Second Chance - Elizabeth Wrenn

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started getting ready at six p.m., showering, styling my hair as best I could, given that the cut was about four months overgrown. I even tried to put on a bit of mascara, but the tube was mostly dried out and came out in clumps, which I had to pull off with a tissue, pulling out several eyelashes in the process. I slid a pair of tan slacks from their hanger in the closet and was stepping into them when I saw my blue dress, probably the only dress I owned that would still fit me. Neil was always complaining that I never wore a dress anymore. I rarely had call to, plus, pants were more comfortable. Especially elastic-waist pants. I fingered the dress, navy blue with big white flowers, a little tie in the back. Hopelessly out of fashion. But he’d made a big gesture; I wanted to make one back.

      I wondered if it was still warm enough out to wear it without hose. I hated hose. I looked at my stubbly white legs. It didn’t matter if it was eighty degrees out; I shouldn’t inflict these legs on the gentle patrons of Guiseppe’s, not that the restaurant was at all fancy, but still. I dug around in my drawer and found an old pair of stretchy blue tights. They’d do. I hung the slacks back up and took the dress off its hanger, laid it carefully on the bed. I pulled on the tights, the elastic waist loose to the point of being scalloped. Not exactly reliable-feeling, but way more comfortable than hose. I slipped the dress over my head. It was even tighter on my stomach than I’d thought it would be, and it made me look older than my not-quite-fifty years. Sighing, I spritzed on some ancient White Shoulders, wrote the kids a note in the kitchen, and headed out.

      I got to Guiseppe’s at 7:15. I sat listening to the radio, debating whether to go in or wait in the car. Despite my recent craving for solitude, I hated to be at a restaurant alone, conspicuous and uncomfortable. But as I watched a couple go in, I thought I’d better put our names on the list.

      At the door, though, I stopped, my hand on the wooden door handle, greeted by a large handwritten sign in bright red marker, misspelled and apparently randomly capitalized.

      SpeciaL: Tonight onLy! ALL ouR Terriffic

       spaGhetti You can Eat: $3.95 aduLts, $1.95 kids Under 12.

      Another little sigh escaped, and I immediately chastised myself – it didn’t matter that the bargain was what had made Neil choose this restaurant. It was the thought that counted.

      Unfortunately, Guiseppe’s was not terribly crowded and the hostess seated me straightaway at a table for two. I ordered a glass of Chianti, and while I waited for it, I sat trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt, sitting all alone. I wished I’d brought a book. I studied the menu, just to look like I was doing something besides waiting, although I wouldn’t dare suffer Neil’s silent recriminations by ordering anything other than the ‘Terriffic’ Saturday special.

      My wine arrived and I sipped it, looking out the window. There was really nothing to look at. A bleak little strip mall with a bleak little parking lot, yellowed weeds growing up through cracks in the asphalt along the edges. Then a girl about ten, walking a dog, crossed the street. They came into the parking lot. It was a funny-looking curly black mutt – maybe cocker spaniel and poodle. Suddenly it was sniffing the ground almost maniacally, hot on the trail of something, pulling the girl this way and that; she willingly let it, laughing. I smiled, watching them zigzag their way across the parking lot, my head twisting till I had to turn in my seat to watch them disappear down the sidewalk.

      I looked at my watch: 7:40. I reminded myself that my wait was long only because I’d been early. Plus, my watch might be fast.

      At 8:03 I called his cell phone. I hated when people talked on their cell phones at restaurants, so I turned toward the window and murmured to his voice mail, ‘Neil. I’m at Guiseppe’s. It’s after eight. I hope everything’s okay. Please call me on my cell.’ The waitress stopped by as I hung up, and, more out of embarrassment than want, I ordered a second Chianti.

      If Neil’s meeting was running late, surely he could break away long enough to call me. He probably figured he was on his way anyway, why pull over to make a call? I did admire that about Neil: he would not talk on his cell phone while he drove. Being a doctor, he saw and heard about plenty of tragic consequences from that practice.

      At 8:30, after I’d left two more messages on his cell phone and was feeling too tipsy to drive after two Chiantis on an empty stomach, it was now clear to the waitstaff, to the few patrons scattered around the restaurant, and most of all to me, that I’d been stood up. But I had to eat something before I drove home. When the overly sympathetic young waitress returned yet again to check on the poor old woman in that ugly blue dress with the crotch of her blue tights nearly at her knees, the old woman ordered the spaghetti special, and more than got her money’s worth from the three platefuls she packed away.

      Neil met me at the door. His excitement ran headlong into my anger. And my dyspepsia.

      ‘Did you stay for dinner?!’ he asked, surprised, but not waiting for an answer. ‘That’s good. I’m sorry I didn’t make it, Dee, but it looks like we’re going to get the last of our funding from these guys! I stayed to celebrate the partnership with them!’ He was almost jumping up and down. Neil had so fully thrown himself into this cause, he was truly clueless that he’d thrown over his family. Or me, at least.

      ‘Neil, why didn’t you call me?’ I said, staving off tears. I wanted to stay angry, but my stomach hurt and I felt miserable, inside and out. But more than anything, I didn’t want to cry again.

      ‘I did try, but I couldn’t get a signal. I didn’t want to leave the meeting to go traipsing all over looking for a pay phone. Look, Deena, you’re a big girl. I figured you’d realize what was going on. I was at a business meeting, after all.’ He held out his arms. ‘Sorry, but I figured you’d understand.’

      I bolted into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, thinking I was going to throw up, but didn’t. I flipped on the loud bathroom fan, sat on the closed toilet and cried. I did understand that Neil was working, not just to support us, his family, but also for a very good cause. I was hurt more than angry, and what hurt me the most, what really got to me, was not being stood up. It wasn’t even the lack of the simple courtesy of a phone call. Nor was it Neil’s inability to apologize without a ‘but’ to excuse it all. What really hurt, especially after three plates of spaghetti, was his calling me ‘a big girl.’

       FOUR

      ‘You got that at Victoria’s Secret?’ Neil had an almost sick look on his face. ‘That?’

      I’d just pulled off my new bathrobe, having worn it for the first time and gotten exactly the reaction I’d feared. We were dressing for the O’Keefes’ party, and, as much as I didn’t want to go, a sense of duty drove me. And, I believed in the clinic – there were too many people for whom health insurance was an impossibility. Besides, I wasn’t ‘You-zing’ my life; the least I could do was support my husband in using his.

      I hung the robe on the closet hook. It now looked more prune-colored than purple to me. I sighed. ‘Yes. It was on clearance.’

      ‘But, Dee, you, in Victoria’s Secret?’ He chortled. ‘The one time you go and that’s what you get. Of all things.’

      Neil, in worn but clean undershirt and briefs, looked at the robe, and he too sighed. ‘You could have gotten something for me, if you know what I mean.’ I knew exactly what he meant, and I didn’t even come close to having enough energy to explain to him that I was tired of always doing and buying and being for someone other than me. I said nothing, and Neil went into the bathroom to shave.

      I sat on the bed and slipped my thumbs down into one leg of a pair of suntan panty hose, gathering it up as I went. I placed my toes inside. Sitting there on my bed I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d worn panty hose. It could well be that the pair in my hand were more than fifteen years old. Ten minutes earlier I’d excavated them from the back of my underwear drawer and taken them out of the sealed package. When I’d gotten out of the shower that evening, Neil, predictably, had begged me to wear a dress

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