Beauty Page 18

  “What do you want to create?” he asked.

  “My relationship with Toby grows deeper and more resilient each day,” I stated.

  “Blurt—”

  “Yeah, right. Like William will allow that?”

  Ben repeated the drill again, and I responded: “Toby’s a teenager. He’s got his girlfriend for support, he doesn’t need his ‘mommy’.”

  Ben and I worked through what turned out to be a half-hour list of concerns. I’d often felt closer to Toby than I ever had with Alex, and now, I felt a love for Toby as pure and resonant as if I’d carried him in my own womb.

  “The only love I really believe in is a mother’s love for her children,” Ben said, using his fingers to bracket the quote.

  “Please tell me you didn’t get that from ‘The Great Jeff Jones’.”

  “No, silly.” Ben laughed. “Lagerfeld!”

  “Oh yeah.” I sat with it a moment. Realized Ben had just handed me a beautifully packaged gift. It was true. I could feel it.

  For the rest of the week, Ben ran an even more powerful Master Course exercise with me. I created, created, and created the things that I wanted: “William and I are divorced”; “Everything works out better than I expect”; “I find a new job”; “I build a new career in fashion.” I was so confident and at peace by the end of the week that I believed all of it already existed.

  And here it is now. I squeeze the envelope containing the divorce papers to my chest. Life is waiting for me to come through a new door. I feel so strong. So powerful. So me. When I die, this is a moment I want to remember. I think about Ma and how lonely she feels not having a partner to share her life with. It’s strange. For me, it has been the opposite. Both marriages were the loneliest periods of my life.

  The day William and I got married, I felt like I had failed not only my first marriage, but my life. I rub the cold wetness from my face. There’s a sniffling sound, and it takes a moment to realize it’s not actually coming from me, but from outside of myself.

  I squint my eyes open, shielding them from the sun, and all I can make out is an outline of a body.

  “Toby?”

  “Hey.” He’s cross-legged on the ground, facing me, his back to the sun.

  “I was just thinking about you.” I sit up in the chaise. “How long have you been here?”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  “You didn’t walk, did you?”

  “Actually, yeah, I did.”

  I blink the glare from my eyes, and when they adjust, I see a shadow over his left eye. Only it’s not a shadow. “What the fuck—”

  “I’m okay,” he says.

  “You are not okay,” I say, hysteria rising inside me. I touch his face, sadness rising from my core like dense lava. “That fucking monster…”

  “Don’t.” He grasps my hand firmly. There’s a jerking sensation, as if I’d leapt out of myself, and I feel myself almost bouncing back into the lounge chair. He winces, the motion wracking his body. “It’s just something I created,” he says. “You’re the one who always says that.”

  I gaze into his eyes. My chest expands. Sadness, beauty, love. It’s not the teenager that I see, but the soul beneath it all who comes packaged inside that body. Neither of the boys experience The Master Class because neither of their fathers agree to it. William in particular feels it’s a cult, and I realize now that I assumed Toby did, too. But he doesn’t. The reality is that I’d stuck that label on him. While he had believed in me and what I’ve been doing all this time, I had kept him locked inside a box that limited him to “helpless.” I’d taken from him tools that I could otherwise have shared, which may have helped him handle his father.

  But Toby isn’t helpless. He’s choosing not to be. I see that now.

  “This may be your creation,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t mother you.” He squeezes my hand, smiles earnestly and with such openness and courage blanketing so much fear, frustration, and loss that I ache for him. Moments like this, I’m sure he thinks about his biological mother. She may have been a drug addict, and she may have died before he had a chance to know her, but she’s still his mother.

  “You’ll always be my baby, you know that, right?” I say now.

  “I’ve never been your baby,” he says, tears shimmering in his eyes. “By the time I met you I was, like, already nine or something.”

  “Maybe in this life,” I say.

  He moves to hug me, wincing again, and this time, the color drains from his face. He hugs an arm at his side. The past two times he came to me, I sent him back to William because I believed that as a biological parent, William had more “right” to Toby than I. It’s logical; the law.

  But is that true?

  “Let’s get inside,” I say. “Your father will be here any minute.”

  “Don’t make me go back—” Toby attempts to uncross his legs to stand, but pain singes through him like a bolt of lightening, and he crumples back to the ground. He groans, clutching his side as if to keep it from collapsing.

  “Oh, my god, don’t move,” I say, my hands skimming the jacket, afraid of setting undue weight on him. “Let me see.”

  “I’m okay.” Toby’s face reddens. His breath is quick and shallow.

  Has William bruised a rib? It’s hard to believe. William can be violent, I’m not discounting that. I’ve seen him push and shove Toby. I’ve heard him say cruel things. But outright physical abuse toward Toby just isn’t his style. Or so it seemed. All this time, I figured his violent side revealed itself mostly in bed with me where others were not privy to his true nature. Now, I wonder.

