He allowed me to quit my dead-end job. He’d taken me to nice restaurants and hit shows. He endured my gloomy attitude and my half-smiles with the patience of a saint. Basically, he rescued me from a heartbroken funk, and for that, I was truly grateful. We’d been having fun these past weeks together.

  If I was ever going to get through this divorce in one piece, it was time to start focusing on the positive.

  I placed a hand over his and met his eyes with the first genuine smile I’d bestowed upon him in years. He grinned so wide at the change in my disposition that I thought his face was going to split open. Because of that, an unexpected giggle actually escaped from my throat as I said, “Thankfully, everything seems to be working out as it should.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Tomorrow is Today

  EDDIE

  Wednesday, February 18

  1981

  I was still half asleep and rubbing the crust from my eyes as I reached over for the glass of water on my nightstand. My mouth was so dry, and I gulped back a huge swallow… before realizing it was vodka. I wretched as I ran for the bathroom—my throat burning, my eyes watering—and spit out what I could into the sink.

  A stranger greeted me in the vanity mirror. My eyes were bloodshot; my hair was looking scraggly; the stubble at my jaw had gone unattended for much, much too long. I coughed up a lung before splashing some water on my face and rinsing out my mouth.

  I staggered back into the bedroom of my suite, the place I’d called home for the past five months, and dropped back into my rumpled sheets. Seizing the roach from the ashtray, I grabbed my lighter and took a hit. Then a second. Then I snuffed it out. I was no burnout; I just needed a little something to take the edge off every now and again.

  It seemed I had a lot of edges to deal with lately.

  I stared at the familiar water stain on the ceiling, trying to make it form into a recognizable shape. A bear? Rhode Island? A demonic monster hellbent on ripping me apart?

  The clock reminded me it was time to jog out of my stain-gazing, so I hopped in the shower and attempted to make myself presentable enough to go to work.

  * * *

  “Chef! Chef, where do you want these?” I yelled across the kitchen.

  The workers were in the middle of their choreographed dance, manifesting a steaming cacophony of boiling pots and simmering saucepans, the aromas melding together in a mouth-watering, senses-awakening mélange.

  Marciano took one look at the pile of Portobello mushrooms I’d just cleaned and de-stemmed, shaking his head at my cutting board. “I want them in a time machine and transported to tomorrow.”

  “Huh?”

  “I needed you to prep the creminis, not the Portabellos. The Portobello-filet special is tomorrow night. The Marsala is tonight.” He gave me a smack on the back of my skull as he added, “Today’s Wednesday, stunato.”

  “Shit.” My head hadn’t really been attached to my neck for the past months, but today was even harder to get into the groove. “I’m sorry. I’m on it, Chef.”

  “No, don’t bother. Put Franco on it. I need you on the pans anyway.”

  It was a shit day to begin with, but my distracted brain hadn’t helped to make it any better. By the time I got home, I was whooped both physically and mentally.

  And yet the one thing that had been hanging over my head all day still hadn’t been taken care of. I checked the clock and realized I could just make it under the wire. It wasn’t too late.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the phone and called her.

  The sound of her simple “Hello” was enough to drain the blood from my body. I hadn’t heard her voice in five months, and the shock of hearing it now was overwhelming.

  I cleared my throat and found my words. “Happy birthday, Bren.”

  “Eddie? Is that you?” Her sigh of relief was almost too much to bear. But then she pulled herself together almost immediately to ask, “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

  No. Everything sucks. This divorce sucks. The universe sucks. Life sucks.

  But instead of moaning that out loud to Bren, I lied, “Yes, Bren. Everything’s great. How about you?”

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  There was an awkward beat of silence until finally, I said, “I’m actually surprised I got you at the apartment. I guess I just figured you’d have some big birthday plans.”

  She hedged for a moment before answering. “Well, I do. This time tomorrow, I’ll be in Paris.”

  An even longer silence yawned uncomfortably as those words h
ung in the air between us. I could tell she was specifically avoiding Beau’s name but obviously, he was the person taking her to Paris. Even still, I was happy for her. She’d always wanted to go. I did, too. I just always thought I’d be the one to bring her.

  “Paris, huh?” I didn’t try to hide my disappointment.

  “Why do I feel like I need to apologize?”

  “No. I think it’s great that you’re finally getting the chance to go.”

  “But…?”

  “I just always thought we’d get there together.”

  An unspoken understanding passed between us, saying more than words ever could.

  Her inhale broke the silence before she offered, “Well, it’s late. I guess we should say goodbye.”

  Again.

  “Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.” I wondered if Brummel was right there next to her because I was surprised that she was cutting the conversation so short. Five fucking months and all I get is two minutes? “But I think in this case, maybe we should say bon voyage.”

  CHAPTER 17

  When the Money Got Tight

  BRENDA

  Monday, May 3

  1971

  There were protesters everywhere. Apparently, there was some humongous march on Washington planned for today, and it looked as though anyone who couldn’t make it down to our nation’s capital decided to carry out the demonstrations in their own neighborhood.

  In my neighborhood.

  I’d barely made it out of Hackensack, and driving through downtown Norman was a nightmare. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people had taken to the streets, blocking major intersections surrounding the courthouse. I guess the idea was to shut down the government in hopes of shutting down the war.