Issue 11.1 Fall 2015

11.1 cover image

 

 

Apathy is the Best Medicine

 

Andrea Berns

 

You wake from a dream of bunnies in tuxedos and lions pouring tea. Realize that the space next to you in the bed is without evidence of having been slept in. Sigh in disappointment. Alex never came home from work last night. It’s the fourth time this week.


Proceed down the stairs to the kitchen in the robe you received for your twenty-second birthday and find Alex seated at the kitchen table, wearing a rumpled suit and tie and indulging on a large piece of red velvet cake. Think it is odd that he would be fancying dessert at 8:00 on a Saturday morning. He smells of beer and estrogen. When he sees you, he sets down his fork.
           

“Who’s the woman?” You aren’t angry. You simply want to know who is fulfilling his sexual desires since he’s not around enough for it to be you.
           

“My secretary.” He says it as easily as if he had just been asked who made his coffee.
           

“How long has this been going on?”
           

“Six months.” Christmas.
           

“That was when you gave me that sapphire necklace and told me it matched my eyes.”
           

“Yes,” he says. “It was.”
           

“Oh.”
           

Silence. Alex taps his thumbs on the table. Admire them for a bit. They’re nice thumbs. It’s a shame they’ve been brushing against another woman’s cheekbone.
           

“I need you to move out,” he says.

 

React mildly. You knew this was going to happen eventually. “I’ll pack my bags.”

 

Head upstairs without resentment. He was never much for commitment, anyway. Pack in silence.

 

You proceed down the stairs for the second time that morning. He is still at the kitchen table, polishing off the rest of his cake. Notice how once his fork reaches his mouth, his gruesome tongue reaches out to catch the cream cheese frosting and swirls around the fork, letting a small drip of white foam catch on the corner of his lip, only for his tongue to lap it up again. He offers you a piece of cake for the road. Politely decline. Be flattered that he was sensitive to your needs.

 

When he finishes polishing off the rest of his cake, he leaves the plate and the fork, still coated in a thick lather of cream cheese and saliva, on the counter next to the kitchen sink. Abandon your luggage for a few moments to find some dish soap and a sponge and wash them for him.

 

“Oh, Annie, you don’t have to do that,” Alex says, pouring himself a tall glass of milk.

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

Alex gulps down the milk and sets the empty glass next to the sink. Take it, rinsing it out without protest.

 

Once the dishes are washed, leave after a curt goodbye, dragging your bags along. He doesn't offer to help you. Don’t be indignant. He’s going use the morning to relax after a long, laborious night with a co-worker. He deserves it.

 

Take a cab to your mother's house. Realize all you have in your purse is a five dollar bill, a pack of travel Kleenexes, and some spearmint gum. Spend the next twenty minutes trying to communicate to the Hispanic driver that you were not trying to haggle a free ride. Your mother sees your squabbling and pays the driver. Then she makes you some pot roast. It was your favorite meal in high school.

 

Dinner with your mother is strained. She wants to talk about how you ruined your relationship with Alex.

You want to talk about how the pot roast tastes different from what you remember. The seasoning is all wrong.

 

“You could never keep a boyfriend, could you?” your mother is saying. “It’s always been about you. You and your needs.”

 

“I think there’s too much pepper,” you say. “That’s what makes it taste so different.”

 

“You obviously weren’t fulfilling his needs. That’s why he found interest in another woman.” Your mother’s voice tone is a raw squawk, like a nagging parrot. “And now he and this woman are living their life together,and here you are, eating pot roast with your mother.”
           

“Living the dream.”
           

“Anne, what if he marries her? He’ll marry her instead of you. How are you not devastated?”

 

“Apathy is the best medicine,” you reply, and take another bite of pot roast. She doesn't say anything for the rest of the meal.

 

Unpack in silence. Your room is so much the same from high school that it is depressing. Memories of summer days of cherry blossoms and pink Popsicles flood your mind. They leave a bitter taste in your mouth. Spit them out and never think of them again. Decide to head to bed early for the night. With any luck, you’ll die in your sleep.

