I’ve been working on book project for many years.

The book’s finished and I decided to put the first seven chapters up on here.

This is a bit longer than most of my posts by MANY words, but I wanted to feature a part of the book that seemed like it could also be a Novella.

Because I love music so much, it’s woven in the very fabric of this story…HERE is the spotify songlist for our heroine’s…the inimitable CHARLIE WOOD…journey.

Enjoy and, as always, thank you all for following along.

S x

 

 

 

4  7     o n     T  I  N  D  E  R 

 

 

By Sharron Matthews

 

 

 

 

 

 

T h i s   i s   a   W o r k   o f   F i c t i o n

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

PART ONE: THE FUCKENING 

In about seven months, Spotify will inform me…via my stupid year in review…that I listened to JULIANNA CALM DOWN (sung by an equally pissed off and devastated Natalie Maines) one-thousand-seven-hundred-and-fifty-three times…

…in one fucking month. 

Breathe. 

It’s all fucking fucked. 

 

 

THE FUCKENING BEGINS

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this alone. 

After twenty-seven years of being part of a fairly celebrated WE, unexpectedly, I’m just a shellshocked ME. And I wasn’t prepared for this rebranding in any way, shape or form. Not even a little.

How the hell did this shit happen?

I’ve always prided myself on being the person who can see a blindside coming. My life’s been spent calculating risks, learning to be unshakeable and smarter than your average bear. 

I’m fucking furious at myself for not seeing this betrayal a mile away. 

Or…maybe I did see it…did I?

Before I can pop that last blister, my iPhone lights up.

During these last two terrible days, my phone’s been a consistent source of super shitty news, so I’m a more than a bit wary of it, to say the VERY least. 

Leaning over a cheap IKEA side table that I suspect was originally someone’s crappy patio furniture, I squint at my phone.

There are text alerts from Ben, Joan, Matt and my sister Clara…and…I lean in closer…one from Frank.

Frank sent me a fucking text.  

I drop the phone back on the table like it’s covered in poop.

This notification from my husband…my husband?…from Frank saps every bit of the energy I have left inside of me.

Well, I can’t open ANYONE’S text now, because if I do, I will HAVE to open his text, because I’m a raw nerve with no impulse control and I dearly want him to say that he’s coming to get me and that he loves me best BUT I’m fairly sure THAT’S not what his text says at all.

Tucking my hands under my thighs, I hold my breath till the screen finally goes dark. 

And then I sit. And sit. Alone. 

All the people who ran to me when I called, who’ve propped me up since yesterday, are now safely back with their wonderful families, with their thoughtful sweethearts, boyfriends and husbands, with their unconditionally loving ride-or-die animals, and each supportive, sane one of them is probably whispering a prayer of thanks that they’re not in my current position…which is a state I can best describe as mid-emotional car crash.

I totally get their relief because, god knows, I really wish I wasn’t me either.

They’ve all texted to remind me that they’re just a call away, in case I send out a 911 AND/OR I’m thinking of doing SOMETHING DRASTIC, the last of which didn’t really occur to me till one of them said those two words, while they held my hair as I vomited a half a bagel with peanut butter into the toilet. Something DRASTIC? 

Oh. 

THIS is the sort of event when people in my position sometimes do something they can NEVER take back. 

You know what I’m saying. 

The reason I might do SOMETHING DRASTIC? Well, the man who changed my whole life the moment he told me he would never hurt me on purpose…well, THAT MAN went out about twenty years later and changed my life again by doing that very thing.

HE HURT ME ON PURPOSE.
He cheated on me. For eight months. Eight fucking fuckety fuck fuck months.

FRANK CAMPBELL CHEATED ON ME!

For two solid days, those five words have been playing over and over in my brain on a never ending neon loop that’s so relentless, I can barely function.

Now, as his unread text sits on my phone like a landmine, the FRANK CAMPBELL CHEATED ON ME ticker-tape abruptly recalibrates to…
 

YOU ARE TOTALLY ALONE! FOREVER!

 

It’s been twenty-seven years since I was totally alone. 

TWENTY.

SEVEN.

YEARS.

How will I manage this FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE? 

My hands start to shake and my breath gulps in my dry throat and I think…I think…I think I’m going to fucking lose IT. 

Oh my god, if I lose my mind in this shitty fucking apartment all alone, who’ll find me? Do I call 911? Do I call my friends? Do I call my sister? DO I CALL FRANK?! What if I lose it every day and have to call 911 every night for the rest of my life? 

This is your life now. 

You are all alone and people who are all alone die alone and sometimes no one knows for days…weeks, months even.

FRANK CAMPBELL, THE MAN YOU TRUSTED WITH ALL YOUR SECRETS, KISSED SOMEONE ELSE AND YOU WILL PROBABLY DIE…ALONE. 

Everything inside me reacts BADLY all at once.

I jump up from the couch like my ass is on fire and madly pace all five hundred and fifty square feet of this stupid sublet.
Suddenly, I walk STRAIGHT towards a wall and stop with my face so close to the surface that I can smell my own two day-old puke breath coming right back at me.
Pressing my palms and forehead against the mint green drywall, the bumps in the cheap paint burrow into my skin…which actually feels kinda good. 

Maybe…maybe if I die here, it would make everything easier. 

What? 

SOMETHING DRASTIC.

Jesus. NO. 

Come back. Get into your right brain. Or left brain. FUCK.
Whichever side of the brain it is that likes to count and hates to feel…get THERE. Use your fucking words. Make a fucking list. 

My name is Charlie Wood.

I got cheated on, am presently losing my mind, am alone as fuck, might possibly die, am super scared AND I make great lists.

See? I just made one.
I usually arrange things into lists to keep myself calm and focused.

While I’m not very confident it’ll work this time, I try it anyway, because I’m pretty fucking desperate.

I push away from the wall, walk over to my desk, grab my computer, sit down on the shitty sublet couch next to the crap IKEA table and start to type…

LIST OF ME RIGHT NOW

EYES: They look and feel like I was TKO’d at the end of a twenty-eight round prize fight.
I’ve cried for almost two full days…so far.
Sobbing, wracking tears, noisy tears and they just keep coming. It never stops. I can’t turn it off.
I’ve never been in a place where I COULD NOT stop myself from crying and it’s pretty fucking scary.
How does your body make this much saltwater? And snot.

STOMACH: My stomach is a solid grey rock combination of sadness and an anger so primal that I can barely push anything down my throat because the sadness/anger combo pushes it right back up and out.

THROAT: There’s this clicking thing that’s happening in the very back of my throat when I try to talk or breathe. I think it’s what a doctor would call a tick and WebMD would call cancer.
I’ve never had a tick before. It’s like even my throat can’t stand telling anyone this story OR having to swallow it myself.

BODY: I’m fucking exhausted AND I believe that I’ve had the last full night of sleep that I will EVER get in my life, and I didn’t even know it at the time, so I didn’t even get to enjoy it.

MIND: For the last 48 hours my mind has been a Cirque D’ Soleil extravaganza of stab-me-with-a-knife thoughts and memories.

LIST OF ME SUBLIST OF LOOPING THOUGHTS, IDEAS AND MEMORIES

1. The day Frank asked me to marry him at the smallest, dustiest Indian restaurant in Toronto. He broke into a flop sweat when he tried to get the little wooden box out of his pocket and I realized with SHOCK AND SURPRISE that he was going to ask me to marry him. How often do we TRULY get to be surprised? Well, as of yesterday, it turns out for me, it’s twice.  FUCK OFFFFF. 

2. The summer Frank got the mononucleosis and I asked Dr. Oliphant if a person could catch it from blow jobs and she looked at me like I was an idiot. (The answer is yes you can and no I didn’t, so fuck you Dr. Oliphant)

3. Frank driving us around Toronto in my 1984 Honda Prelude, which I’d named Mona. I was in the passenger seat with my arm draped on his shoulder and I put my hand on the very back of his neck and passed my fingers over a little mole that hid under his thick, black, curly hair. A little shiver passed through him and he turned to look at me for a second before turning his eyes back to the road. That look was hungry and happy. No one had EVER looked at me that way.
   I let my guard down that day. I felt totally safe for the first time in…well, almost ever. Fuck me. I get why people drink and take drugs.

4. FANTASY. Before I fall into whatever disjointed unconsciousness this situation allows at the end of the day, I fantasize about murder and if I am going to be specific, it’s choking. I’m leaning towards choking because I imagine one can see the light leaving someone’s eyes as they go. I think I saw that on Netflix somewhere…AND people tell you murder docs aren’t helpful.

5. Our wedding day. The Church. We got married in a church even though neither one of us was religious, but simply because I decided that I wanted a huge Bridezilla wedding because YOU ONLY GET MARRIED ONCE!! FUCK OFFFFFF! 

6. Frank. Frank. Frank. FRANK. FRANK. The man I’ve known for over half my life, who I met when I was sixteen years old, the man I trust(ed) with everything IN my life, cheated on me. He lived WHOLE OTHER life and hid it from me like a spy. HOW DID HE DO THIS!?!? He’s a musician for fuck sakes! He’s late for everything and forgets where his wallet is EVERY GODDAMNED DAY.

7. Just after we were married, we had a huge argument and I accused him of trying to hurt me deliberately.  He went white and said words that changed the way I saw my life and our marriage from that moment forward. He said, “Charlie, I would never hurt you on purpose.” And like Whitney Houston in the film of the same name…I finally exhaled.
   For the first time in my entire fucking life, I leaned away from fight or flight and decided to really trust someone. I leaned into Frank Campbell like he was the answer. 

 

I stop typing, put my hands in my lap and run that moment over and over again in my head.

“Charlie, I would never hurt you on purpose.” 

I scroll back up and read everything I’ve written. Twice. 

After a long stare out the window I take a shaky breath and put my fingers back on the home keys.

Frank Campbell, the most trustworthy person I’ve ever known lied to me.  

He lied to my face, to my back, to my front, all while telling me he loved me…while probably telling someone else he loved them, too…for eight months, almost an entire year. 

Frank Campbell finally hurt me on purpose. 

The old me…the me from before Frank who still lives inside my spirit…is very I-TOLD-YOU-SO.

 

 

*********

 

 

 

The FUCKENING Continues

That’s it. That’s the list. 

Well, THAT’S literally shittiest list I’ve ever made. 

I will say THIS though, it never ceases to amaze me how list-making helps me access my sense of humour, even during a devastating time like this, which is probably something that I need to talk to a therapist about. 

A therapist. Dear god, I will FOR SURE need a therapist.

GET A THERAPIST.

