The Interruption of Everything Read Free Page A

but now don’t even generate a comment when a stranger rings their bell.
    Trudy washes her hands then hits the dryer button. I’m starting to slide off this toilet seat. I lean forward and swirl these black denim hips around like they were thirty-six instead of forty-four inches as quietly as I possibly can while lowering my sneakers to the floor, but when my cell phone starts vibrating in the uniform pocket above my left breast, the magazine and book fall off my lap and hit the floor. Shit!
    “If he thinks I’m leaving without putting up a fight, he’s got another thing coming.”
    “I wouldn’t jump so far ahead of myself,” Trudy says. “Take a deep breath.”
    I hear Maureen inhaling and swallowing air.
    “And another. One more.”
    “Trudy, I won’t be able to breathe if I keep taking breaths! Now I’m standing in front of you with a busted heart so cut me some slack on the breathing, okay?”
    “Okay, okay. Just trying to help you relax and not blow a gasket. We’re at work, remember?”
    “But we’re not on the clock.” Maureen blows her nose and then starts washing her hands. If I was really interested, I would wonder what they’re doing here at this hour but it’s anybody’s guess. Sometimes they come in here to kill time between drop-offs and pickups at any number of sport venues for adolescents.
    Trudy and Maureen would be the first to admit that making things that are unnecessary is not only fun, they’re happy to have something to do that gets them out of the house. Something that has nothing to do with children or husbands. They aren’t particularly fascinated by art or beauty, just grateful for the distraction: this is precisely why they had designers decorate their homes and gave them carte blanche. They wanted to avoid feeling overwhelmed by having to make too many conflicting decisions at once: from hardware to fabric, carpeting to faux finishes, to where the trampoline would be safest. They wanted to be surprised when they moved in.
    “He cheated cheated cheated!” Maureen blurts out again as if she’s trying to remind herself of it.
    “But don’t you worry one bit because he’ll pay for it. Big time,” Trudy says a little louder. I’m not sure if she’s talking about karma, child support, or alimony.
    “But I don’t want a divorce!” Maureen slurs, which just means the Xanax she’s “required” to take must have kicked in. Now she’s crying. “I just want things to be back the way they used to be! Exactly, precisely like they were! Normal!”
    I press the magazine against my chest like it has some kind of healing properties. Twenty-some-odd years ago, I was drunken-in-love with Leon and life, and with all the possibilities my future held. I can’t remember when the dreams stopped being real and reality wiped out the dreams. When everything that took up my time was always something tangible. How do you lose so much and not notice when it starts evaporating? Why does it feel like I missed something or that I forgot to do something? It feels like all I’ve been doing is shaking out wrinkles. Tears are rolling down my face because I realize how comfortable I’ve gotten with this numbness.
    I just want things to be back the way they used to be. Exactly. Normal. I feel like yelling out to Maureen that nothing can ever be the way it was. We just long for whatever was once good. It’s the longing that makes us slide into a nostalgic coma. It’s a way of resisting what is happening right now. I loved raising my kids but I wouldn’t want to go through it again. They’re finally out of the house and off at college. If the truth be told, I crave the exact opposite of what Maureen wants: to go forward—not backward. I’m just not sure how to get there. Which is probably why I’m now bawling my eyes out.
    Trudy knocks on the stall door. “Are you all right in there?”
    “You wouldn’t think so, Trudy,” I say, gathering my composure and reading material before I open