Spooning with My Mother - a freewrite short story idea from September 2002

Divorce is a strange thing. You lay awake in the middle of the night lying next to the stranger you thought you once loved and now passionately hate, praying that when you wake up the next morning, that he will magically disappear. And then one day you find yourself again awake in the middle of the night, wishing that the man you once loved and still hate passionately, was lying next to you, because even he was better than the pit of loneliness that you now find yourself drowning in.

It's the only thing about divorce I really hate; the sleeping alone bit. I wish you could have an agreement with your husband, where he is excluded from every part of your life, except at night when you go to sleep. And it's not like you need him there to have to sex, because you have no desire to sleep with him anymore. No, you need him there because that king sized bed that your husband insisted on buying against your wishes, is just too big for one person.

Sometimes I tell myself that perhaps it wouldn't so lonely if the bed was smaller. But changing beds is almost as traumatic as getting a divorce. First of all, there are the king sized sheet sets I've managed to collect over the years. I'm afraid to think of how many sets there are, and worse, how some sets are incomplete. Who's going to to want an incomplete sheet shet? Not to mention all the stray pilllowcases, top sheets and fitted sheets that I've bought to replace the missing pieces of any sets, which only match if you squint your eyes to the colors run together. Then there's the bedskirts, the pillows, the comforters and blankets, all bought with a king sized bed in mind.

If I buy a new bed, all of this "stuff" for the bed will have to be sold, given away or thrown out. It's traumatic. It's like throwing out pieces of your history. Each sheet set has a memory attached, and most of them are good ones. There's the threadbare and slimy flannel sheet set we first owned, and which I swear my daughter was concieved on. We haven't used that set for 10 years, but it still manages to put a smile on my face on my face everytime I see it.

There's the red satin set that my husband Joe brought home one, on the advice of one his buddies that red satin sheets were a big sexual turn on. Those were the days when Joe was at least still interested in us having a fun sex life. We only used the sheet set once, but it's a reminder to me that once long ago he was trying.

Then there's the pink flannel sheet set with hearts that Joe bought me one christmas, which I thought meant that he still really cared about our marriage. He confessed me to one night that he had seen it on sale, and that it was just too good a bargain to pass up. He told me that sleeping on flannel was great because our bed was often cold at night. Sometimes honesty in a marriage is a drag. I thought Joe had finally really gotten to know me after 11 years of marriage and could read my mind. I still haven't forgiven him for destroying my illusion.

Maybe it was that night I realized that Joe had become a total stranger to me, and that we needed flannel sheets instead of each other's body to keep warm at night.

It doesn't matter anymore. Joe is gone now. Don't you just hate when certain memories make you go all teary eyed? Honestly, you'd think that after two years I'd stopped crying over my broken marriage wouldn't you?

It's that damned bed that's driving me to think thoughts that no longer mean anything to me.

I wonder around the house at night when I can't sleep. Sometimes I go to into the den and watch TV. There never seems to be anything one except infomercials or B-grade love story movies. Like I really need to see that when I can't sleep because I miss my lousy exhusband at night.

Sometimes I try to read in bed, and that works. Joe always hated when I read in bed, and I gave up the habit in our second year of marraige. Reading in bed still feels like I'm doing something deliberately wrong, but I tell myself that it's just left over feelings from my Joe as Master of his Domain experience.

Sometimes, I sit in the dark in the living room and look of our picture window. I study each of my neighbor's houses with their perfectly groomed lawns and the color coordinated color schemes of their houses, and I wonder about their lives. From the outside, Joe and I were the perfect couple. All of our neighbors said so. What are they thinking now? That one day their happy facade, their fake pretense of a life will be rippped away and set down in precise legal terms in their divorce agreement. I wonder if they're contemplating it even now. If some other woman is awake like I was, or some man, wondering about that unknown person lying on the other side of the bed.

Sometimes I just stand at the door of daughter's bedroom and stare at her sleeping face. Some strange biological thing happened, and she looks like a cross between me and Joe, but prettier and more refined than either of us were at that age. Sometimes I am tempted to crawl into bed with her, but I've always stopped myself. I don't think Melissa would mind, but it just doesn't feel right. It never has felt right until tonight.

I make my way back to the living room so I can think in the dark. Joe called me today, to rearrange his weekend time with her. When I asked him why, he casually mentioned that he was going away for the weekend with some woman he met. I told myself I would be prepared for this moment, but how do you prepare yourself to hear that your ex-husband has moved on with his life. I tell myself that he has probably had other weekends away before and this isn't his first time, but then Joe blurts out that this is the first time he's missed his weekend with Melissa, and that he's really sorry. Guess I had him pegged wrong all along, maybe even from the day I first met him.

I don't remember the rest of our conversation, or what I said. I just hope I didn't blurt out anything stupid or sappy like "I just want you to be happy Joe". It's not that I don't want my exhusband to be happy, I just don't want to hear about it ever. I wish there was a way so I wouldn't have to talk to him, but there's Melissa to think about. Every condom or birth control device should come with a warning label that says, "Having a baby with this person means you will have to see that person for the rest of your life, whether you want to or not. Be smart. Use birth control" I bet this warning lower the birth rate in half if not more.

Don't get me wrong. I love my daughter. It's so corny, but it's true; Melissa is the apple of my eye. Not that I have the foggiest idea what the hell that saying means, but Melissa is the most important thing in my life.

Is the way my mother felt with me all those years ago, when it was just the two of us? My mother was luckier than me though. My dad just took off one day and never looked back. At least she didn't have to hear how my dad was starting a new life, and watch her husband transform himself into the man she always wanted him to be. At least my mother didn't have to wonder a dozen times a day, what is "she" doing that never did. Did he tell her? Why didn't he tell me how make him into the kind of husband every woman dreamed about? Was it some secret book they handed down to only certain women? And why the hell didn't I get the book?

I walk over again to Melissa's room. Like any young child she sleeps on her stomach. I can see her long brown hair all tangled up, and I tell myself I need to remind her to braid it before goes to sleep. She'll look at me through her father's blue eyes and whine "Mom, I'm not a little girl anymore. Only kids braid their hair before going to bed."

Not braiding her hair before she went to bed, was Melissa's first attempt at independence from me since she had gone to bed with braids for most of her life. I didn't say anything, even when she told me I needed to buy her a better brush or comb and conditioner so she could detangle her hair faster. I just smiled at her, and bought the items she needed. Oh sure I could have gloated, but why bother. This was only a small squirmish into what I remember as the long war called puberty.