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Authors: Laura T. Emery
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nude beaches if it would make Evan happy. None of it was really about Italy, or Michael for that matter.
Strangely, when your reality is made up of enough illogical events, they start to make sense to you. Up and down can only be reversed so many times before you begin to lose track of which is which. The same holds true with basic logic. If you find yourself on the wrong side of someone else’s logical equation enough times, you start to actually believe that you are the illogical one. You are just too dense to see the reason in it all. The illogical becomes the norm and self-preservation, a monumental priority.
I started to behave in a way that I hated. I did things against my better judgment, just to avoid conflict. I fantasized on more than one occasion that I had just gone on the trip without Evan, and never looked back. Naïvely, I thought that having a baby might mellow him out and refine his priorities. Somehow then we would share a common axis of truth. Someone or something was looking out for me in that respect; I couldn’t imagine how much therapy a child would need after receiving Evan’s version of childrearing.
Of course, every misdeed was always accompanied by a lavish gift or Evan’s version of an apology several days later—just enough positive reinforcement to continue the up-down-up-down cycle. For brief moments I truly believed that he’d recognized the error of his ways and everything would be good from that point on, but it never lasted long. And those brief moments of contentment had grown fewer and farther in between.
With reality on the verge of bitch-slapping me in the face, I was now forced to make some difficult decisions. Should I go back and face the music at home—tell Evan that I have cancer and don’t want treatment? Tell him that I’d found more inner peace during the two days I’d spent in Sedona, than I had in the entirety of our marriage? Make him grasp that I would rather seek enlightenment from strangers than sit around and be dictated to by a man who has his head so far up his ass he needs a periscope to watch television? As it turned out, I would need to make that decision instantaneously.
“No!” I shrieked when I spotted Evan’s black Lexus parked in front of Paul’s house. “Just keep driving, please!” I pleaded.
Paul just fixedly stared at me in confusion. Thankfully, the urgency in my eyes indicated that he should first abide by my demand, before asking, “What the hell is going on, Stacia?” as though a straight jacket might be in order.
“My husband is parked in front of your house,” I explained breathlessly.
“I’m deducing from your tone that he’s someone you’re not in favor of seeing right now?” Paul replied.
“No! I don’t know how he found me.”
“I do,” Wilbur offered nonchalantly as we drove around the block. “Didn’t you say you left your cell phone at Paul’s?”
“Um…I think I did.”
“He probably just tracked it.”
“You can do that? You don’t have to be FBI or CIA or something?” I asked, horrified.
“No—you can just be any garden-variety asshole. You can go online with your cell phone provider and use the GPS. It will actually give you an exact address,” Wilbur said.
“Evan’s no garden-variety asshole. He’s in an asshole class of his own.”
Wilbur chuckled.
“Why don’t I take you and Misty straight to the garage to pick up Misty’s car? How badly do you need your phone back?”
“Not badly enough to face a showdown with Evan,” I said. “Thanks, Wilbur. I appreciate your help.”
“Well then, I guess that means it’s good-bye for us, baby,” Misty said to Paul.
“But what about Evan? He’s sitting in front of your house,” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” said Paul defiantly. “I can handle him.”
Paul wished us luck on our adventure and dropped us off down the street. Misty, Wilbur, and I hid behind a low hedge and watched as Paul made a big show of pulling his truck into
Strangely, when your reality is made up of enough illogical events, they start to make sense to you. Up and down can only be reversed so many times before you begin to lose track of which is which. The same holds true with basic logic. If you find yourself on the wrong side of someone else’s logical equation enough times, you start to actually believe that you are the illogical one. You are just too dense to see the reason in it all. The illogical becomes the norm and self-preservation, a monumental priority.
I started to behave in a way that I hated. I did things against my better judgment, just to avoid conflict. I fantasized on more than one occasion that I had just gone on the trip without Evan, and never looked back. Naïvely, I thought that having a baby might mellow him out and refine his priorities. Somehow then we would share a common axis of truth. Someone or something was looking out for me in that respect; I couldn’t imagine how much therapy a child would need after receiving Evan’s version of childrearing.
Of course, every misdeed was always accompanied by a lavish gift or Evan’s version of an apology several days later—just enough positive reinforcement to continue the up-down-up-down cycle. For brief moments I truly believed that he’d recognized the error of his ways and everything would be good from that point on, but it never lasted long. And those brief moments of contentment had grown fewer and farther in between.
With reality on the verge of bitch-slapping me in the face, I was now forced to make some difficult decisions. Should I go back and face the music at home—tell Evan that I have cancer and don’t want treatment? Tell him that I’d found more inner peace during the two days I’d spent in Sedona, than I had in the entirety of our marriage? Make him grasp that I would rather seek enlightenment from strangers than sit around and be dictated to by a man who has his head so far up his ass he needs a periscope to watch television? As it turned out, I would need to make that decision instantaneously.
“No!” I shrieked when I spotted Evan’s black Lexus parked in front of Paul’s house. “Just keep driving, please!” I pleaded.
Paul just fixedly stared at me in confusion. Thankfully, the urgency in my eyes indicated that he should first abide by my demand, before asking, “What the hell is going on, Stacia?” as though a straight jacket might be in order.
“My husband is parked in front of your house,” I explained breathlessly.
“I’m deducing from your tone that he’s someone you’re not in favor of seeing right now?” Paul replied.
“No! I don’t know how he found me.”
“I do,” Wilbur offered nonchalantly as we drove around the block. “Didn’t you say you left your cell phone at Paul’s?”
“Um…I think I did.”
“He probably just tracked it.”
“You can do that? You don’t have to be FBI or CIA or something?” I asked, horrified.
“No—you can just be any garden-variety asshole. You can go online with your cell phone provider and use the GPS. It will actually give you an exact address,” Wilbur said.
“Evan’s no garden-variety asshole. He’s in an asshole class of his own.”
Wilbur chuckled.
“Why don’t I take you and Misty straight to the garage to pick up Misty’s car? How badly do you need your phone back?”
“Not badly enough to face a showdown with Evan,” I said. “Thanks, Wilbur. I appreciate your help.”
“Well then, I guess that means it’s good-bye for us, baby,” Misty said to Paul.
“But what about Evan? He’s sitting in front of your house,” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” said Paul defiantly. “I can handle him.”
Paul wished us luck on our adventure and dropped us off down the street. Misty, Wilbur, and I hid behind a low hedge and watched as Paul made a big show of pulling his truck into
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