Do Over

She sat on a coffee-colored leather sofa in the split ranch waiting for her husband to come home. She felt no real desire to see him. She couldn’t yet admit to herself that her lack of desire was, in fact, disdain bordering on disgust. But she justified the relationship because this one had to work. After three failed marriages, there wasn’t much of a choice. She reached for the wine glass but miscalculated sending the Cabernet tumbling to the floor. The stain blossomed on the carpet. She leaned back into the couch and stared at the empty images spewing from the television. Her eyes closed; she wished – not for the first time – that she could do the whole thing over.

The glass had fallen out of her sight. She reached her slender fingers down over the couch and felt the foot of the glass. Her hand slid up the stem until she felt the round bottom of the bowl. She slid the stem between her ring and middle fingers and squeezed. She perceived the jagged edge of the glass on her index finger not as pain but as discomfort, a textural abomination. The libation dulled her reaction. Instead of flinching and dropping the broken chalice to the ground, she pulled it up to her face and watched as blood dripped rhythmically onto her indigo bathrobe. With the bleeding hand, she placed the glass delicately on the coffee table and then pulled back her bloodied finger to her mouth. The thick liquid had a familiar metallic taste, like milky unfiltered tap water. She leaned her head against the couch, waiting for the white blood cells to do their work.

The heavy car door slammed shut outside. The key twisted in the lock. He kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack onto the ground. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called with mock sincerity. ‘As if that really mattered anyway.’ He didn’t climb the eight short steps but instead descended into his man cave to drink his limeless Corona and catch the back-to-back reruns of Seinfeld. The door closed with a thud.

She opened her eyes and focused on the television. A news anchor with bad hair described the beating of an elderly man in broad daylight. She grabbed the remote control and pressed the power button. The screen went blank.

She slowly took her finger out of her mouth and felt the tears come one after the other until her cheeks were wet. Her drunkenness diminished, she set her foot down into the spot where she spilled her wine. Red liquid bubbled onto her toes and stained her nails. She looked at her feet and smiled. The smile gave way to a giggle. As she did when she was a little girl, she retrieved the nail polish and set to work on painting her toenails.

She sat squarely in the middle of the queen-sized bed and set the bottle of nail polish on a book of art by Kandinsky that one of her more artistic friends purchased for her. The book had never been opened. She dipped the small brush into the viscous liquid and transferred the color to her pale, yellow nails. Back and forth she stroked the brush on each nail until they were neon pink. She smiled at the sight.

The door flew open; the knob thwacked the already indented drywall. Startled, she jumped knocking the polish onto the book causing Kandinsky’s Yellow-Red-Blue to sport more pink than the artist originally intended although Vassily might have been well pleased with the conical shape that extended from the mouth of the bottle to the corner of the book cover.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he slurred.

She ignored him. She stared at her toes.

‘Are you gonna make some food? Or are we doing pizza again?’

She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock slightly.

‘You’d think by now that you could handle your liquor. But you’re just a lightweight.’

The last word struck a nerve. Since high school, that was the one word no one could rightfully use to describe her. ‘Shut up and get out of my room.’

‘Ah, so she speaks,’ he mocked. ‘You gonna make me?’

Her guile receded. She continued rocking.

‘I thought not. I’m gonna order some pizza.’ He walked back into the living room.

She listened to him as he ordered. ‘Pepperoni and olives. Yeah, extra cheese. And I’m gonna pay by credit card.’ He read the number. After a pause, she heard, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Can you try this one?’ He read the 16 digits from another card. After a moment, he replied, ‘Sorry, the economy’s not been good to us. Can you wait just a moment?’ He yelled out sweetly, ‘Honey, where’s the Visa?’ She didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry, she must be downstairs. I’ll call back in a bit.’ The phone beeped, indicating the end of the call. He stomped back into the room.

‘Didn’t you hear me calling, honey?’ he emphasized the final word not so sweetly. ‘Why are you being such a bitch?’

Her rocking became more pronounced.

He crossed the room and grabbed the purse on her dresser. He rummaged through until he found the wallet. ‘I’m guessing you won’t mind that I use your card to order some pizza.’ He looked back at her. ‘It doesn’t look like you mind.’ He noticed the blood on her bathrobe. ‘That time of the month, huh? Oh wait, I think you’re done having kids. When was the last time they called you, by the way? Never? Thought so.’

She could smell the gin each time he exhaled. She stared at her toes and tried to take comfort in the neon pink color. Meanwhile, the polish continued to drip on the bed.

