Day 11
For the past two years, I focused mostly on younger women; that seems to be the normal pattern with people writing about women, even those of us who are older ourselves. We often forget middle-aged women, and in fact, I have had people scoff at the idea that women could have rich lives when they are past forty. Many of us find our lives richer as we get older, as the demands on us shift, and the burden of family care lightens. But for some women, getting older is definitely not a chance to explore new avenues. For a lot of women, getting older means doors close, and windows do not open. So tonight, a story about a woman of middle-age who has never questioned her choices until now.
Oh, and five famous women:
Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Supreme Court Justice
Sirimavo Bandaranaike, former head of state of Sri Lanka, first woman to become head of a modern government
Billie Jean King, tennis player
Ada Lovelace, world’s first computer programmer
Indra Nooyi, CEO of PepsiCo
EMPTY
There was nothing left of the money except the twenty cents she got back in change this morning. Lynette dug around in the bottom of her purse, hoping there was some forgotten change, but nothing. She was broke. The rent was due tomorrow, and she had no idea how she was going to manage. She closed the garage door, shutting herself away from the view of Mrs. Mulvaney across the street. Snoop, she thought as she turned the key to let herself into the empty house.
Her house…but it wasn’t, was it? All those years she lived here, working and cleaning, keeping the house spotless and warm, and for what? Paying rent to live in her own house…what a disgrace. She sank into the easy chair and kicked off her shoes. She cursed the high heels she hated, and which didn’t seem to be helping her get a job.
Twenty-seven. That was the number of applications she filled out today…twenty-eight if you counted the application for food stamps. Lynette decided not to count that one. She filled the dishpan with warm water and stuck her tired feet into the suds. She stared at her feet as though they belonged to someone else.
The phone brought her out of her chair; the annoying voice that announced the number convinced her she better not ignore this one. She had ignored the calls all week, but with the rent due tomorrow…she rushed to grab it just before it went to voice mail.
“Where have you been?” Sam didn’t even bother with a greeting anymore, his voice harsh and ugly.
Lynette paused before she answered, remembering the affection and tenderness that used to pulse across the wires, how she used to rush to answer his calls. “I’ve been here.”
“Why haven’t you been answering?”
“Because I didn’t want to talk to you.” There. She said it. The first time she had ever truly said what she felt since all this mess began. No apologies, no groveling, just bold and blunt.
“Look, there’s no need to be like this”, he said. “Just get over it, okay?” Sam explained why he called, something about a tool he left behind by accident, and could he just drop by tomorrow to pick it up? “I can pick up the rent at the same time”, he added.
Lynette winced. “I...I won’t be here tomorrow. I’m…working”, she lied, hoping he wouldn’t hear the lie in her voice. He had always been able to see right through her.
“Just leave the check on the table. I still have a key.” Sam hung up before she could protest.
The phone began to clatter with the disconnected sound before Lynette moved. She dropped it on the hook, the precious landline Sam hated so much. He had bought her a smart phone last year, hoping she would move into the real world, as he put it, but she had no idea where it was, or even if she still had it. She stared out the window at the empty back yard as she scrubbed carrots for her dinner.
Empty. The house was empty. The yard was empty. Her purse was empty. That was her life now, emptiness. The children long ago moved away, with lives of their own. Neither of them had called or come by since the divorce. Surely they couldn’t blame her, she thought. Their dad walked out on her for a younger woman, and they acted like she had done something wrong. Even Sam didn’t pretend she did something wrong. He told her, boldly, the day he packed up. “You’re just too old.” He married a woman younger than his own daughter three months after the divorce was final.
The yard was empty because Sam had claimed the dog. Muppet had been her dog, a gift from him on their anniversary five years ago, back when he still loved her…or said he did. A sweet little Scottie who was always at her feet as she cooked and cleaned, who curled up with her while she read…now Muppet was a present for a woman barely out of her teens.
