The Last Original Wife Read Free

them off.
    â€œNo, wait!” Mrs. Del Mastro said and turned to Dr. Katz. “You know what? I’m fine. I know what to do now. So you go on and keep your appointment with Mrs. Carter. And I may or may not return. Ever.”
    â€œ What? ” Katz said, clearly shocked.
    Mrs. Del Mastro bit her lower lip, self-doubt returning. “I’ll let you know,” she said and turned to me. “Want to have lunch sometime?”
    â€œSure,” I said.
    She reached in her gorgeous orange handbag, pulled out a small case, and clicked it open. She handed me her card.
    â€œCall me,” she said. “I think I’m going to have some free time on my hands.”
    â€œI will.” And I would. We smiled at each other, and she went to the door and stopped. She looked at Katz and said, “I’ll call you.”
    Then she was gone.
    Something heavy hung in the air in the next moment as I quickly wondered if Katz would blame me for losing his patient. He did not. Dr. Katz arched one eyebrow and appraised me in bemused suspicion. He could not have cared less.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œNothing,” he said. “Shall we?”
    I followed him into his office. I sat in the same chair I had last time and waited for him to find his place in his notes. I still wasn’t quite comfortable with the idea of someone having a big fat bulging file containing my feelings and thoughts, but at this point it was still a pretty skinny file and I suppose he needed something in writing so that he didn’t confuse one patient with another. Anyway, I had nothing to say that was so revolutionary. I was certain he had heard my complaint from a very high percentage of women who came to him for help. The difference between them and me was that I wasn’t throwing a fit in the waiting area. No, I had actually done something about it.
    â€œNow, Mrs. Carter, when I saw you last, you were about to tell me about, let’s see, you called them the Barbies and about a trip to Edinburgh? Let’s see . . . ah! Can you pinpoint any conversation or a specific event that triggered your general disgust with the institution of marriage?”
    â€œWell, that’s a pretty cold clinical way to put it. I wouldn’t say I am generally disgusted with the institution of marriage. I just think that at a certain point in your life you reassess things.”
    â€œLike what? Unrealized goals?”
    â€œMaybe to a point, but for me it’s more like just what in the hell am I doing here? ”
    â€œDo you think you might have unrealistic expectations?”
    I thought about his question for a moment and had a sudden daydream of myself as a young woman, dressed in my wedding gown, leaving the church on Wes’s arm, rose petals swirling all around us in the air. My heart was overflowing with joy for our future. I was also two months’ pregnant with Bertie and had dropped out of college in my last semester to rush to the altar. What was it that caused the first little piece of my heart to die? Was it the overfried eggs he threw in the sink because they had brown spots on the bottom or the fact that I didn’t make the bed the same way his mother did, mitering the corners? Maybe it was because I could never remember to rotate the dinner plates or his underwear so that they all became worn evenly. I was trapped with nowhere to run. So was he.
    â€œDr. Katz? It’s a little bit like the chicken and the egg. That question is so old it just doesn’t matter anymore.”
    â€œThen you tell me. What is the question?”
    â€œWell, there is more than one, but let’s start with this: Are you giving up way more than you’re given to the point that your marriage is so lopsided that it’s obvious to everyone? Has your marriage become absurd? Does he actually care if you’re happy or about even being a part of what makes you happy?”
    â€œDon’t you think your