In Another Woman’s House
I sat watching the ceiling fan for a long time. He was already asleep next to me in bed. His glasses still on, the movie he had been watching moving noisily to its conclusion and he was not so much snoring as just breathing heavily. I leaned over and asked if I should take his glasses off, if he wanted to get under the covers. He asked what time it was and when I told him 10:00 he took his glasses off himself and handed me the clicker. “You can watch whatever you want you know,” he said.
I took the clicker, turned off the tv and laid for a long time just watching the ceiling fan. I ached. And I hated thinking that the sweet little tea set I had gotten Lily was made of glass. It was such a cute little set with its cloth napkins, and tiny silver ware in the little basket. And she had been genuinely delighted taking the little cups and saucers out, pouring tea. And then Julie must have realized they were made of glass or china or something breakable. She is such a good mother. Why had I not thought to look at the cups and saucers? To check? Oh well. I guess I could find tiny plastic cups and replace them. The little wicker basket is so cute.
Was that the ache? That the tea set had been china? No. Of course not. It set in on me when I saw Robbie down in the little bedroom the twins sleep in when they stay over night. He was just sitting on one of the beds, looking at the books in the bookcase behind the beds and he just looked sad. Missing his mother. I am sure. It was touching and so incredibly sad. What an amazing mother she must have been. Here is this handsome, accomplished 41 year old man with his beautiful wife and 3 incredible daughters and he was so sad because here he was at his father’s house and instead of his mother there was another woman. Me. His mother having died five years earlier.
I came onto the scene exactly 2 years ago this being the second anniversary of our first date. And I live in her house now having moved in almost a year ago. We would have started out fresh but we couldnt afford to. The housing market what it is. So here I am in another woman’s house. An odd mixture of her bowls and pots and pans and my china and silver.
When I had climbed into bed it also hit me this had to have been her side of the bed. I said I did not want to go to visit friends we were scheduled to visit in New Hampshire. I just can’t do it. Jeff gets so sad missing his wife too in the places they used to go. And it was enough just realizing I was sleeping on her side of the bed and living in her house it seemed the least we could do was to travel to our own new places. Make some new memories.
Or Jeff could go alone. I would not mind being alone for a few days and he could drive with the top down in his little Audi which he adores and I hate. He could be with his friends and have some time with them. And if he missed Lois then at least I wasnt there feeling like some interloper, some false idol steeling the place of a dead woman. No not this time.
The time three months ago his mother was here. She told me how perfect Lois had been. That everything she did was art. Even the way she cooked a meal. There is just no beating someone who was not only perfect but is now dead. And I hate myself for not being more zen like, more understanding, more able to simply nod, and feel their pain. I mean I do feel their pain. I have known it all too well. My own mother having died at 38 and the step mothers I had to endure. Three different women living in our house with our father until he got senile and our last step mother had our father moved out of his own house. Ugh! That was something from another planet. He never spoke of our mother after she died. Just moved all of her things out of the house and then moved us. A whole new house.