A few weeks ago, I came across a meme that defined a shitty happening as A FUCKENING, and goddamn it, I cannot think of a better way to describe this situation I find myself in and I’m sure my new therapist will agree. 

Suddenly, I find myself yelling at my computer…

ME: THE FUCKENING!!! THAT FUCKER!!!! 

I spit out the word FUCKER so hard, that my throat clicks that weird click that might be cancer. 

Jesus, keep writing, just write anything.

Since this is the only plan that I’ve come up with since I started fantasizing about choking, I grab onto it like it contains the cure for…cancer…and start typing again. 

HOW DID I GET HERE?

Okay…well…

I’m sitting alone in a tiny, stupid sublet apartment that was meant for me and Frank, my (cheating) husband of twenty-five years. Well, almost twenty-five years.

This year will…this year would have been our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Jesus. Breathe. Throat click.

We just moved into this tiny apartment a couple of months ago.

Moving in the winter is always fun, but we didn’t have to move much because the place is furnished, so to speak.
As I’ve already mentioned, it’s stupidly small.
I’d been touring for work when Frank found the place, so I didn’t get a chance to see it beforehand.
Frank picked it and I trusted him, like always.

The day we got the keys, I unlocked the door, walked to the middle of the space and tried to mentally unpack HOW small the place actually was.
Frank’s guitar would literally take up an eighth of the apartment.

The style of furniture and decoration was…is…80’s community college boy dormitory chic.
After I toured the entire apartment, which took all of twenty seconds, I cleared my throat to announce that I was going to say something uncomfortable. 

ME (Cautiously): Frank…this place…well, it’s REALLY small.

Frank loomed by the front door.

FRANK (TERSELY): It’ll be fine.

Terse and disappointed had been his overall mood for a good long while, so I bit my tongue and tried to be positive, which was my overall state for about two years.  

WAIT.
Oh my god.
Did he have a plan? Did Frank find a place that was perfect for one? Did he pick this fucking depressing place to leave me in ON PURPOSE? Did Frank Campbell have a plan for me…for MY LIFE…that he never let me in on?

I put aside the computer and scream into a questionable smelling throw pillow for about ten minutes, then cry for about twenty minutes, get up, pour a scotch, shoot it down my throat, pour another, grab the bottle, put it and the FULL glass of scotch on the crappy IKEA side table, then pick the MACBOOK back up.

For about thirty more minutes I sit still, just breathing, thinking and drinking, before I start typing again. 

I’m turning fifty this year.
Yup, just a mere three days after what would’ve been our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, I will turn fifty.

Read that again.
No matter how many times I try to put a band aid on this whole gaping-wound of a situation, nothing keeps the blood spurting more than my impending fiftieth birthday and what would have been our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Since the day we decided to share our lives, Frank and I’d kinda obsessively talked about and planned our fiftieth birthdays, as well as our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Frank’s one year and twenty days older than me, so our birthdays are over a year apart, but in the same month…May. 

THE LUSTY MONTH OF MAY, a song from the old school musical Camelot, is the song we sang when we pie-in-the-skied about our three big yearly celebrations. 

He didn’t know the tune at first, but after I taught it to him, he’d belt it out with me in a fake opera voice. 

For most of our marriage The Lusty Month of May was indeed a VERY big obnoxious and wonderful deal…and I really love that. 

I loved that. 

I loved him.

I loved that, I loved him AND the idea of him, but mostly I loved us. I reeeally loved us. 

For more than half of my lifetime, Frank Campbell was my permanent Saturday night date and constant travel companion.
And we really did travel and date…as only child free couples can…for work AND for fun.
London, Paris, New York, Paris, Belize, Auckland, Dublin, Edinburgh, Mykonos and more.

As we circled the globe together, we planned our future in creaky beds with questionable sheets AND California Kings with thousand thread count pillowcases because when we had money, we spent it. 

Every single night, before we fell asleep, Frank whispered something in my ear that would have made me barf up until HE said it to me for the very first time, the night he asked me to marry him. 

FRANK: Is there ANY team better than us, Bub? 

Just after we got engaged, Frank suggested that we get TASTEFUL tattoos on our fiftieth birthdays…tattoos of each other’s names. I thought he was FOR SURE joking.

FRANK: Well, where you you want your name to go, Bub? 

He waved his hands over the top of his body like a magician.

I barely hesitated. 

ME: I want it right smack in the middle of your butt….with the R riiiiiiight in the crack of your ass.

We were in our early twenties, lying on a mattress on the floor of our first apartment.

He tucked my upper body in the crook of his arm, my head bounced on his chest as we laughed and laughed. 

I reached under him, grabbing his almost non-existent ass and he screamed like a schoolgirl. 

When we finally caught our breath, he looked me dead in the eye, and grandly proclaimed, 

FRANK: Fuck it. I wanna do it right now! Right now! Let’s go. 

I looked up at him like he was Jesus. 

He meant it.

He really meant it. 

Never in my life had anyone been so unconditionally sure of their love for me, that they would burn the evidence of it into their skin.
It took my breath away.

Pulling my hand away from his ass, I spread it across the warm skin over his heart. 

ME: No, let’s wait till THE ULTIMATE Lusty Month of May.

FRANK (bellows): It’s MAY! IT’S MAAAAAAAY! 

I laugh, nuzzling my face into his chest.

FRANK: Are you sure? I kinda wanna do it now.

ME: No. No…really…let’s get the tattoos after we’ve lived a bunch of life together. I want to get it done when we have a million stories to tell each other AS we do it. 

I look up at Frank to see him staring at down me in wonder…like I was magic. 

FRANK: Okay, Bub. Then we’ll wait. We’ll wait FOR MAAAAAYYYYY!

I wanted us to go the distance and have that tattoo celebrate something that we saw through to the completion date.

I wanted to honour the occasion on our fifty year old bodies. 

And now?

I FUCKING, FUCKING WISH WE HAD GOTTEN UP AND DRIVEN TO THE TATTOO PARLOUR RIGHT THEN.

I WISH IT SO FUCKING HARD. 

I     W I S H     IT. 

                              (ASS CHEEK) C H A   (ASS) R (CRACK)    L I E (ASS CHEEK)

What a LOVELY reminder of me that would’ve been.
My seven letter name, bold as fire and immovable as the pyramids on his ass crack…forever. This person he’d emotionally cheated with would have to see it every time he was naked in front of her.

He WILL most probably be naked in front of her. 

They’ll lay down naked, like we did and dream about things. 

My heart aches like it’s being squeezed from the inside of my chest. 

Reaching past my computer, I pour more scotch into my glass and drain the tumbler. 

He never ended up getting that tattoo. 

Last year, in the middle of his two year long terse and disappointed phase, it just seemed totally out of the question.

I never even brought it up, because we had bigger fish to fry at that point and I didn’t want to risk his temper, but fuck, that loss gutted me.

Yeah, I really wish we’d gone to the tattoo parlour that way -back day.

My iPhone lights up again. 

Putting aside the empty glass of scotch, I grab it and see a text from my friend Molly in Florida.

The booze makes me brave enough to open her text and somehow ONLY her text.

MOLLY IN FLORIDA: REMEMBER CHARLIE, YOU’RE NOT SPECIAL. YOU’VE GOT THIS. I LOVE YOU. PLEASE GIVE ME HER ADDRESS. 

* FLASHBACK PHONE CALL

MOLLY IN FLORIDA ON THE PHONE WITH ME YESTERDAY: I’m going to tell you something that you’re not going to like, Charlie….you’re not special. This happens to millions of women every day. You aren’t special. You WILL get over it. I got over it. You WILL too. And I love you. BUT tell me where that bitch works and I’ll get Dan to drive me over there. You know how I am not allowed to drive, right now? BUT DAN will drive me! I will give that bitch a fucking piece of my mind. It’s the least I can do. DAAAAN!!! DAAAAAAAN!! GET THE FUCKING CAR, DAN!!!

* END OF FLASHBACK PHONE CALL

This woman that Frank cheated with lives in Florida. 

FLORIDA, of all places, is 2,175.5 miles away from here. This I know because I googled it, and then called Molly, the person I knew who was closest to the scene of the crime, to rage about it all. 

Frank EMOTIONALLY cheated on me with a woman thousands of miles away and I somehow managed NOT to give Molly this woman’s work information, which I also googled, right after I googled the words EMOTIONAL CHEATING. 

Though I was pretty sure I knew what it meant, I wanted to be certain.

“Emotional cheating happens when you establish a close, intimate connection with someone who isn’t your partner. You can generally tell emotional infidelity apart from simple friendship because your interactions often involve some sexual tension or romantic attraction.”

God, I will REALLY need a therapist. I scroll back and type a star beside it on my list.

Twenty-four years after we got married…after he told my mother he would never cheat on me (which, I know, is a red flag BUT back then it just seemed kinda sweet)…he marched right down (2,175.5 miles) to Florida, walked into a bar, met a life coach/Rebon saleswoman and did exact thing he promised my mother he would NEVER do.
Then for eight months he put me through hell, constantly making me think I was crazy, while he emotionally cheated (for definition, see above) with a life coach from Florida. 

My friend Devon named her the CRYPT KEEPER.

Ben, my friend in Regina, called her OLD BOOT FACE.

These two names came from the one sketchy screen cap of a photo of this life coach that I sent them in a group text labeled THIS FUCKING BITCH. 

They haven’t even had the time to come up with something better yet.

Oh, but but they will. 

That’s what friends are for.

I look over at the bottle of scotch.

Somehow, it’s empty.

I think I’m fucking drunk.

I stop typing to really take stock of my drunkenness, and as I do, the room spins…and spins…and spins.

Putting aside the computer as delicately as my state will allow, I manage to get down on all fours and crawl back to my favourite new place…the tiny bathroom of this stupid fucking sublet…to wait out the coming storm.

There’s been a lot of puking over the last two days. 

The last thing I remember after laying down on the cold tile floor, is the moment my busted-ass guardian angel reminded me to turn myself on my side so I wouldn’t choke on my own vomit. 

 

 

*********

 

 

 

Frank hates Ed Sheeran.

I love Ed Sheeran. 

I really love a song called SAVE MYSELF by Ed Sheeran.

Frank hated the song called SAVE MYSELF…he said it was too earnest. 

As I lay on the floor of my tiny, stupid bathroom I earnestly hum the tune of SAVE MYSELF a least three hundred times. 

It’s called dressing for the job you want, right? 

 

 

The BATHROOM FLOOR 

This tiny, stupid and depressing bathroom has no windows and in order to lay down on the floor I had to close the door, so I have no idea what time it is.

I’ve been lying here for a while and that’s fine by me.