Lynette finished peeling the carrots and threw them in the trash. She wouldn’t eat tonight. She hadn’t eaten for two days, because she couldn’t manage to choke down the food. She probably wouldn’t eat for a long time now, unless the food stamps came through. The property settlement had gone mostly to Sam; they didn’t live in a community property state, and everything was in his name. He gave her an allowance for six months, out of the goodness of his heart, he said. She should be able to find a job and be earning by then. He allowed her to keep her car…until she could get a new one, he told her. He gave her six months. In another month, the car would belong to him.
He allowed her to live in the house, but charged her rent. She had checked on the internet…see, Sam, I do too live in the real world, she thought…and discovered what he was charging her was at the high end of the rental scale for a property this size. He seemed to want to punish her for getting old, even though he was five years older than she was. What was she supposed to do? Have someone paint a picture of her, like Dorian Gray, so she could stay young forever?
Sam had changed so much in the past five years. After he passed fifty, he started looking in the mirror more, checking for flaws. He had few. He worked out and took care of himself, and refused to allow himself to look his age. To be fair, she was fit and trim, and looked good for her age, too. But…she did have some gray hairs, and wrinkles started popping up around her mouth and eyes shortly after she hit forty-five. He had wanted her to dye her hair, but she didn’t see any reason. “I’m not a fashion model”, she would laugh. She didn’t laugh any more; his new wife was a fashion model, working for the fancy boutique downtown.
Lynette settled at the table with her list, checking off all the places she had applied today. Too old, she wrote beside one. Too short, she wrote by another. Most of the places didn’t tell her why; she just wrote not interested by them. Twenty-seven places, and none of them had a job for a middle-aged displaced homemaker. They were looking for younger…sexier…taller…whatever. She had nothing to offer them. No skills, no experience, nothing but a degree in design that was thirty years out of date.
Two years ago, Lynette had participated in a research project at the college. A student was surveying older women to see if they were satisfied with their life, if they were happy with their choices. She had bubbled and chirped about how fulfilling it had been to give up her career and settle down to take care of her husband and her children, be a full time mother and devote her life to service.
Damn, she thought. I wish that kid would call me back. I could tell her a thing or two. Like, young woman, don’t you ever let go of your dreams. Don’t let anyone…not a lover, a husband, a mother…convince you that you’ll be happier and more fulfilled at home. Don’t choke off all opportunities, because you might find yourself alone at fifty, with no one to care and no where to go. No job, no prospects, and no money.
She started to make a note by the last job on her list, but stopped. She grabbed the pen in both hands and jabbed it at the paper, slashing great black lines through it so hard that she tore the paper and marked on the table underneath. She remembered the look on the young man’s face, the contempt as he looked at her pathetic resume, no jobs for twenty years, no references, no anything but a bachelor’s degree awarded to someone who had a different name than the one she had carried since her marriage. She was pretty sure that was a different person; she couldn’t remember who she was then.
Why? Lynette never asked for, or expected, gratitude. She did it because she loved them…she loved Sam. She loved Jasmine. She loved Ryan. She loved Muppet. So she put them first, because it was right. Now where were they? Did her children want a younger mother, too? Was fifty too old for a twenty-five year old woman to claim for a mother? Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. You know Jasmine is busy. And Ryan. They’ll call…they will. Soon.
She had no idea what Sam told the children about their divorce. She tried to call the day after he walked out, but neither of them were home…or at least not answering their phones. She tried again the next day…and the next. They never called her back. She quit calling.
Now the money was gone, she had no way to continue living in this house. She tried to find a smaller place, but they all required deposits. She didn’t have a deposit. She didn’t have the money for the rent. Soon she wouldn’t even have her car. The lady at the food stamp place seemed sympathetic, but she was too busy to talk. No one had time for an old woman. Middle-aged, she thought, and corrected herself. No, middle-aged is for women who still have life in front of them. I am old.
The clock chimed eight as Lynette lowered herself into the bath. She stared at the bottle in her hand. Funny that Sam didn’t take his pills with him. He hadn’t gone a day without them in ten years, and then to walk out and just leave them. It’s almost like…he knew. She turned on the faucet; the water was too cold. She should have warmth now; she would be cold forever after tonight.
Lynette closed her eyes as the pills took hold. Nice of Sam to leave her a full bottle, she thought as she slid underneath the water. At least he left her something.