  “Just let me see.” I attempt to peek under the jacket. But Toby puffs his cheeks, forces himself to his feet, and before I know it, he’s racing toward the house. I hurry to hold open the back door. He grits his teeth, breathing laboriously, and once inside, goes straight to the kitchen table. The agony is so great that when he sits in the chair, hugging himself, he has to lean his forehead onto the table. Beads of sweat appear at his temples. Quickly, I double lock the door. William doesn’t have the key, but I pull the chain across anyway. My purse is on the sink counter. I remove what I can from it—computer, notebook, novel, Master pack—and then dig through the rest of the mess to search for my cellphone. Makeup bag, receipts, protein bar, wallet, notebook, lipgloss, hotel bill, keys, flyers, lavender essential oil, pack of airline cookies.

  “Shit,” I curse. “Where is it?”

  Without raising his head or looking up, Toby reaches over to grasp my coat. “Amy.”

  “It’s here somewhere.” I toss aside the cookies and a bunch of paperwork. “For god’s sake, where is it?”

  “Mom,” Toby whispers.

  I stop. The sound, the declaration in that single, precious word. Alex uses it in its many different intonations, yet strangely, it’s Toby who makes the word “mom” resonate. It’s always Toby who appreciates the things I do. It could be the Star Wars T-shirt I buy him or the corn dogs I make for snack. Even that time I sign him up for hockey camp with Alex despite the fact that he doesn’t actually like hockey. Even then, Toby is the one to say, “Thanks, mom.” I crouch down, dragging the purse to the floor, and kneel beside him.

  “I’m not going back,” he says, forcing the words through his teeth, and I can see that bruised ribs make it difficult to breathe.

  “I’ll speak with your father.” I crack open the kitchen window to listen for anything outside the house. The sound of the Audi pulling into the driveway or the slam of the car door. The last time, I persuaded William to let Toby stay for the weekend before returning him home. William might allow that again. I rummage through the purse one last time, dumping my things onto the floor, my hands shaking, and determine that the phone is not in the purse.

  “I mean it.” Toby tugs me by the pocket of the coat. “I’m staying here wi
th you.”

  Body, mind, emotion, energy. Who was it who said love is “life longing for itself” and “boundless”? Was it Yogananda? Kahlil Gibran? I spent my entire life with a hunger trapped inside my body, searching for something that could fill that black hole. Yet, here it is. Love. It has always been here. Unadulterated. Pure. From a being who has less and yet gives infinitely more.

  “Please,” he rasps.

  “Let me see,” I say, and this time, he lets me unzip his jacket and lift his shirt. My stomach turns. For a moment, I actually feel myself shift away from Toby. There’s swelling along the left side of the ribcage. One rib in particular, just below the breast area, is pinkish purple and raised. Bruising underlines the length of the bone, extending beneath the armpit. “What did he do?” I rasp.

  Toby opens his mouth, but words fail him, and he just shakes his head and gives up. His breath is short and shallow. My horror turns to sadness.

  Right there, right then, I decide.

  “You’re not going back. I’m not going to allow it. Not this time.”

  The phone, I suddenly realize, is in the coat I’m wearing. It has been in my pocket the whole time. I comb my fingers through Toby’s hair with one hand, and, locating the phone with the other, dial 911.

  I barely hang up before William arrives, the car’s tires plucking at the gravel driveway. “It’s him,” Toby says. I’ve given him an ice pack for his eye, and another that he has wedged beneath his jacket.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say, wondering how much longer it will take before the ambulance arrives. Why didn’t I drive Toby straight to the hospital ER? My car is there in the garage so William knows I’m home. He knows Toby is here, too. I dial 911, again. William’s car door shuts. I can feel him moving toward the front door.

  “Hello?” I say when the dispatcher comes onto the line. “I just called for an ambulance. I think I need the police.”

  The doorbell rings. “Don’t leave me,” Toby says, tugging at my coat pocket.

  I cover the receiver. “One minute!” I yell at the front door. The operator asks for information. I relay what I can before the second sound of the bell. This time, twice, more insistent, and then after a pause, once more.

  “Amy!” William yells from outside. He knocks. “Come on!”

  I whisper for the operator to hurry, please, my ex-husband is at the door. She asks me to hold for a moment.

  “I’ll be right there!” I yell, again.

  William starts banging at the door, now. “I know he’s in there,” he says in a threatening voice. I realize that I’d always counted on William being quiet about things; I’d been willing to suffer in silence. Having the neighbors possibly witness a scene, especially Jenna, the gossip queen across the street, makes me panic. It fills me with shame.

  The operator comes back on the line, indicating the unit is on its way. I hang up and move toward the front door.

  “Don’t go,” Toby says, gripping my coat. “You don’t get it.”

  “What don’t I get, sweetheart?” I kneel on the floor beside him.

  “She dumped him.” He moves the ice pack from his eye. It looks mottled, purplish, and swollen.

  “I thought—” I glance around nervously until I see the documents resting safely on the kitchen table. “Didn’t he propose?”

  “Toby!” William yells.

  “Yeah, but they fight,” he says. “He hates her going out with clients all the time.”