I’m very dehydrated, BUT I refuse to go to the hospital for dehydration due to copious puking, some of it alcohol related. I’m fairly sure that any ER doctor would take one look at me and admit me to the Psych Ward, which is another nightmare of mine. 

So, I took matters into my own hands, rifling through the medicine cabinet till I found a motion-sickness suppository left over from a trip to Cuba, and stuck it straight up my ass.

The fringe benefit is there’s still some scotch in my blood stream, which is now mixed with a muscle relaxant. Now, I feel floaty and thirsty.

It’s all very Valley of the Dolls.

Also, I’m pretty sure the suppository was well past it’s due date, much like my marriage to Frank Campbell.

To rehydrate, I’m drinking tiny sips of mint-flavoured water out of the toothbrush holder, and have wetted Frank’s washcloth…I’m pretending it’s the only one I could find…and put it on my head, which is gross, yet comforting.  

If there’s a bottom of the barrel, I would like to believe that this is it, but I’m fairly certain I’ve got a ways to go. 

God, I hope this isn’t how they find me, whoever THEY are. 

As I continue the work of just laying there on the bathroom floor, between bouts of humming Frank’s least favourite Ed Sheeran song, I keep playing the last day of my marriage over in my head, from the moment it started till the moment I was suddenly not part of a couple anymore.

TWO NIGHTS AGO.

About 11pm, I was sitting in the corner of the tiny, stupid sublet couch, watching a movie, under a blanket with a heating pad on my tummy, waiting for Frank to come home from his friend’s house. 

He walked through the door to this tiny, stupid apartment and as I greeted him with a smile, he just started rambling…and rambling…and inside all of that fucking rambling, my brain zero’d in on these words:

FRANK: I broke our marriage. 

As Frank talked on and on, he moved to the tiny, stupid kitchen of this tiny, stupid apartment.

He leaned his hip against the kitchen island VERY dramatically, putting the counter between us like a shield.

It was very surreal, it felt like…well…it was like he was acting in a play.

It was as if he’d gone over and over what he was going to say to me, and how he was going to say it, a million times.
But I suppose he probably had.
While he kept talking and talking, I stopped listening but kept hearing and my soul lifted out of my body. 

ME to ME: What is this? What the fuck is this? What’s happening? What the high holy fuck is happening?

Even with the heating pad, my whole body started to shivere, my ears started to ring and I felt like I was falling.

The very first coherent thing that ran through my mind was this little nugget:

Ug. This is going to take forever to get over.

When he finally ran out of dialogue and the tiny, stupid room went silent, I asked him the same question millions of people have asked their spouses since the dawn of the marriage union…

ME: Is there someone else?

SILENCE OF THE AGES.

FRANK: Yeah. Yes, there is.

With his eyes focused on the cheap floor tiles of the tiny, stupid kitchen, Frank admitted that he’d been having an EMOTIONAL affair with a woman for eight months.

Gag.
I start gagging.

My mind raced back to the day he told me he wanted to go away BY HIMSELF for his fiftieth birthday, somewhere warm and near the ocean, eight months before. 

Yes, after all the years of dreaming and planning, one day, he suddenly PROCLAIMED that he wanted to be alone on his fiftieth birthday, in Florida…again, of all places. 

EIGHT MONTHS AGO

Frank and I are sitting in the living room of our house that’s not the tiny, stupid apartment.

ME: Florida?

FRANK: Yeah, I think it’s the best thing for me…for us…right now. 

Speechless. 

I thought NOTHING would ever supersede our big three celebrations, not even this really shitty time in our marriage. 

THIS belief was the keystone of my hope that we would eventually be fine. 

All those plans, all those nights of dreaming together, all started slipping away as the first instalment of our ultimate two Lusty Month of Mays… his fiftieth birthday, a day we’d talked about for two decades…became a tattoo-less, solo music trip to fucking Florida.

Then Frank started trying to make it ALL make sense.

HE: I’ve not been in this for a long time…in us…and I see how much it hurts you, which…which is killing me. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, but babe, I’m numb. Losing the band, losing my…well…losing my music…it’s all fucked me up so bad. I can’t feel…anything. I need to go somewhere and remember how how much I love SOMETHING…love playing…love music…even if I can’t do it the way I used to…so I can come back and remind myself how much I really love you. I want to find myself again, babe…BE myself. I know it’s shitty…and I know this hurts you…but it hurts me too. I’ve been thinking really hard about it, and it’s what I need to do. Being away with you and being unhappy…well, I think that would be worse than anything. Can you please understand? In a way, this is for us. It really is, babe.

My mind scrolled right past Frank not remembering how to love me, straight to the fact that Frank hadn’t talked about making music for so long…so, it seemed like this could possibly be a good thing? 

Couldn’t a good thing be wrapped up in a really, really shitty thing?

So, I let him make it make sense, no matter how much it hurt me.

And it hurt me a lot.
I kept telling myself over and over again to have faith that we’d be fine.

So, with my mixed blessing, in the Lusty Month of May Frank went to Florida…alone.

BACK TO HIM BREAKING OUR MARRIAGE IN THE TINY, STUPID APARTMENT.

We stare at each other. 

I have NO idea what he’s thinking, which is astounding to me. 

ME: Where did you meet her? How did you meet her? Who is she? DO I KNOW HER!?!?

FRANK: No, no, you don’t know her. I met her…I met her in Florida last year, on my birthday.

He says it like it’s almost nothing.

And water flies out of my eyes…just flies RIGHT OUT OF MY EYES…I cannot talk for a good five minutes. Then…

ME:  Did you..did you kiss her?

He looks either surprised that I’ve asked OR surprised that I’d even considered that he’d NOT kissed a woman I didn’t even know existed till twenty-three minutes ago, I cannot tell which. 

FRANK: Yeah, Charlie. I kissed her. 

When Frank admits it…like he’d been caught necking under the bleachers…when he admits that he met another woman on one of OUR special days, and that he kissed her, my heart doesn’t race, it slows slow down.
My heart breaks.
I swear to god I feel it crack in half inside my chest.
I’d never imagined that real life could be so physically poetic.

I stare at Frank as he continues to lean against the tiny, stupid kitchen counter, still unable to look at me.

My eyes scour every inch of him, trying to SEE Frank, my Frank, the Frank of our wedding day, the Frank driving around with me in Mona, the Frank who softly smoothed aloe all over my ass when I got a sunburn after he coaxed to onto a naked beach in Mykonos, the Frank who used to sing with me whenever I asked, the Frank I would do anything for…including pretending to not be devastated when he decided to go to Florida…and I don’t see him.

He’s not there anymore and I realize that he’s not been there for at least eight months.

And it’s about the third most surprising thing I’ve discovered since the moment he asked me to marry him. 

My chest aches so hard I have to close my eyes, and I swear to god I put my hand up to my left breast to try and pinch my heart back into one piece, then I run to the bathroom and puke.

BACK ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR. ALONE.

I bawl.

My hand is back over my cracked heart, to keep the pieces safe, to keep them in place.

There is literally no feeling of time passing, I just lay there on the tiny, stupid bathroom floor, and bawl.

And my mind rewinds back to the top. 

TWO NIGHTS AGO.

About 11pm, I was sitting in the corner of the stupid sublet couch, watching a movie, under a blanket with a heating pad on my tummy, waiting for Frank to come home from his friend’s house…

 

 

*********

 

 

 

I’d never listened to Van Morrison before Frank. 

I’d never listened to a lot of music before Frank.

We must have listened to INTO THE MYSTIC together at least ten thousand times. 

Huh. I never really thought about it before, but after Frank and I started dating, I stopped listening to music that I loved and instead always chose music that he loved when we got in Mona for a drive. 

I think…I think this is when I started to lose myself

Keys To the KIA

I stayed on the bathroom floor all night.

At 8:00am, my phone alarm went off. 

THIS morning I had to leave the tiny, stupid apartment.

I know. 

I was outside in world for what seemed like hours.

HOURS. 

There was an appointment I couldn’t change, also, I HAD to get my roots done.

When you’re an actress, you can’t fuck with your appearance, no matter the disaster. This truth comes with age and a mortgage. 

So, OUT THERE I went, interacting with people, like some sort of weird, pretend human.

One of those people I had to see…was Frank.

It was about as awful as I imagined it would be.

The physical and emotional transformation from floor-of-the-tiny-stupid-bathroom Charlie to almost-outdoor-worthy Charlie required a Herculean effort, and I STILL looked like the bottom of a shoe.

Acting like a person whose life isn’t totally fucked up is the hardest role I’ve taken on since I played a seventy year old German maid in theatre school when I was eighteen.

The outside world was a shock to the system.  

It was a warm winter day, so everyone was chatting on their phones, drinking fancy coffees, laughing with each other,  and looking peaceful for no apparent reason.

AND I stood in the middle of ALL of them like a bubbling volcano, wanting to scream and scream and kick shit and scream.

When I greeted my longtime hair guru, Jim, I pretended nothing was happening. 

On the way there, I’d decided to act like I was totally fine. I’m an actress, how hard could it be? 

As I walked through the glass doors to his fancy salon, Jim looked me up and down, closed up his Tupperware chopped salad, and led me to the back room, where I promptly fell to pieces.

He fixed up my roots in that back room, where no one could see me.

Instead of his salad, he ate up every inch of my shitty tale, wiped my tears and snot and told me Frank was dead to him…and meant it. Then he offered to finally give me bangs.

God bless, Jim. 

At least my hair looks good.

I declined the bangs. Jim was relieved. 

Much later, after my first shitty day out in the world was finally done, I literally ran straight back into the blessed silence of the tiny, stupid apartment.

Closing the front door behind me, I dropped everything in my arms onto the floor with a loud and satisfying thud, then for about twenty minutes I stood there at the front door…in the dark.

As my nervous system settled, I searched for the light switch AND my hand bumped into a little shelf. Something clanged onto the cheap laminate floor. 

When the lights came on, I saw the keys to our KIA lying on the ground.

Frank must have left them on the shelf after he dropped the car off earlier in the evening.

He’d placed the keys JUST inside the door.

I imagine he stayed as close to the entrance as possible, so he wouldn’t have to come all the way into the tiny, stupid apartment that stunk of my scotch barf and his lingering bullshit.

At some point during those twenty minutes I stood in the dark, I realized that this fucking tiny, stupid, now smelly apartment has become my safe place. Which is good, because I’m gonna have to keep living here till I can get my shit together.

I stared down at the car keys for a moment, then walked past them to throw open the dirty patio door, taking off every piece of clothing I was wearing as I went and leaving it where it landed. 

Me and this place needed an airing out.  

