He’s left me no choice but to act. Yesterday, I transferred $3,500 to Bonnie Traiman out of my savings account to cover her retainer so that she can get started. Then I took out another thousand in cash just so I wouldn’t feel as broke as I am.
I have always handled our money and paid our bills—or believed I did.
Now I live in fear that Mitch will halt the auto-deposit of his paychecks into our household account before Bonnie can file my petition for divorce or freeze our assets. The only thing that allows me to sleep at night is the knowledge that with Dorothy’s “rent” added to my paycheck, I can handle the mortgage payment and household expenses without him if I have to. At least for a while.
Late Saturday morning, I walk through the kitchen on my way to my afternoon shift at Between the Covers and find Dorothy sitting at the table staring out the window. Our copy of The Body: A Guide for Occupants lies open on the table. She’s already close to the end.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Her tone is polite but reserved. Though she rarely initiates conversation, she always responds.
“How’s the book?”
“Interesting,” she says. “But I never realized how much scientists and doctors don’t yet understand about how we work.”
“It looks like you’re almost done.”
She nods.
“Well, have a good day.”
“Thank you. You, too.”
As I turn to leave, I tell myself there’s no reason to feel bad about leaving Dorothy on her own. She’s a grown woman. I’ve offered to take her wherever she’d like to go, invited her to come with me when I run errands or go to the grocery store so that she can choose what she’d like in the house, but the only time she’s taken me up on an offer since Mitchell’s confession is to book club, and I practically had to drag her there. Evidence to the contrary, I am not my mother-in-law’s keeper.
I’m almost to the garage door when I turn. “Would you like me to bring back anything on my way home from work?”
“No. But thank you.” Her smile is polite, her answer precise.
“Okay.” I turn. A few more steps and I’m out of here. It’s not up to me to entertain her. I make sure there’s food in the house. I am here for emergencies. I’ve even helped her “out of the closet” as a reader. But when I glance back over my shoulder, her hands are gripped tightly together on top of the book. The polite smile is frozen on her face. She looks small and alone.
Before I can stop myself, I turn yet again. “Do you have any book club name suggestions you’d like me to put in the box for you?”
Her laugh is short and surprising. To both of us. I’d never even known she had a sense of humor until that night at book club.
“As if I’d turn them over to the competition so easily.” Her smile is close to teasing.
“As if I’d stoop to snooping,” I reply with a mostly straight face. “For all I know you just haven’t come up with anything.”
“Ha! Wild horses and all that,” she says.
“Well, then why don’t you come to the bookstore with me and put them in the box yourself?”
Once again, Dorothy looks as surprised as I feel. “But then I’d be stuck there all afternoon.”
I flush at her response. But now that I’ve put the idea out there, I feel compelled to defend it. “Spending an afternoon surrounded by books and other people who love them doesn’t sound too bad to me. Saturdays are busy. You might even see some of the people you met at book club.”
She looks skeptical, and I remind myself that I no longer have any reason to try to turn her into a mother figure. Once Mitch and I are divorced, I’ll probably never even see Dorothy again. The thought is not as cheering as it should be.
“It’s very nice of you to ask,” she says in a tone that borders on gentle. For her. “But I believe I’d prefer to stay here and rest.”
“Okay.” I swallow. “Right.” I’m shocked at how much the rejection stings. I do not ask what she would be resting from. “No worries.”
I’m at the door with my hand on the knob when I hear a chair scrape back.
“Wait.”
When I turn, she’s on her feet.
“I mean . . .” She takes a step toward me. “If I did come, what would happen if I wanted to leave before you’re finished for the day?”
“I don’t know.” I’m careful not to smile or look the least bit triumphant. “I guess I’d order you a Lyft or an Uber.”
“Oh. Well, then.” She smiles almost timidly. “In that case, I guess I could come along and give it a try.”
I wait while she retrieves her coat and shoves a stack of folded pieces of paper into her purse, making sure I can see. Clearly, I’m going to have to get on the stick with the book club names. I wouldn’t want her to win by default.
Even I am surprised at how warmly Dorothy is welcomed when we arrive at the store. Charm, who I am relieving, flashes her a smile. Annell comes out of the breezeway with the towheaded Holcomb twins following in her wake and heads straight for us, smiling the whole way. Annell may be small, but her hugs are large and meaningful; her smile is like a bowl of hot oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon on a cold winter morning. When she releases me, I’m smiling.
“Oh, how great that you’ve come,” she says to Dorothy, still honoring my mother-in-law’s invisible “do not hug” sign. “We always have a crowd for story time, and I’m thrilled to have an extra adult on the premises.” She looks down at the twin girls who are each clinging to one of her legs. “This is Stacy and Lacy.” She cups a blond head with each hand while I reach down to high-five with them. “Their mother had to run out to take care of something.”
“People just leave their children here without supervision?” Dorothy is well and truly horrified.
“No, of course not.” Annell smiles. “Adult supervision is definitely required. But I’ve known the twins’ mother since her mother brought her to story time as a little girl. So, she felt safe leaving them in my care.”
“Oh.” Mollified, Dorothy peers down at the little girls, but she doesn’t crouch down to their level or attempt to engage with them. Not for the first time, I try to imagine Mitchell’s childhood. I know that Dorothy loves him, but she’s one of the least demonstrative people I’ve ever met. (And given that I was raised by a succession of strangers, that’s saying something.) Could that be why he needs extra affection and attention? Or am I just looking for proof that Mitchell’s behavior is not my fault? Or due to something I lack?