  “Oh.” It makes sense, now. He had pressured me slowly, insistently, and I found myself isolated from friends, work, and especially Jeff. Mandy was obviously a lot smarter than I’d given her credit for. A lot smarter than me, anyway. She figured out how to extricate herself before getting lawfully bound. She had outmaneuvered William, and that’s what was driving his rage right now.

  “Toby, get over here,” William yells. He kicks the door.

  I jump. My heart races, my entire body tensing. But The Master Workshop is still fresh in my mind. Instead of giving in to the panic, I use the techniques to let go of the fear and overwhelm. Once I do that, a calmness eases me. I can move outside of what is happening, almost as if I were spectating. I think about the humiliation I felt a moment ago about my neighbors “finding out.” It’s the same strategy he used in the bedroom. He could force his way inside and I would be resigned to it. I wouldn’t cry for help because I did not want anyone, least of all the boys, to witness my shame.

  “Don’t be stupid, Amy,” William says, jerking the door by the knob. Toby flinches, then moans from the sudden motion. “Let’s talk about this,” William adds.

  Stupid. There was an incident over Toby’s 11-year birthday party. William had arranged 9 holes for Toby and six friends at the Country Club, but Toby had asked for a movie and sleepover instead, because they were planning to play poker all night; one of his friends was going to teach them how. “What will people think?” William exclaimed. “Your peers will be having bar mitzvahs with the Knicks or renting out MSG in a couple of years, and you’re telling me you want a sleepover? What are you, five?”

  Toby was visibly crushed.

  “He’s just a kid, William,” I offered. “What does he care of social improprieties? It’s his birthday.”

  “What are you, stupid?” he blurted back. “Did I ask you?”

  “No, I—”

  “That’s right,” he said. “If I wanted a stupid opinion, I would have asked you outright.” The boys watched.

  Humiliation danced like static across my face. “William—”

  “You don’t get it do you?” he said, raising his voice. “You’re a pretty face and a good fuck, but between those two little ears of yours? Nothing much going on.”

  “Stop it,” I said, my voice dying.

  “What’s the matter? Am I hurting your little feelings?” he mocked. “Oh, she’s crying. Little Miss Pretty is crying.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “What should I call you, hm? Stupid? Lazy?”

  “I’m a designer.”

  “Correction,” he stated. “You married a designer. That doesn’t actually make you one.”

  I felt myself shrinking. Wishing I could disappear.

  How is it that some people make all the right choices while others continually make all the wrong ones? I wondered. Why? What was wrong with me?

  In this marriage, just as in the last, I’d lost parts of myself and grown weaker every day. I would never really get away. I was trapped, again.

  Only, I’m not trapped, I suddenly realize.

  William is counting on me opting for invisibility. He knows I’m uncomfortable making a scene in front of the neighbors; he’s intentionally making a ruckus in order to manipulate me into opening the door. Shame. What a powerful weapon.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell Toby. “I’m not going to let him in.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Toby releases me. I move to the front door. “Go home and calm down,” I say.

  “Open the door, Amy. Don’t be stupid.”

  “We can talk later, William.”

  “He’s my son,” William says. “You don’t get to screw with my son.”

  “Just calm down.”

  “Let me in.” William rams the door. “Now!”

  My heart lurches into my throat, then pounds in my ears. Where is the ambulance? The police? I back away, retreat to the kitchen.

  “They’ll be here any minute,” I tell Toby, who’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding his side. I phone Jenna, and when she answers, I explain by saying my ex is at my door, and would she be so kind as to call the other neighbors and everyone step outside together to acknowledge what is happening? Within a couple of minutes, William retreats from banging at the door. I hear him saying, “No, no problem. I think
she’s got the music turned up. Yeah, I—”

  “She’s fully aware you are outside,” Jenna says.

  William quiets.

  “She’d like for you to leave,” another neighbor adds.

  “Now,” another neighbor says.

  “This is a private family matter,” William says.

  “It’s not sounding so private,” Jenna says.

  “Bitch,” William mutters, under his breath. He starts ringing my door bell, again. This time, he lays on the buzzer.

  “I hate him,” Toby says.

  “That’s okay. I’m grateful to him enough for the two of us,” I say. My relationship with Toby grows deeper and more resilient each day. “It’s because of your father that I have you in my life.”

  “But the whole world knows now.” Toby starts sobbing.

  “Yes, everyone cares,” I say. “Can you feel it?”

  Toby thinks a moment, then nods. His forehead bobs on the tabletop, a tear hanging from the tip of his nose.

  “It’s all going to be okay,” I say, kissing his hand. “I’ve got you, baby. We’ve all got you.”

  I hear a siren, then. Everything quiets. Out the window, I see the police pulling to the curb. The officers step out of the car and come toward the front of the house. William backs off, switching back into the man who behaves in a cordial, appropriate manner. The officers ask him questions.

  “You will need to tell the police,” I say.

  Toby lays his head sideways on the table so that he’s facing me now.

  “When it comes right down to it, I know you may feel conflicted—” I say.

  Outside, William points a thumb over his shoulder at us. Next door and across the street, the neighbors remain on their stoops, watching.