We’d made a plan to meet up after my hair appointment, in a neutral place, to talk about all the grown up things that need to be maintained through this event, because business… like hair growth and that Celine Dion song from Titanic…inexplicably goes on.

Credit cards, bill payments, insurance payments, bank accounts, new apartment rental fees and a mortgage all still need to be paid. 

Besides renting the tiny, stupid apartment, Frank and I own a beautiful house. I house that I love, and always proclaimed I would happily die inside of, in a small town called New Brighton.

While we could just barely afford the second place in Toronto, Frank had (finally) gotten a new job in the city, and we decided to bite the bullet. 

This seemed like a good move for the Wood-Campbell’s, a positive move, a really hopeful move. 

During today’s meeting, Frank announced that he’s looking to rent an apartment from his friend Hal until we…figure out what happens next. 

That’s how he said it.

FRANK: …until we…figure out what happens next. 

Now, we’ll have three places and not nearly enough money for all of them, which is NOT a great move…until we…figure out what happens next. 

Before I arrive at our appointed meeting place this afternoon, I pull the KIA over to the side of the road and type out a LIST of things into my phone I want to remember to say to him.

I’m afraid that once I see him, I’ll forget everything I need to talk about and lose my shit.

And I do NOT want to seem pathetic, or forget anything that would require more contact between us, at least not while I’m still raw as meat. 

Though I suddenly hate him, I also love him, which is just about the worst TWO-THINGS-CAN-BE-TRUE-AT-ONCE thing ever. 

Staying away from him as much as possible seems to be key to maintaining what sanity I have left. 

As I finish my list of marital administration points, I pause for one moment and then type in… 

BE BRAVE 

…to remind myself. 

My probable throat cancer clicks. 

I put my hands over my eyes and, MUCH TO MY CONTINUING FRUSTRATION, loudly fall apart.

Again. 

For the hundredth time in two days. 

FUCKING ENOUGH ALREADY.

Parked by the curb, on some Toronto street I don’t remember ever being on before, I continue to out-of-control cry.

People are staring, but not TOO much, it IS Toronto, after all. 

This has to stop, Charlie. 

Now. 

You will NOT cry in front of him.

You will NOT. 

I wipe at my face, close my eyes and, make another list…a mental list. 

 

THE SUM TOTAL OF MY MARRIAGE TO FRANK CAMPBELL

Fifteen good years 

Two okay years

Eight challenging years

Two shitty years

 

Frank NEVER wanted to go to counselling, no matter how many times I pushed the subject during the last ten years.

And I pushed it. 

Then yesterday evening, as we planned today’s upcoming meeting on text…my responses delivered from the bathroom floor…Frank floated the idea of going to couples therapy.

ME: WHAT!?!? We’re way past counselling!  Do you want to get back together? Do you want to be with this life coach woman? I’m so fucking confused, Frank. What do you want?? What??!?!?

FRANK: I really want to talk about us. I want to try and work this out and if we can’t work this out, I’d like us to be still friends. I really think we could get past this somehow, Charlie.

Frank calling me by my name, ON TEXT, gave me mental whiplash.

He’s called me BUB or BABE for years. 

FOR YEARS AND YEARS. 

I had no idea how to respond, to the question of couples therapy or the shape of my name on his texts, so I stay silent.  

When he left the tiny, stupid apartment two and a half days ago with my favourite suitcase…I’ll get to that…he hadn’t said if he still wanted to be with me or if he wanted to be with this new person.

The tiny sliver of hope I’m still harbouring makes me hate myself.

BUT it’s confusing. 

HE’S confusing. 

Also, I NOW know that he’s a pretty skilled liar, a new reality I’m still trying to wrap my head around. 

What’s Frank up to?

Frank Campbell’s always been a bit cowardly.

There. I said it. 

To be fair, EVERYONE is a bit cowardly in their own way, BUT I want to focus on Frank’s cowardliness for a second. 

Controversial Thought:

I think most couples don’t really process the things about their partners that are REAL flaws. To become a head cheerleader in someone’s life, you can be aware of something shitty about them BUT not really build a belief system around it. It’s just something about them that you kinda ignore.

Being that Frank can be a bit cowardly…god, it feels so fucking good to write that…I’m pretty sure he wants to lead me to his therapist, so he can bring our marriage to a sad conclusion with the help of a mediator.

Some place where I might not be able to choke him to death because there’s another person present. 

Might. 

No, I don’t think he wants me anymore, which feels real and absolutely devastating.

The night Frank dropped his cheating-bomb AND the next morning before he left the stupid apartment with my favourite suitcase, I kept trying to get him to admit he wants to be without me, but he wouldn’t.

He just would not fucking do it. 

NUT UP, FRANK. 

Parked by the curb on a street I don’t know, I start to scream and hit the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn a few times. 

ME: NUT UP, FRANK!!!! FUCKING NUT UP!!! (HONK! HONK!)

Someone walking by looks inside the car, concerned. 

I wipe my eyes and, because I’m too proud not to, fix up my face.

Taking a DEEP breath, I start the KIA  up and I go. 

Rounding a corner, I spy our other car…a big old silver Volvo…parked in front of a little community park, on a cul de sac. 

The back of his head is visible through the rear view window and I can see he’s texting.

I’m disgusted to discover that part of me’s looking forward to seeing him.

My throat clicks over and over again as I park. 

He keeps texting.

I make a bargain with myself that if I get through whatever’s about to happen without crying, I can eat chips and dip till I puke.

I get out of the KIA, walk twenty-two steps to the other car, open the passenger door, and slide into a seat I’ve sat in for about twelve years.

Volvo’s last forever.

The door slams beside me and we’re quiet. 

We don’t even look at each other.

Everything in the Volvo smells like married, looks like married, sounds like married and when he finally turns to me…

FRANK: You got your hair done, looks good. How are you…Charlie?

He stumbles on my name.

When I don’t respond, because my clicking throat wouldn’t let me, Frank just starts talking. 

He tells the SAME long, rehearsed story….AGAIN.

He broke our marriage, he’s sorry, I’m the strongest person he knows, we can get past this…but this time he adds…

FRANK: …and I love you. 

I sit still as death, my IPHONE list clutched in my sweaty hands as he continues on, like what he just said was nothing. 

He loves me. 

THIS is the first time he’s said those words, UNPROMPTED, in probably two years.

I know this because he used to sing it, say it, yell it and whisper it every fucking day.

It’s pretty obvious when something like that stops, and the same amount of obvious when it starts again. 

I’ve been waiting for him to say I LOVE YOU since the night he first claimed to break our marriage, but now it feels haunted, manipulative and conditional.

No one who loves someone does THIS to them…for eight months.

While Frank reprises his tiny, stupid kitchen performance of almost four days ago, I stare out the passenger seat window at the small park, where young, single people are bundled up, throwing balls for their sweater wearing dogs and 30-ish year old underdressed hipster-type parents are pushing their snowsuit engulfed kids on swings. 

Will I ever feel normal again? 

FRANK: I should have taken you to Florida…I should have…I know that now…

How the fuck did I let him go to Florida, alone?

What happened to me? 

When did I start requiring so little in every way, in return for my love? 

Around the same time he stopped saying I LOVE YOU without me saying it first, he stopped hugging me back…like REALLY hugging me back…and we were champion huggers.

He started to hug me like I was his Mom, or a friend.

And the I LOVE YOU and the HUGS are just two hard losses I can think of off the top of my head. 

Oh, wow, I can almost calmly think again.

Somehow, just hearing his voice…hearing him talk and talk inside our ancient Volvo…helps me sort through some of this shit.

Frank’s the white noise that’s been missing, to help me get some clarity. 

Which makes all the sense in the world. 

As he gets to about act three of the “Ballad of Frank Campbell: Emotional Cheater”, I still stare at the park but don’t really see it, sorting and shifting through the last eight months, the last few years, the last ten years, watching him get farther and farther away from me, while I try to cleave onto him like a barnacle. 

Day after day, year after year, I allowed myself to be content with less and less, until one day I found myself worn down to a place in which I believed that we would be okay if he sent me a three word text. 

Three words that weren’t I LOVE YOU, but usually, WHERE ARE YOU…which makes a lot of sense, now. 

The sudden silence in the car shakes me out of my reverie and I turn to look at Frank. 

Which I find very hard to do. 

While I struggle to make eye contact, his phone starts pinging, lights up, and he quickly turns it upside down on his leg.

Finances.

Looking down at my own phone, I start talking about finances, about our mortgage, about the car payment, about how much his rent might be.

Frank looks pissed off and relieved at the same time. 

I’d already decided before I came today, that I will NOT let Frank’s fuckery mess with the business, the financial, or the work part of my life. 

I’ve worked too fucking hard to get to where I am. 

Right now, this was the driving force behind whatever sanity I’ve managed to hang onto in the Volvo, as I save the thinks I’ve just unpacked for later

Scrolling through my notes, I get into the thick of what we need to do to keep us afloat under the circumstances, clinging onto the business part of our relationship like Rose did that door she wouldn’t let Jack get on at the end of the Titanic movie.

The Titanic movie.

Throat click.

Frank and I saw Titanic at Eglinton Town Square a million years ago.

After the movie ended, I cried so hard that we stayed LONG after the credits rolled, and I had to sit down about five times on the way to the car, which he indulged AND thought was hysterical.

When we were on the way home, when my eyes had finally dried up, Frank put his hand on my leg…

FRANK: You know who we’d be? We’d be that old couple… the ones that clung to each other in that tiny ship bed, as the water rushed into their cabin…together into the jaws of death. That’s you and me, Babe. 

WE would be them, he was so sure. The thought made him smile, and squeeze my leg.

I nodded my head and made agreeable noises, BUT I KNEW that my survival instinct would NEVER let me be them. 

Shouldn’t we try to escape, instead?

I would have found a way off of the Titanic.

Which is what I’m going to do RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

Maybe with Frank, but most probably without him.

The continued pinging of Frank’s phone brings me back to the Volvo, and I finally asked him to turn his notifications off. 

Pointedly.

I know who the texts are from. 

When I’m done talking, I’m a bit dizzy and absolutely spent…to the bone. 

I’ve not slept or ate properly for three days and exhaustion washes over me like a heavy blanket. 

Scrolling down the phone to make sure I’ve covered everything, I see…

BE BRAVE 

ME: You know what, I’m beyond tired. I’m gonna call an UBER, leave the KIA and come for it tomorrow. 

I start to order a car on my phone. 

FRANK: I’ll drive it to the apartment, and leave the keys for you, don’t worry about it. I’ll drive you home right now and come back for it. 

He offers me this gesture like he is handing me a golden egg.

I stare at him, blinking. 