 

Wake up late the next morning with disappointment, and then shortly decide that you need some coffee. Don’t plan on showering or shaving your legs; wallowing means being lazy. When you go downstairs to the kitchen for the caffeine you crave, find your mother sitting on the couch, conversing with a young man wearing a rather expensive-looking suit. Your mother laughs—she seems happy. When she looks up and sees you, she introduces you to Nathan. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, but his good looks don’t affect you. Instead of salivating like a normal woman with emotions, ask your mother when she became a cougar. Your mother explains that the man is not for her; he’s for you.

 

Nathan looks you up and down. Be suddenly conscious of the fact that you are still in your pajamas with unwashed hair at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning. He calls you a butterface under his breath. You don’t know what that means, but it sounds demeaning, so you scowl at him anyway.

 

Your mother wants to talk to you in private. She pulls you aside and drags you to the kitchen.

 

“Take a shower and get dressed.” She says, her tone deadly quiet. “Nathan is going to take you out to lunch. I want you to look your absolute best. This man could be your potential future husband, and I don’t want you to ruin this again.” The way she speaks the last word is like a punch in the uterus. Don’t let it affect you enough to let it show. Instead, stare at her for an uncomfortable length of time.

 

“Mother.” Say it devoid of any inflection. “I’m wallowing.”

 

She purses her lips and crosses her arms over her chest. And the next thing you know, you’re dragging your feet up the stairs and turning on the shower.

 

Suit and tie aside, judging by the quality of the restaurant Nathan is taking you to and the fact that he drives a Lamborghini, quickly decide that he must be wealthy. Your assumption is correct. He’s a lawyer, not that it interests you. He is also a little self-obsessed. He has barely let you get a word in during the drive to the restaurant, and he’s still talking after your third glass of wine. As he drones on about case files and affidavits, watch in disdain as his mouth flaps open and closed, a string of saliva hanging from the roof of his mouth visible through every word he speaks.

 

Smile accommodatingly. Sip your wine. Let out a flirtatious giggle every once in a while. And wonder, if you just offed yourself with your salad fork right then and there, would he even notice?

 

Suicide may be an overreaction. God, you’re so drunk. Maybe you can just excuse yourself to powder your nose and never come back. Slip a subtle glance around the vicinity for any exits. And stare. You see a familiar face.

 

Alex and another woman are sitting a few tables away from you. His mistress of a secretary looks like she was plucked out of her final semester of college. Stare at her from across the room, gulping down your fifth glass of wine with bitterness. Envy her blonde ringlets and apple-red lips. How dare she be prettier than you? Throw back the rest of your wine like it’s the last drop of water in the desert.

 

“…So though the case was merely a misdemeanor, it quickly transitioned into an unmitigated disaster when the judge choked on his dentures—”
           

“Excuse me, Nathan. I have to take care of something.” Stand up from the table, taking care not to knock anything over in your drunken state. Tipsily make your way over to Alex and his mistress’s table and say with a tone coated with false saccharine: “Alex! Hi! How are you?”

 

“Annie?” Savor the surprise on Alex’s face. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, I’m just here on a date with Nathan.” Gesture clumsily in the general direction of your table. Then cup your hand over the side of your mouth and whisper loudly as if you’re telling him an exciting secret. “He’s a lawyer.”

 

Alex and his playmate exchange uncomfortable smiles and then return their eyes to you. “Well, that sounds nice. I’m really glad you’re doing so well. It was nice talking to you—”

 

“Oh, by the way, I was going to tell you.” Lean down to his height and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You should probably know that I just went to see my gynecologist this morning, and the test came out positive. You should probably get yourself checked out.”

 

Alex turns pink.

 

Turn to Blondie. “You probably should too. You know, just to be safe. Have a nice day.”

 

Spin on your heel and, without looking back, return to your table. The sound of a chair being knocked over as the secretary flies out of her seat along with her disgusted cries and Alex’s stutters to calm her down resonates in your bones with satisfaction.

 

Take a seat in your chair and smooth your dress, relishing in the scene as Alex’s whore grabs her purse and heads for the door, your helpless ex trailing behind her.

 

Nathan is appalled at the scene, but you don’t even notice.

 

“Jesus, Annie. What the hell did you say to them?”

 

Let out a genuine laugh for the first time in years. “Nothing.”

 

He stares at you with disconcerted eyes until the waiter appears.

 

“Is the food tasting all right?” he asks. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

 

“Yes,” you say after some consideration. “The dessert menu. I’m just dying for some red velvet cake.”

 

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