Elizabeth wished she could smile at that, but her heart was beating so hard she felt light-headed. “I want … who I used to be.”
“Oh, honey.” Meghann sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Jack about this.”
“Every time we get close to talking about something that matters, I panic and say nothing’s wrong. Afterward, I want to hit myself in the head with a ball peen hammer.”
“I had no idea you were this unhappy.”
“That’s the worst part of it. I’m not unhappy, either.” She slumped forward. Her elbows made the table rattle. “I’m just empty.”
“You’re forty-five years old and your kids are gone and your marriage has gone stale and you want to start over. My practice is full of women like you.”
“Oh, good. I’m not only unhappy and overweight, I’m a cliché, too.”
“A cliché is just something that’s commonly true. Do you want to leave him?”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands, at the diamond ring she’d worn for twenty-four years. She wondered if she could even get it off. “I dream about leaving him. Living alone.”
“And in those dreams, you’re happy and independent and free. When you wake up, you’re lonely and lost again.”
“Yes.”
Meghann leaned toward her. “Look, Birdie, women come into my office every day, saying they’re not happy. I write down the words that will tear their families apart and break a lot of hearts. And you know what? Most of them end up wishing they’d tried harder, loved better. They end up trading their homes, their savings, their lifestyle, for a nine-to-five job and a stack of bills, while hubby-dearest waits ten seconds, then marries the salad-bar girl at Hooters. So, here’s a million dollars worth of advice from your best friend and divorce attorney: If you’re empty, it’s not Jack’s fault, or even his problem, and leaving him won’t solve it. It’s your job to make Elizabeth Shore happy.”
“I don’t know how to do that anymore.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Birdie, let’s be martini-honest here. You used to be a lot of things—talented, independent, artistic, intellectual. In college, we all thought you’d end up being the next Georgia O’Keeffe. Now you organize every city fund-raiser and decorate your house. I got a law degree in less time than it takes you to choose a fabric for the sofa.”
“That’s not fai—”
“I’m a lawyer. Fair doesn’t interest me.” Her voice softened. “I also know that Jack’s job has been hard on you. I know how much you wanted a place where you could put down roots.”
“You don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve lived in more than a dozen houses since we got married, in almost half that many cities. You’ve lived in Seattle forever. You don’t know what it’s like to always be the stranger in town, the new wife with no friends or résumé of your own. Hell, you started college at sixteen and still managed to fit in. I know I’ve let my house become an obsession, but it’s because I belong in Echo Beach, Meg. Finally. For the first time since I was a child, I have a home. Not a house, not a condo, not a place to rent for a year or two. A home.” She realized she was practically yelling. Embarrassed, she lowered her voice. “I feel safe there. You can’t understand that because you’ve never been afraid.”
Meghann seemed to consider that. Then she said, “Okay, forget the house. How about this: I can’t remember the last time I saw you paint.”
Elizabeth drew back. This was something she definitely didn’t want to talk about. “I painted the kitchen last week.”
“Very funny.” Meghann fell quiet, waiting for a response.
“There wasn’t time after the kids were born.”
Meghann’s expression was loving, but steady. “There is now.”
A subtle reminder that the girls were at college now, that Elizabeth’s reason for being had moved on. Only a woman with no children would think it was so easy to begin again. Meg didn’t know what it was like to devote twenty years of your life to children and then watch them walk away. On shows like Oprah, the experts said it left a hole in your life. They underestimated.
It was a crater. Where once there had been flowers and trees and life, now nothing but rock remained.
Still, she had to admit that the same thought had occurred to her. She’d even tried to sketch a few times, but it was a terrible thing to reach for a talent too late and come up empty-handed. No wonder she’d poured all of her creativity into her beloved house. “It takes passion to paint. Or maybe just youth.”
“Tell that to Grandma Moses.” Meghann reached into her handbag and pulled out a small notepad with a pen stuck in the spiral column. She flipped the pad open and wrote something down, then ripped off the piece of paper and handed it to Elizabeth.
The note said: women’s passion support group. thursday, 7:00/ astoria community college.
“I’ve been waiting almost a year for the right time to recommend this to you.”