Home. 

ME: Sure…thanks. But I’m going to Devon’s first…just to…well…she is making me some food…and she wants to see me for herself…

I trail off, far too tired to justify anything else and hating myself for saying SURE. 

FRANK: Let me take you there. Of course, I can take you to Devon’s. No worries. 

No worries.

God. 

Just before we pull away from the sad, beside-the-park spot, he turns his notifications back on, and receives a text from Devon asking where I am. 

Devon’s a literal sister to ME and has been since I was twenty years old. Devon was mine before she was ours, and she’s none too pleased with Frank. 

Frank reads the rest of text from her and whatever it says made him severely pissed off.

FRANK (clicks tongue, while still staring at phone): I just wish people wouldn’t take sides. 

And quietly, ever so quietly…

ME: That might have been possible if you hadn’t cheated on me for eight months. People WILL take sides…you did this, Frank. YOU did. 

THIS is the most direct thing I’ve said about his cheating since he walked out the tiny, stupid apartment door, with my favourite suitcase. 

Frank looks terse, a state I recognize, which is almost more comfortable for me than the I LOVE YOU. 

FRANK: We were so respectful the night I told you everything…can we try to stay…respectful…

Suddenly I scream…

Me: I WASN’T BEING RESPECTFUL, FRANK!! I WAS IN SHOCK!! I WAS IN FUCKING SHOCK!! YOU LIED TO ME FOR EIGHT MONTHS!!! YOU WENT TO FLORIDA AND KISSED A FUCKING LIFE COACH!!! ON YOUR FUCKING FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY!!! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!! THAT’S NOT FUCKING RESPECTFUL AT ALL!!! YOU DID THIS!!! PEOPLE WHO LOVE PEOPLE DON’T DO THIS!!! JUST…JUST FUCK OFF!!! 

Frank’s a bit shocked.

I gasp and click and gasp and click. I wonder if he’s gonna kick me out of one of my own cars, a thought which BLOWS my mind. 

He starts the Volvo and drives. 

We stay quiet till he drops me off. 

When the car stops, we both sit still.

I looked down at his hand on the gearshift. 

BE FUCKING BRAVE. 

I open the door and get out. 

It’s still really fucking hard to leave him, even when he is being a total fucking asshole. 

At the door to Devon’s place, after he’s peeled away as much as a Volvo can, I remember that Frank has my car keys. 

Will he take the KIA back to the tiny, stupid apartment, or will he punish me for being real?

I barely care. 

Devon’s apartment is on Harbord Street in downtown Toronto, overtop of a hip cupcake shop, so it always smells like dessert. 

I climb up the stairs to her place like I’m wearing cement shoes, overwhelmed by both the full aroma of sugary things and how utterly hollow I feel. Both things make me nauseous.

By the time I get half way up the stairs, I’m heaving with sobs and Devon’s partner, Joshua comes down and helps me up the rest of the way, basically carrying me up to the apartment. 

Devon wraps me in her arms and I cry like I haven’t since I was about fourteen years old. 

DEVON: Charlie, it’s okay. I’ve got you. We’ve got you. 

And thank god, because this is the kind of cry I cannot allow myself to have alone, because I’m afraid I might not come out the other side intact.

Joshua, who is a giant of a man, softly takes me from Devon and wraps me in his arms, like a bear. 

For the first time in three days, I finally feel safe. 

Which loosens every screw inside me. 

 

 

*********

 

 

 

 

Last night, during the four hours of sleep I managed to get, I dreamt I was walking towards the old Volvo with Frank sitting inside. 

As I get closer to the car, Beyoncé’s song HOLD UP starts playing inside my head…is it in my head?…and I look down and see a bat in my hand.

Without a thought, I cock the bat over my shoulder like Joe Carter in the World Series and swing for jesus.

Just before I make contact with the passenger window, I wake up.

Highly unsatisfactory ending. 2 out of 10. 

The 2 is for Beyoncé. 

 

 

NEEDLE in the EYE

Yes, I got four fucked-up hours of sleep last night, which is a one hour improvement from the  three fucked-up hours I got the night before.

This time, I even made it to my bed. Celebrate your wins. 

Dragging myself out of the bed and back into the tiny bathroom, I turn the shower faucet to the hottest temperature a human body can bear without bursting into flames, take off my underwear and t-shirt, and get in.

 

LIST OF THINGS I HAVE TO DO ON THIS UNBELIEVABLY OVERWHELMING DAY

1. Clean myself.

2. Pick out nice undergarments to wear. 

 

After I almost burn myself to a crisp, scrub my body like I’ve been contaminated, shave everything that needs it, dry off and moisturize, this practice that ends with me pulling on my “nice” underwear is so reminiscent of just before-having-sexy-times it gives me pause. 

I bend over, lean on my naked legs and have a laugh that’s so loud and harsh, it scares me. 

My first real laugh in four days, of course, makes me cry.

Oof.

Today, it seems I’m a bit unhinged…which is worrisome because the reason I put on nice underthings is because I HAVE to…

3. Go to a costume fitting

Besides being a full-time traumatized person, I’m an actress on a TV show that starts shooting its second season…in two weeks. 

Two friggen weeks.

Five days ago? I was just a normal gal, who was BEYOND thrilled to be starting a second season a successful TV show. 

Two nights ago? I slept on the bathroom floor with my cheating husband’s wet facecloth over my head and an expired Gravol suppository up my butt.

I’m…really scared. 

HOW am I going to make it through whatever the rest of my marriage is AND this new TV season at the same fucking time without fucking it all up?

How?

My throat clicks as I pull my pants on over my fancy underwear.

I stop mid-pant’s-pull and take a deep breath and try not to cry. 

I’ll worry about it ALL later. 

Just get through today. 

And today…my second day out in the world…is a big day. I zip up my pants like a punctuation. 

Devon encouraged me to cancel or at least postpone this whole day, but I can’t…I won’t.

I WILL NOT let this…THIS…fuck up my work.

THAT IS THE RULE BEYOND ALL THINGS! 

THIS WILL NOT FUCK UP EVERYTHING I’VE WORKED FOR. 

I will NOT let Frank’s bullshit bring me low. 

BUT before the costume fitting for the TV show, I have to…

4. Go to the doctor to get a skin tag (that’s about the grossest word around) removed from the very edge of my eye. 

CONTEXT: When I saw myself on TV last year…a time during which I was still blissfully unaware that Frank was texting his Life Coaching/Rebon salesperson lover every night while he sat on the toilet for what seemed like hours, honestly, I thought he had a pooping problem…I clocked a skin tag thing under my eye.

High Def IS NO ONE’S FRIEND. 

Since it takes a million years to rebook an appointment with a dermatologist, and it will take a least a week to heal up, I have to bite the bullet.

There’ve been a few times in my life when I’ve been less than my emotional best AND left the safety of my house to have a FULL real life day that includes appointments and work…but this…this is WELL beyond any of those times. 

Today, everything seems edgy and otherworldly and terrifying to consider…the rest of my life, the show, this costume fitting, the end of my marriage, the needle I will have to get in my face, and being alone till I die in a box on the street, eaten by a raccoon.

ME: THIS WILL NOT FUCK UP EVERYTHING I’VE WORKED FOR.

I say it over and over again, just under my breath, as I make my way to the parking garage. 

The following are my thoughts as I drive through downtown Toronto in the KIA: 

Keep it together 

Keep it together 

What if you are alone forever? 

Keep it together 

Am I unloveable? 

Am I stupid? 

Keep it together 

Am I undesirable? 

Keep it together 

I’m fat 

You got fat, Charlie.

He made you sad and then you got fat.

All the people out here can tell that I’m falling apart.

Am I going crazy?

I’m going crazy. 

How is the world still turning like NOTHING has happened? 

Keep it together 

And when I enter the medical building, quite unexpectedly my new PRETEND-self clicks on. The transition is kinda scary. It’s almost…easy…a relief, even.

Huh.

It seems that I might be able to lock the unhinged part of me away somewhere. The question is where and for how long? DON’T OVERTHINK IT!! 

After I check in with a nurse, she leads me into a small surgery room. 

As I consider the paper covered doctor’s table, I test out a smile on her. She doesn’t run. Okay. 

A younger nurse is waiting in the tiny surgery, and her scrubs have the Minions from the Despicable Me movie on them.

Chirpily, she pats the gurney.

MINIONS NURSE: Just jump up on here. The doctor will be just a sec. Can I get you anything? 

I get up on the table, trying not to rip the protective paper that covers it.

ME: Well, it’d be nice to have a disco ball in here…and maybe some slow jams to make me feel less nervous about the eye needle thing. 

I sound so normal. I smile again. 

Huh. 

She smiles back, hops on Youtube, and quickly finds some meditation type music. 

I lay down, listening to the holistic bings and bongs that are supposed to stop people from losing their shit and take a breath. 

Over on the counter I spy a silver tray with shiny implements on it, one of them a fairly long needle, and my stomach starts rolling. 

Dear god, that needle is huge. 

Though I can’t remember being less hungry in my life, I forced down a protein smoothie this morning and it’s threatening to make an reappearance. 

Keep it together. 

I really hate doing this kind of stuff by myself. I wasn’t SUPPOSED to do this kind of stuff by myself. 

KEEP IT TOGETHER. 

Frank texted me this morning because he knows how terrified I am of the needle in the face. 

He insisted that I should call him if I need him.

My stomach rolls again…seriously rolls…it even makes a gurgling sound. 

I’m gonna puke and lose my new pretend self and it’s far too early in this big day to break. 

Dear god, I want Frank to come and save me.

Every other scary thing in my life will probably be faced alone, BUT I’d not planned on doing THIS alone…I shouldn’t have to do this alone…it’s too soon. 

I can’t do this alone.

I roll off the surgery table, ripping the paper underneath me in half, and reach into my purse, grab my phone and text him.

ME: Can you come and meet me after the appointment? I feel a bit sick.

Send.

I immediately hate myself. 

My phone pings.

FRANK: Of course. I’ll be right there. 

I.

HATE.

ME. 

When I turn around, there’s already new paper on the table and the Minions Nurse looks concerned.

MINIONS NURSE: Are you okay?

Uh. 

I dig around inside, searching for the new me that pretend smiles.

ME: I’m just…I’m afraid of needles…I know I’m a bit old to be afraid of needles…but that needle is big…I’m…oh god…I feel a bit sick…I should have eaten more…

She smiles and helps me back up on the table.

MINIONS NURSE: Oh my goodness, everyone is afraid of needles. Let me get you something that might help.

