The End of an Era

It had been twenty-four years since Molly had last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The new owners must have repainted it, although it was starting to show signs of wear. Only the flowerboxes were different, no longer raucous with impatiens and petunias, just hardened dirt and crabgrass. The blinds were drawn and there were no lights. It looked lifeless and empty.

Like her life was now. Empty. Like her heart. Suddenly dizzy, she sat on the cracked concrete steps, the very three that she’d crossed hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. Closing her eyes, she saw Keith carrying groceries from Trader Joe’s, walking with feet pointed outward, steady and strong. He was laughing, back in the day, back when things were still good between them. His eyes were the same khaki as the house, only limned with gold. She teased him that that was where he kept his secrets, which always made him lean into her for a kiss. Now she was on the cusp of another decade, turning the corner into old age, and her worst fear might be realized: that she would face it alone.  She’d longed for her prince to come as long as she could remember: she spent hours in her room as a little girl, drawing cartoons of being rescued from a stern, isolated tower by the handsome hero who, of course, rode her away to a happily-ever-after.

She hadn't known that she could hurt this much. She’d suffered losses before, who hadn’t at this stage of life? The pain was physical, a dense fist of grief lodged in her belly. Never before had she been left-she'd always been the one to bolt. Her first marriage had starting collapsing on unsteady emotional feet from the very beginning. It was a rebound marriage; she’d been trying to convince herself that the man she’d dated for eight years wasn’t gay. She finally gave up when he kept showing up in drag with a variety of male lovers. She became desperately determined to marry before the age of thirty.  Steve was a hot mess, but when he asked her to marry him, she didn’t hesitate. They eloped on a whim while visiting his father in Canada, and were so poor that all they could afford were chintzy fake jade wedding bands.  Molly hung in there for five years, often working three jobs to support them. With the encouragement of her friends, she left Steve in the middle of the night. It had been weirdly exhilarating leaving him, his alcoholism and grim insistence on sleeping with a loaded 35mm under his pillow (“It’s got the safety on,” he assured her). But being left? That didn’t happen to her. Until it did.

When the fighting started, Molly played dirty. She had a vicious way with words, and she knew what hurt. “You’re Mr. Popular,” she accused. “Our friends like you better than they do me.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” he’d say. “Our friends love you as much as they do me.”

But they both knew that wasn’t true. Keith was safe, tolerant, loyal, kind and knew how to listen. Molly was opinionated, gossipy, impatient and often interrupted. Keith was the safe port in the storm. Molly was the storm. She claimed to be passionate, an artiste, a creative. Keith was the rock; he balanced the checkbook, changed the oil in their Honda Accord, was punctual to the minute (Molly perpetually ran late; there was always one more thing to do).

She was startled out of her reverie by a hummingbird zipping past her right ear, so close that she felt a miniature breeze. “Hi, Mother,” she murmured. She and her mother had made a pact that, after her death, she would visit in the guise of both butterflies and birds. She had kept her word. A brain aneurism dropped her like a stone exactly one month before she and Keith left for a long-awaited trip to South America. It had been Keith’s idea-kind, sweet, caring Keith-to smuggle her ashes and scatter them. As they did, wild parrots courted them and dolphins escorted their boat along the Amazon. “That’s just unbelievable,” said the captain. “In my thirty years of running this tour, I’ve never seen so many dolphins swimming with us for so long." They clutched at each other, holding sweaty hands tightly, like little kids at a circus. “That’s Joanne,” Keith said, grinning. “That’s your mom.” Molly had never felt so close to anyone as in that moment. “I believe in magic,” she sighed. “You are magic,” he murmured, pulling her head onto his chest, wide and yielding. She marveled at his heartbeat and inhaled his earthiness, a unique scent that always made her feel safe. 

But the trip was shadowed by Molly’s father.  She felt compelled to do her duty as a good daughter, so insisted on writing him daily. The internet was slow, and hours lagged on as she struggled with outdated computers, their keys clumsy and oversized. Meanwhile, Keith waited patiently, drinking too much coffee and reading stained paperback books. He never complained-that was in her job description-and she took his quiet acquiescence as agreement. Molly realized, belatedly, that that was when the marriage took its first real hit.

Upon their return to San Francisco, Molly insisted that she and Keith spend Sundays with her dad, who lived 20 miles south. He was ungracious, his narcissism insatiable. Short of six months after his wife’s death, he announced that he no longer missed her and started dating a widow who had been waiting in the wings. But Molly persisted, fluttering around him and pushing her own grief aside. Keith fell into second place, and their sex life, never robust, became anemic. Her mother had been a comforting buffer, and their visits became obligatory, her father demanding center stage. His gradual dementia gobbled up still more time and energy. And, thought Molly glumly, their marriage.

The arguments began, always with alcohol, always at night. Molly, heartwired for drama from childhood, confronted Keith, accusing him of ignoring her. Keith got irritable and withdrawn. A pervasive emotional flu took her down. “What’s the point of anything? Anything at all?” she wondered. When Keith rolled his eyes in reaction, she flew at him, accusing him of being unsupportive. Her shrink prescribed Prozac, which muted her sex drive and destroyed her wicked sense of humor.  She pouted a lot, spent money on Botox (Keith commented, “You look like a middle-aged Barbie,” which infuriated her), dieted herself into Kate Moss thinness, worked out seven days a week and splurged on clothes she wore once and then gave away.  In the evenings, it was martinis, Netflix and empty conversation. Keith started spending more time away from home, hanging out with a guy friend that Molly didn’t like. She continued to demand reassurance, once turning to him and saying, “I don’t think that I could live without you.” Keith replied, not losing a beat, “I could.”

The night he announced that he wanted a divorce, she threw a full martini glass at him. He dodged it, she clutched at him, he pushed her away. “I stopped loving you years ago,” he shouted. “I don’t think I even like you. We’re done.” And walked away, through the front door of this house-where they’d made love, raised and buried four cats, seen clients, thrown wild parties, dreamed and realized dreams. They’d had thirty years together, in this very house, and that was a pretty good run. 

And that was all that mattered.