He walked out and called the pizza place back. ‘Yeah, we’re trying to consolidate some debt,’ he lied. ‘This one should work.’ He read the number. ‘Yeah, I’d like a large pepperoni and olive. Extra cheese.’

She didn’t eat meat, hated olives, and was lactose intolerant.

‘Nope, that’s it,’ he crooned. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She heard the beep to indicate the end of the call.

He walked back down the hallway and stopped at the door. He flicked the card at her and hit her in the back. ‘Thanks for the pie, dear.’ He slammed the door shut.

She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until the door slammed. She began to sob.

It isn’t true that death is the only moment that a person’s life flashes before her eyes. It happens also during those potential life changing moments when all seems lost. She saw her dead father grinning at her with his cleanly teeth. She saw her first boyfriend lean in for a kiss. She saw each of her past husbands as she spoke her vows to them, in the Catholic church, on the beach, and in the court clerk’s office. She saw herself trip over her elder son and fall down the steps in her first home. She saw herself search desperately for her younger son. She remembered the Christmas when neither son called her.

The sadness welled inside her, flooding her heart with despair. She stopped crying only because there were no more tears. For the second time that night, she wished she could do the whole thing over. But there were no do-overs. There were too many memories to forgive and forget those around her, not to mention herself.

She grabbed her red Samsung and searched the names. She called Bryan first, but there was no answer. Then she tried her younger son, Nicholas. He picked up on the third ring.

‘Hi mom.’

‘Hi Nick. How are you?’ She tried not to sound drunk.

‘Okay. Long day. What’s up?’ he asked. He wasn’t accustomed to answering calls from his mother.

‘I miss you.’ She felt her throat close.

‘Yeah. Well, we miss you too, mom. How are things?’ he asked casually.

‘Nick, I’m going to be honest. You and your brother are the best choices I ever made.’

There was a pause.

‘Thanks, mom. Are you okay?’ Nick had always been the more blunt of the two boys.

‘Not really. I’m so sorry.’ She slurred each ‘s’.

‘Well, I have to go change Bella. Are you coming up any time soon?’

‘I hope so. I think I have to.’

‘Okay, great. Let us know. We’d love to see you.’

‘Okay. I love you, Nick.’

‘Love you too, mom. Talk to you later.’

The line went dead.

The doorbell rang. It was the pizza, and it was her chance to act. She grabbed the credit card on the bed and tossed it into her purse. She paused for a moment to consider what else to bring with her. She grabbed the small bag that rested by the bureau and packed a few shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and underwear. The Kandinsky book followed. She heard the front door close, followed by footsteps down the stairs. She opened the bedroom door quietly, her purse on her shoulder and the small bag in her hand. She crept down the hallway and used the stairs to the back door. She heard nothing. Once out the door, she walked through the wet grass around the house and found her Rav 4. She clicked the button on her keychain. The doors unlocked quietly. She threw her belongings into the backseat and shut the door as quietly as she was able. She then moved into the driver’s seat.

She put the key into the ignition. And then she sat. She looked at the house she had purchased. It had been the first house she had purchased alone. She didn’t turn the key. Instead, she considered the situation. In her head, a voice spoke. ‘Four failed marriages.’ Then she heard her father’s voice, ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’

And then another voice spoke. ‘Where will you go? What will you do? You have no plan. You have no course of action. You have only a bag and a credit card. You are leaving your house. You will have four failed marriages. You will have been defeated in every aspect of your life.’

She considered her situation. She felt the migraine begin to creep into her skull. And then she saw the garage door open. She knew it was now or never. She turned the key and heard the SUV roar to life. Her husband ran out to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.

She wanted to put the car in reverse and be rid of him. She wanted to find a hotel and plan the next steps of her life. Instead, she lowered the window.

‘Yeah?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Away from here, from you,’ she replied.

‘What about me,’ he asked in as desperate a voice as he could muster.

He heard that cry from each of her former husbands. And she still didn’t know the answer.

‘I’m sorry. I had a bad day at work. I’ll do better.’

‘How many times have you said that?’ she asked. How many times had all her husbands said that?

‘I know what I did. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’

And how often can people say they’re sorry without being contrite?

‘Come back inside. I’ll get a pizza you want with my own money. I just got paid today.’

‘Four failed marriages,’ spoke a faraway voice.

‘C’mon, Lizzy,’ he showed his sad, brown eyes.

‘You can’t treat me like this,’ she cried. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door and put his right arm around her back. ‘Come inside.’

She climbed out of the SUV and followed him into the house.

The key dangled in the ignition.