She reaches into a secret dermatologist/skin tag removal specialist’s mini-fridge and pulls out a tiny can of ginger ale. Like an angel, she pops the tab, puts a straw in the can and hands it to me with the kindest smile I’ve almost every seen.

How I don’t totally collapse in on myself in this moment will be something I wonder about for the rest of my life. 

NOTE: THIS is literally the VERY best part of my day. 

Then a whole bunch of things happen very quickly.

The Doctor breezes in, shoves a needle in my face, cuts off part of my skin, cauterizes it (ew) and tells me to lie there and be still. 

It’s over so fast, I can’t believe I was worried about it at all. 

ANOTHER NOTE: THAT’S the second VERY best part of my day. 

As the doctor breezes back out, the nurse from the front desk comes in and quietly says…

FRONT DEST NURSE: Mrs. Wood, your husband is here.

Frank must have been waiting in the car out front, which seems weird as fuck. 

The only thing Frank dislikes more than hearing people call me MRS. Wood, is when anyone calls him MR. Wood. He pretended not to mind that I kept my maiden name, like I pretended it was fine that he went to Florida without me. 

Frank walks into that small surgery like he belongs there, like he owns the room. He’s always been very good at that. Is that a man thing or a Frank thing?

FRANK: You okay, Bu…Charlie? Is it done already?

He leans in closer for a look at my face.

FRANK: Oh, it’s done! Good on ya.

He looks into my eyes like not one thing is wrong and a volcano starts to rumble in my chest. 

KEEP.

IT.

TOGETHER.

WHY DID I TEXT HIM?

WHY AM I SO RELIEVED HE’S HERE?

I FUCKING HATE ME SO MUCH.

I SHOULD HATE HIM!! WHY DO I HATE ME???!?!?!

ME: Yup. All done. I shouldn’t have texted.

My voice sounds as cold as the mini fridge and he breaks eye contact. 

Awkwardly, we wait for the doctor to tell me I can leave,

Frank and I start to make small talk for the benefit of the Minions Nurse, like we’re married and fine.   

FRANK: How does it feel? 

For a second, I don’t know what IT he’s talking about. 

ME: Oh. My eye?

FRANK: Yeah, your eye. 

ME: It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m really fine. Yeah, I shouldn’t have texted. I just got…

FRANK: …It’s scary. I get it. 

And he smiles Frank’s smile at me.

So many smiles. Pretend ones,  kind ones…and Frank’s old one. 

Keep it together 

Keep it together 

The dermatologist breezes back in, leans in very close to examine my eye, then pronounces me free to go.

As she prepares to breeze back out, Frank stops her. 

He pulls up the cuff of his right sleeve and points to his forearm.

FRANK: Before you leave, can you just check out this mole on my arm? 

I fucking kid you not. 

He casually asks her about a fucking mole on HIS arm at MY appointment, like our marriage is not imploding.

Like EVERYTHING is normal. 

The doctor stares at him, pausing for one VERY obvious second before she speaks…tersely.

DERMATOLOGIST: You’ll have to book your own appointment for that. 

Pushing past him, she leans back over me and puts her hand on my leg.

DERMATOLOGIST: Try not to get that wound wet for a couple of days, yes? 

She squeezes my leg like she finds that doubtful AND is sorry to leave me with him, before she breezes out of the room again.

I gather up my purse, thank the Minions Nurse, and hustle out of the surgery, feeling Frank close behind me.

We don’t say a word till we get to the street. I’m rallying the gumption to tell him to fuck off when…

FRANK: You know, we’d already planned for me to take you to the doctor and drive you to your fitting…I’m happy to take you anywhere you want today. I know it’s a big day…and…

ME:…uh, thank you for…well, for this…but the Kia is here and I feel fine…I shouldn’t have…

FRANK: NO, no it’s okay. I’m happy to help. You must be feeling…

ME: …Yeah, okay, bye.

I turn away so fast I almost fall. 

Frank reaches out and takes my hand in his.

FRANK: Hey, you want to have breakfast with me at LA’s before your fitting? I think you have time, right? You should eat something. I bet you haven’t had anything to eat yet.

I look down at his hand so casually in mine and when I look up, he’s smiling Frank’s old smile and before I can stop myself… 

ME: Uh, yeah. Sure. That would be…sure. 

Next thing I know, we’re sitting across the table from each other in one of our favourite breakfast spots, which is about four hundred feet from our first apartment, which is about six hundred feet from the medical clinic.

My heart hurts very badly and I don’t know what to do with any one part of this morning.

What the fuck is happening? This has been a nightmare five days filled with WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING and I cannot take one more minute of uncertainty. Not one. 

I move my hand across my place mat, brushing some left over salt onto the black and white tile floor of one of the first places that was OUR place. 

ME: Frank, what is going on? Why are we here? I wish you would please tell me…please just tell me…do you want to be alone…do you want out of our marriage?

FRANK: Yeah. 

 

 

*********

 

 

 

YEAH

He doesn’t say anything else, just the one word.

Yeah. 

And he says it fast. Oddly, it’s a relief to have an answer. 

Is THIS is why we’re at breakfast on the day of my fitting for my amazing TV show, which is also the day I got a needle in my face?

FRANK: I didn’t want to tell you now. I wanted to wait till the end of today…but since you asked…I just…well…fuck. I really just wanted to support you today. 

He wants me to say something to save him, I know it. He wants me to make this moment better and I feel the volcano inside me burn.

And because life is fucked, two of his musician friends walk into the diner and after some strained back and forth, they ask if they can sit with us for breakfast. 

Frank ALMOST looks like he is going to say YES, when I jump in and make a lame excuse, they politely leave. 

I imagine telling them one day that THIS WAS VERY MOMENT my marriage actually ended.

After they leave I take a shaky breath and put my palms flat on my placemat. 

ME: Okay. Okay. Well, can we…can you…can we at least please let our marriage end in peace. With just us. Please. Can you let…this person go…at least until we’re done…at least? 

He spins the cutlery around on the table, and looks up at me.

FRANK: I can’t do that. 

His chin’s in the air, like I’m asking him to do the very worst thing in the world, like a twelve year old who’s been told to give back his favourite new a toy.

I don’t know THIS guy. 

ME: Why. Why can’t we just have…a proper ending to our marriage…something that’s just ours? 

It’s looks like Frank is mentally thumbing through a host of responses, but the one he gives me is the worst one he could have ever picked. 

FRANK: Because she makes me happy. 

We ARE done. In this diner, the same place he took me the morning after he asked me to marry him, we’re officially finished. 

I wonder if the new Frank even realizes it or is he just relieved to have said it. 

After a very long, heavy pause, I get up and leave.

 

 

 

*******

 

 

 

 

Back when we were really struggling for a buck and trying to launch our careers, Frank used to play an open mike night at C’est What on Front Street in Toronto. 

One Tuesday evening, as I sat in the corner of the bar in the dark, stretching out a Diet Coke for a full evening, he sang a song I’d never heard him perform before, a Leonard Cohen tune. I’d never even heard him rehearse it. 

When he started it, when his voice wrapped itself around the first line, I felt the hair on my arms rise. He was just perfect. He words felt like a prophecy. 

He kept singing TONIGHT, WE’LL BE FINE and I believed that we actually WOULD be fine as long as we were together. 

Frank scoffed about how I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop…but then he actually proved my shoe theory correct. 

Yeah, it took a long time to fall…but it dropped really hard when it finally did. 

 

 

The FITTING

After running across four lanes of traffic to get to the KIA, I collapse inside and lock the door behind me like Frank’s chasing me.

But of course, he’s not. 

I’m breathing so hard the car starts fogging up. I turn on the defrost and start wiping off the window beside me with an old Kleenex I find in the door pocket.

I have a clear view of the diner doors and want to see where the fuck Frank’s going. 

BUT he’s still in LA’s, and by the time I wipe down the driver’s window, he’s sitting down with his friends, ordering from our favourite waitress. 

I pinch my arm to keep myself from crying into the wound underneath my eye. 

My phone alerts a text. 

FRANK: Drive safely. 

Eat a dick.

I start the car, pull out into traffic and don’t look back. 

Driving up the Don Valley Parkway towards my big fitting, I stop myself from crying seven more times, which I think is probably highly dangerous, but pretty good for my eye wound.

My arm feels bruised from the continuous pinching. 

He doesn’t want me anymore. For sure. No takebacksies. My marriage is officially over. I knew it…but now I KNOW know IT.

And for a musician, HIS TIMING IS ABOUT AS SHIT AS CAN BE. 

PINCH PINCH PINCH. 

For a distraction, I turn on the radio. 

SIDEBAR: Do you have any idea how many sad songs and/or love songs there are on the radio and in the world? 

Well, let me you right now, there are A LOT. And there’s music EVERYWHERE. 

There’s music in places that we don’t clock until we’re heartbroken. 

Today, I stopped counting at thirty sad songs, love songs and sad-love songs, and I was only halfway through the day. END OF SIDEBAR

Standing outside of the door to the wardrobe department, I muster my pretend smiling face, because NO ONE wants to start work with someone who’s an emotional wreck. 

ME (whispers): I WILL NOT LET THIS FUCK UP EVERYTHING I’VE FUCKING WORKED FOR. 

And…ACTION.

I throw open the doors, maybe a BIT too dramatically, but hey. 

MELANIE:  THERE she is! 

The show’s amazing costume designer is waiting for me just inside the doors like I’m Visiting Royalty. 

Melanie’s a sneaker wearing, sequin skirt sporting, fashionista who never fails to make me wish I had more money and a better sense of how to put a badass outfit together. 

If I was wearing what she was wearing, I would look like I was a five year old who dressed themselves in the dark. 

She looks endlessly chic. 

Melanie also has no spacial awareness or boundaries and pulls me into her “PROTECT THE DOLLS” pink sweatshirt for a fierce hug. 

MELANIE: SERIES LEAD!! CHARLIE!! We are all VERY excited about this!

ME: ME TOO!!! LET’S DO THIS! 

She cocks her head at me for a split second, but barrels on.

MELANIE: Water? Coffee? Want me to get a PA to get you a Starbucks? Series leads get a Starbucks order, Char! 

This is indeed a whole new world. 

ME: Uh, maybe just a water thanks…LET’S DO THIS! 

Melanie narrows her eyes, looking me up and down like a TSA agent. 

I plaster on the biggest smile I can manage. It’s huge. I hope I don’t look like a serial killer. I’m an actress for fuck sakes. ACT! 

ME: I’m nervous, Melanie. This is my first really big TV fitting as a series lead…and I just…I wanna look perfect, you know? I know you’ll make me look awesome…but I’m just nervous.

