Chapter 16 – Madilyn
Jimmy sits down in the chair next to me, seeming not to notice the files or what I was doing, thank goodness. He doesn’t say anything, likely expecting me to ask him where he’s been or what he’s thinking.
The old Madilyn would have done that. But that was before we broke up. I don’t want to lead the conversation for once. He’s the one who was calling me incessantly at work. He’s the one who wanted to talk.
“Madilyn, I know you didn’t want me to be here tonight, and I tried to stay away, but I just have to talk to you,” he finally says.
“Okay. Go ahead,” I tell him.
My mind is set; I don’t want his words to soften my resolve. But he has to hit me where it hurts.
“Do you remember the day we met?” he asks.
Of course I do. The day I met him was the worst day of my life and, back when things were kind of good between Jimmy and me, I also used to think it was the best day of my life too.
My father had just died. On Valentine’s Day, of all days. Being single, I was in the grocery store buying sweets to comfort myself with when I got the phone call from my mother. He died from a completely unexpected heart attack. Just the kind of thing fate likes to deal out as a cold, cruel twist.
My father was always very athletic and healthy. He ran marathons and would constantly tell me I should watch my weight, slim down a bit, eat less and exercise more.
To be honest, it was annoying. I’d tried to tell him I accepted myself for who I was and that I felt he judged me based on appearances instead of health, since I’d never had anything wrong with me medically. But he always insisted I should try harder.
I think he wanted a skinny, pretty daughter who liked to work out and cared about looking like some fashion model. I would never be that type of person. And it hurt, because in every other way, I wanted to be like my dad.
My father had a successful career as a financial planner. I admired his ambition. He always encouraged my education and career goals— unlike my mom, who was a homemaker who thought women should stay home with their children, and who questioned why I was even going to college.
My dad was always proud of my educational achievements and professional aspirations, but clearly they weren’t enough for him. He also wanted my physical appearance to be different. To be his definition of “perfect,” which isn’t as objective as getting straight A’s or being first chair in the symphony.
I resisted all attempts of being something I’m not physically. But I guess that’s why I’ve always worked so hard at school. I had to prove to myself that I was worthy for other reasons aside from looks. I had to prove my dad wrong. And it’s hard for me to give up any control because I always need to be the smartest, brightest and best at anything that I do have control over— namely, my intellect and ambition.
But regardless of our differences, I loved my dad. And that day in the grocery story, my mom wailed into the phone.
“He had just run a 50 mile race,” my mom was saying into the phone. “I always told him he was running too much. That couldn’t have been good for his body, his heart. But he never listened to me. Your father was so stubborn and pig-headed…”
“Mom!” I’d interrupted, leaning against a display full of reduced priced items and grasping a metal rack to steady myself.
To this day, I remember how the shelf felt cold and sturdy in my hand, and how I was relieved to focus on that texture instead of my mom’s words. I know it’s stupid, but the rack just felt steady compared to the whirlwind news my mom had just delivered. I felt lonely, sad and afraid, and I never wanted to let it go.
“Mom. I’m in a store. I can’t really deal with hearing about your resentments towards Dad right now. Can I call you back once I’ve had a chance to…”
“Oh, you can’t deal with hearing me talk about it?” she’d exploded, yelling at me through the phone. Despite my best efforts to hold back my tears, they started flowing. “You’re not the one who has to live in this house after he up and died on me like that, without ever thanking me for all the things I’ve done for him. You’re not the one who devoted your life to him for thirty-five years!”
If I hadn’t been so upset, I would have rolled my eyes. Leave it to Mom to be overly dramatic and make everything about her.
Here she was claiming to have devoted her life to him. Even though she and my dad had had a tumultuous relationship for most of my adolescence and adulthood. Even though each of them was always complaining about the other to me and both of them had told me they would get divorced if their religion allowed it.
I could see right through her. I knew that she stayed with him not only out of obligation but also out of fear. She had never worked anywhere, never knew how to save or spend money, didn’t even know how to balance a checkbook. She would have no clue what to do without him.
And he stayed with her out of financial fears as well. He had admitted as much when he told me he’d gone to see a divorce lawyer but was advised that he’d have to pay her alimony and half of his retirement savings. And so, with religion being his ostensible excuse or not, it made more financial sense for him to stay miserably married than to divorce.
I never wanted to be like them. I didn’t want to have to depend on anyone for my financial survival. Nor did I want to have to financially support someone I didn’t love.
So I had vowed not to entangle myself financially with anyone, or even to commit to the point where it could become an issue. I also thought I had dealt with my problems with my parents and separated my emotions enough that I could talk to them without letting it affect me too much.
But unlike the grocery shelf I had been leaning on that day when I received the call about my dad, I’m not made of steel. Nothing could have prepared me for my father’s death, and my mother’s anger at me although I suppose neither thing should have surprised me. Parents die. My mom rages. But still.
And then there was Jimmy. Apparently a stock boy had seen me in shambles and had told Jimmy, the assistant manager of the store. And that twist of fate started our long and convoluted relationship.
That one vulnerable moment led me to a series of other moments, which brought us to the here and now. The point at which I am trying to break up with him and he is trying to convince me not to, by reminding me of what originally brought us together. And as usual I am feeling guilty because I know he was there for me when no one else was.
Meanwhile, a seductive piece of lingerie from my new mentor lies hidden in plain sight on the kitchen counter where I once wanted Jimmy to rip off my suit, tie me up, and take me. This time is different from the other times.
Because I know what real raw lust feels like, and I know I don’t have that for Jimmy. I have it for Asher, even though I know I shouldn’t. It feels so good to be bad and I don’t want to go back to my boring life with Jimmy.