I must be convincing because Melanie summons her fabulous crew of sewers, assistants and shoppers and they whirl around me like something from a Cinderella story. She pulls out a pale yellow pair of flare pants from one of the clothing racks with my character’s name on it. 

MELANIE: We’ve decided that yellow will be your theme colour for the first episode! I think you will really look good in this shade! 

Almost every expensive, beautiful piece of clothing is gorgeous, which makes the corners of my mouth turn up in the faintest ghost of a smile.

Not the new pretend smile, but a real almost-smile. 

This fitting is turning into a way better distraction than the radio. Who knew? 

As the gals talk me through dozens of outfits, I still feel absolutely gutted but also…excited. The wardrobe rooms can be a very magical place. 

The character I play is a small town, bohemian type of lawyer. She’s cool, witty, wise and funny. I really love playing her and the audiences really responded to her, so I indeed got bumped up from series regular to series lead. 

It’s a very big deal for an almost fifty year old actress to have so much screen time, and a huge step up from the first season.

THIS is the dream. 

No matter what’s happening with Frank, THIS is what I’ve worked my whole career for.

I let a very TINY sliver of joy shoot up my spine, merging with my ghost of a smile.

Another Note: This is actually the best part of my day. 

About ten minutes later, I’m standing on a pedestal in the middle of the room looking at myself in a beveled mirror. I’ve put on the yellow flare pants with a frilled white blouse and Melanie was right, they do look good. 

The ruffled collar reminds me of one of my favourite old blouses, one of the ones I used to wear back when I sang.

As I study myself in the reflection, I run my hand over the delicate ruffles.

Suddenly, I’m twenty-three years old, standing on the cramped stage of a cabaret bar on Church Street trying out a new song. 

A twenty-four year old Frank is sitting on a chair beside me, accompanying me on his guitar as I sing the end of the chorus…

ME: This time it’s love, my foolish heart.

That night was the first time I told him I loved him. 

I’d not MEANT to tell him I loved him, it just happened. 

As I sang the lyric, I turned back to him so I could introduce him for his guitar solo and I looked him right in the eyes, and he took me at my word. 

ME: This time it’s love, my foolish heart.

After we left stage, Frank crowded in with me inside the ancient bathroom that I used to get ready in. He stood behind me, wrapped me in his arms and looked straight into my eyes in the bathroom mirror. 

FRANK: I love you, too. I really do love you, Charlie. 

And didn’t dispute it, because he was so…so…happy.

I REALLY liked him. I felt I must be close to loving him but what the fuck does love even feel like? I had no idea. This must be love and if not, I was obviously going to get there…for sure. 

So, instead of saying anything back to him, I just turned into him and kissed him.

God, I’d not thought about that in years. 

We had good sex that night. I DO remember that. 

Standing, looking at myself in the mirror, that moment from my life just washes over me.

It’s so clear, I can almost smell Frank’s soap.

MELANIE: Hellloooo? Charlie? What do you think? 

Melanie and her two assistants are staring at me expectantly in the mirror. 

MELANIE: Do you hate it? You hate it. She hates it.

The assistants rush to grab another outfit. 

ME: Oh no…no…it’s so beautiful!! I was just imagining it on screen, in my head. No, it’s gorgeous, Melanie…gorgeous. 

I bust out one of my pretend smiles. I can tell that this time Melanie’s not convinced but she decides to keep going. For the rest of our fitting she keeps an eye on me.

But I make it through the day and maybe no one at work is the wiser…except for Melanie. She knows something is up but decided to let me be, for which I will be forever grateful. 

I get home, strip off all my clothes as I walk towards my bed and allow myself to finally fall apart as I go. I get underneath the bedcovers and dab at my wounded eye with the sheet.  

I make the conscious decision to NOT drink anymore booze, ignore ALL texts from everyone asking how I am and let myself run the conversation with Frank over in my head one million times as I try not to cry and stare at the ceiling of the tiny bedroom.

Yeah. 

 

 

 

********

 

 

 

 

 

Frank and I were driving across Canada and he played me Jackson Brown’s RUNNING ON EMPTY album. I’d heard the songs on the record before, but never in the order that Jackson Brown wanted them to be heard. 

Frank was so thrilled to be able to tell me all about how the album was made, how it was actually written and recorded on the road, and how the song I loved most,  Rosie, was probably an ode to masturbation.

What?

We listened to the beautiful song again.

It sounded like a story about a groupie who wanted to be with the lead singer and not the roadie.

He said it was both. 

I knew that groupies were all over him and all the players in his band when they toured, but I also believed that he was always true to me.

That faith was unshakable. 

Never in a million years did I think Frank would cheat on me.

 

 

POOP TEST

6:40am

I’m staring at the wall, thanking the goddess that I still have a week and a half till I start work. I’m fucking exhausted but cannot relax or sleep.

Sleep log: 3 hours and 47 minutes. 

As I lay in the dark, the rest of my life stretches in front of me like a weird, tired, sad, slow-moving parade for broken, lonely and betrayed people. 

Blinking, I feel the phantom presence of my eye skin tag.

When I breathe in, my throat clicks. 

I continue to lie there, staring at the wall and slowly take stock of the rest of my body, running a status check for the day. 

I don’t feel good. I don’t feel totally awful. Celebrate your wins. 

OH! I have to do that colon test! 

A month ago, after my yearly physical, my doctor sent me away with a three day colon test to complete at home, at my leisure. 

She even said that, AT MY LEISURE.

AGAIN, I thank the sweet baby jesus that I’ve just had my yearly physical, because as professional amateur hypochondriac, if there was ANY time my mind was going to construct a cancer storyline, it’s now. 

This poop test gives me purpose. 

Falling out of the tiny, stupid sublet bed, I search the apartment for that colon test like it’s the CURE for cancer, which…it sort of is.

6:42am 

I’m on the commode, the bowl lined with toilet paper to catch my poop, as per the instructions.

Grabbing the thin poopsicle (!) stick from the test kit, I get up and ladle the poop up off of the toilet paper and onto a very small cardboard rectangle that reminds me of a scratch ticket. 

This poop ticket has little window things that you put your poop on and then close the window, squishing the poop inside.

It’s kinda like an opposite, crap covered, three day advent calendar. 

The manufacturers could’ve made the mechanics of this test harder, but quite frankly, I’m not sure how. 

SIDEBAR: I hate to get too in depth, but there are three critical moments in the middle of this crap collection exercise when you can possibly get your shit all over the place. Which, of course, I do. END OF SIDEBAR 

Sitting back on the lid of the toilet, I gingerly hold the poop test and popsicle stick as I put them in the ziplock bag they came with. I fumble the ziplock and bend over to scoop it up, pausing to stare at the terrible blue shag bathroom carpet that came with the tiny, stupid apartment. 

That mat is the only thing in the bathroom that I managed NOT to get shit on, but I still hate it. 

It’s terrible and old. 

If I have to sit here for the next two mornings and collect my poop, I better get a new one, something that brings a little joy. 

I need some fucking joy. 

7:13am

After I do a major Lysol/Hazmat type of cleanup, I safely tuck the rest of the colon test away for tomorrow and in doing so I feel some sort of accomplishment.

AND for the first time in five days, I kinda feel hungry, which is a bit of a shock after the poop extravaganza that just occurred. 

In the tiny, stupid galley kitchen, I turn on the kettle and get out a mug. 

Usually, I’m never up this early.

Staring out the window at the rising sun, I find, to my surprise, that I kinda like the morning. 

Huh. 

Interesting. I didn’t know this. 

Frank, a true night owl, lived musician hours, therefore he hated the morning and, being an actress, I could usually stay in bed with him till he got up to face the afternoon. 

Well guess what? I like the morning.

I grab a pencil from the drawer, find a sticky note pad and write…

 

I LIKE the morning. 

 

It’s a bit of shock to discover. 

As I put a tea bag into the mug, I realize I’ve found something I like that has nothing to do with Frank, which feels kinda huge.

And I smile. Even more than the ghost smile of yesterday. 

I look back at the sticky note and add…

 

I like the morning. 

I can still smile. 

 

A list of goodness. Yes, I like this. 

I’d never really thought about it before today, but morning can seem promising. 

As I wait for the kettle to boil, my mind runs through some other lists. 

I need to buy some stuff.

Right after making lists, buying stuff is another feel-good go to of mine. 

I DO need to get a new mat for the bathroom.

When we moved in, I said I was going to get a new one and he said that the mat we had was fine. 

It’s not fine. That mat is not fucking fine, Frank, you fucker.

 

I like morning. 

I can still smile. 

Buy a new bathmat. 

 

Also, something I need to do is wipe the woman-who-kissed-my-husband’s phone number out of my contacts. 

Because I called her. 

Yes, I did. 

I called her the morning after he told me everything, the morning after I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet (for the first time) while kneeling on that terrible blue mat, the morning after he stayed with me in the the bed…fully clothed… because I was crying so hard.

I called her the morning after I looked at his stupid back almost the whole night long, not even clocking that THIS would be the last time we slept together. 

The morning after ALL THAT, I found her phone number on social media, because he’d told me her FULL name when I asked. 

HE TOLD ME HER FULL NAME. IDIOT.  

Her phone number is conveniently attached to her life coaching business in Florida, idiotically named “Y’ALL GOT THIS”. 

Jesus wept. 

I left him in the bed, pretend sleeping while fully clothed, went to the roof of the condo building, found her on FACEBOOK, blocked my number and called her.

HER: Hello?

ME: Do you know who this is? 

Silence.

ME: You know who this is. 

HER: I have nothing to say to you. 

Again, now I know how people kill people. I could happily murder this woman. 

ME: Well, I fucking do. I don’t totally blame you, because my husband is a grown person…well, I thought he was…but you’re a woman. Women support women. And from what I see on your asinine Facebook page YOU are all yoga, life coach, and woman power. What a fucking liar. What kind of EMPOWERED woman does this kind of thing? I’ve been married to this man for twenty-five years. I’ve known him since I was sixteen years old. Back THE FUCK OFF. Just back the fuck off. Let us figure this shit out to whatever the end is…without YOU. Be a real woman. 

And I hung up. 

It didn’t make me feel one bit better, but I’m still fucking glad I did it. 

People need to be held accountable. Yes, they do. 

 

I like the morning. 

I can still smile. 

Buy a new bathmat. 

Wipe Florida’s number off my phone. 

 

7:35am

My phone buzzes on the counter. 

I turn it over and it’s a text from my sister Clara. 

CLARA: Hey Sister I am thinking of you every moment I love you. 

The morning after Frank slept with me in all his clothes and I called Florida, Clara rushed to me from Allenton, on the bus.

She got here in less than two hours, from our phone call to my door, which is quite a feat. 

I called her right after I called Florida.

Of the six phone calls I made that morning after, the other five were the closest people in my life…my sister and my five best friends. 

Clara. 

Molly.

Devon. 

Melody.

Ben. 

Matt.

All five of them called or texted me right away, telling me to get Frank out of the apartment. 

Each and every one. 

Molly actually yelled it so loud through the phone, that he got up and started grabbing clothes out of the drawers. 

I talked to Ben in Regina, while Frank was getting his shit together.

When I watched Frank drag my favourite suitcase out of the cupboard, I whispered into the phone…

ME: Oh my fuck. He’s taking my favourite suitcase.

BEN IN REGINA: THIS IS ALL TOO MUCH!!! WHAT A FUCKING COCKSUCKER… AND I MEAN THAT AS AN INSULT!

I think Frank heard THAT, too.

My long-time friend Matt made it to my downtown apartment from the west-end of Toronto in twenty minutes to help me wait for my sister.

When I told him Frank was leaving, but that my sister was coming, Matt didn’t want me be alone for one moment. 

Frank and I’d sat/stood uncomfortably, in the same position as the night before…me on the couch, he in the kitchen…waiting for Matt to arrive.

He was mad at me for calling Florida AND I couldn’t believe FRANK was mad at me about ANYTHING. 

When he asked me what I said to her, I just looked out the window.

Still, Frank didn’t seem to want to leave me alone in the state I was in, but it SURE didn’t seem like he was happy to stay. 

Finally, still staring out the window, I said…

ME: What does this woman give you that I don’t? I…I…I’ve given you my whole life, Frank. My whole fucking life. 

In answer, he leaned down, picked up his guitar and slung it on his back as he had so many times during our life together, and told me he was going to wait for Matt at the elevators…dragging my favourite suitcase behind him.

When he got to the door he stopped and turned back to me…

FRANK: It won’t be too bad, Charlie…just pretend I’m going away tour…it’s like when one of us goes away on tour. 

And he turned and walked out the door.

See? Coward. 

After what seemed like forever but was probably ten minutes, Matt came in, walked over and gathered me up. 

MATT: Girl. You okay? What am I saying? Of course, you’re not okay. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying…this is really the fucking worst. That asshole was just standing there in the hallway…like a big fucking turd…he couldn’t even wait in HERE? You know what? Maybe that was for the best. I’m rambling. 

SILENCE.

MATT: I love you. 

My throat clicked as I tried to remain sane. 

ME: Thank you for coming so fast…I just…I…

MATT:…sshh…you don’t have to explain shit. I’m just glad I was still in town, so I could come. You don’t have to say a word. 

So, we sat on the couch, quietly holding hands, waiting for Clara. 

Matt was a producer on the very first TV show I was on. 

We’ve spent a lot of time in the trenches together, so this kind of stress seemed almost…familiar. 

Almost. 

Clara called from Union Station to tell me she was almost there. 

I was so weary that I couldn’t pick the phone up, so I put her on speaker, laying the phone on the stupid couch, between Matt and I. 

CLARA: I’M ALMOST THERE, SISTER! 

ME: Okay. Matt’s here…so…okay.

I put my finger over the END button and just as I was about to hang up… 

CLARA (whispers): I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him. 

The call cut off, and Matt and I looked at each other in surprise. 

Clara’s pretty mild mannered, but it’s well known she’s not to be fucked with when it comes to family. 

In the silence that followed, Matt became very thoughtful…and then…slowly…in a voice that could have been channeling either Dr. Seuss OR true crime documentary, Matt started to tell me a story.

A tale of two sisters and a cheating husband. 

A story of Jay Z, Beyoncé, and her sister…the also talented Solange Knowles.

As we sat in that tiny, stupid apartment, waiting for Clara to show up AFTER she announced her intent to kill Frank, Matt recounted THE well-known elevator incident at the 2014 Met Gala.

MATT: …remember, the footage was in black and white…there was NO sound, because it was caught on CCTV…SO dramatic. A friend of mine does sign language and lip reading and we watched the whole video a million times…and she transcribed it! She thought Solange said EXACTLY what Clara JUST said. I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL HIM…but HIM was RIGHT there in the elevator with her. That asshole Jay Z was cheating on Beyoncé. ON BEYONCÉ. And Bey was wearing this brave face for the MET Gala…she’s so fucking iconic…even in distress…but her sister…Solange…you know what?…I always think people underestimate her as an artist…Solange was wearing this kitten wig and HAVING NONE OF JAY Z’S BULLSHIT!! Remember? She was all, I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL HIM! Solange tried to kick the shit out of Jay Z in that friggen elevator…and security…this HUGE guy, held her back…while Beyoncé just stood by…like a queen and her sister was her champion. Solange was feral…arms punching and legs kicking for Jesus. It was fucking glorious. 

He pauses and squeezes my hand in his.

MATT: And you know what? That moment…THAT life changing incident gave birth to the most EPIC of Bey’s four albums.

He counts them off on his hands as he names them.

MATT: The first was I AM…SASHA FIERCE, her second was FOUR, and her third was BEYONCÈ 2013…

Matt’s voice lowers to a reverent whisper.

MATT: …but none will ever beat LEMONADE. Charlie…SHE MADE LEMONADE out of that elevator lemon…out of Jay Z’s wandering dick. You know what, wait a sec…

He grabbed a piece of paper from his bag and drew me a Venn Diagram of how it all went down…the lead-up, the event, and the aftermath…and then held it up for me to see. 

MATT: See? Success. Trial. Success. Eventually, it ALL led to Beyoncé’s continued happiness, to yachts and more super stardom…even though she stayed with that Cheater. I think…maybe…maybe your life will go this way, Mama…but without that hallway-waiting-piece-of-crap.

Then he put the paper on his lap, wrote my name, circled it, drew stars all around it and looked me straight in the eyes and pointed at me with the hand holding the pen.

MATT: Where you’re at right now, is just after OR maybe in the middle of the elevator incident, but for sure you’re on the way to the Lemonade. 

Then he carefully folded the paper and gave it to me for safe keeping.

MATT: If Beyoncé got cheated on, girl, it could happen to any of us.

It was one of the nicest things anyone gave me BEFORE the ginger ale from the Minions Nurse.

When Clara arrived as only an oldest sister can…out of breath, on a mission and with all the answers…she tagged out Matt, who hugged me hard and went to catch a plane. 

He went straight from my place to the airport, because he’s working on a TV show for a month on the west coast. 

Before he left, Matt warned me that he told Frank he could stay at his place for a two weeks, no more, but to not get it twisted…

MATT: I only offered him the place to make you feel better. I know you. Even though you’re devastated and furious, I know you’re gonna still worry about the asshole, so let’s take that worry OFF the list. ALSO? We can watch him on my nest cam, but only if you want to. You know what? I’ll just show you some good screen caps of him being inept. 

That’s friendship. 

 

I like the morning. 

I can still smile. 

Buy a new bathmat. 

Wipe Florida’s number off my phone. 

Text Matt and thank him. 

 

Clara stayed the rest of day and that night.

I don’t think she’s ever seen me more raw in our lives.

She covered it up well, but I could see she was scared. 

Clara put me in a shower, picked out some clothes, pretty much helped me put them on and we walked down to the lakeshore.

Before we left, I found Matt’s diagram and put in my pocket. 

Arm in arm, we walked to a kitchen store, and Clara bought me a blender because she wanted me to keep my strength up, knowing I would not be able to stomach solids.

And I cried. 

That night, I laid my head in my sister’s lap and just cried like it was the end of all time. 

She stroked my hair, and asked me what I wanted to do. 

CLARA: Do you want him back? 

ME: I don’t know. I’m too scared to know anything. He fucking lied, Clara. I don’t know…I don’t know this Frank. I don’t think he wants ME…but he hasn’t said. 

I look at my sister. 

ME: I haven’t really thought about if I want HIM or not. 

CLARA: Well, you don’t have to know anything.

Clara put me to bed, she even tucked me in, and laid down beside me

The next morning, after three hours of sleep and a smoothie, I took her to the bus station. 

She protested, wanting to stay a few more days, but I felt like I needed to be alone…having no idea what alone really meant, at the time. 

CLARA: You call me anytime, I don’t care what time of day it is. I’ll jump right back on the bus. I…I don’t want to leave you. Will you be okay? You’ll be okay. I know it. Call me. Just…just call me. 

She tried not to look worried, as I drove away and she failed spectacularly. 

I’m sure Solange looked at Beyoncé that way too, before she tried to beat the shit out of Jay Z in that elevator. 

 

I like the morning. 

I can still smile. 

Buy a new bathmat. 

Wipe Florida’s number off my phone. 

Text Matt and thank him. 

Text Clara and tell her I love her…and that I did not kill myself. 

 

7:40am

I did so much thinking I had to restart the kettle, which starts to boil again and clicks off.

Pouring hot water into my mug, I remember that Frank took my favourite suitcase when he left. 

I’m gonna want that back. 

 

I like the morning. 

I can still smile. 

I will buy a new bathmat. 

Wipe Florida’s number off my phone. 

Text Matt and thank him. 

Text Clara and tell her I love her…and that I did not kill myself. 

Get favourite suitcase back from Frank. 

 

I take the mug into both hands, and let it warm me up.

And just like that…I feel like…maybe…I might be okay.

This revelation levels me a bit.

I gasp in some air and lean on the counter. 

I’m broken as an antique china teacup on a tile floor, but I might just be okay.

7:44am

In the tiny kitchen of this tiny apartment, standing in the very place my husband broke my heart, staring out the window and seeing the only tree in the whole goddamn iron jungle of a neighbourhood waving it’s bare limbs at me as the wind blows through them, I think maybe…just maybe, I will be okay. 

I clutch the ceramic mug my sister bought for me at Winners yesterday with KICKASS BITCH painted on it…the same Winners from which I purchased the most expensive bathmat I could find….and I don’t cry as much as my eyes pour out water and I whisper to myself over and over: 

I will not be wrecked by this. 

I will not be wrecked by this. 

I will not be wrecked by this. 

I will not be wrecked by this. 

I will not be wrecked by this. 

I will fucking not be wrecked by this.

Hang on, Charlie. 

Hang the fuck on. 

 

MY LIST ON DAY FIVE 

I like the morning. 

I can still smile. 

I will buy a new bathmat. 

Wipe Florida’s number off my phone. 

Text Matt and thank him. 

Text Clara and tell her I love her…and that I did not kill myself. 

Get favourite suitcase back from Frank. 

I just might be okay.

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Copywrite SHARRON MATTHEWS  2025