SITUATIONS by Margo L. Dill

I have often found myself in situations I would have never imagined. I don't necessarily think anyone else would find them odd or unusual. They haven't been illegal or even that shocking, well perhaps to my mother if she knew. The most unbelievable situation I am in now. I paint on pink lipstick, gazing at the small ring on my finger. My right hand runs over white silk, and I remember situations in my past.

My boyfriend's four-year old daughter, Amanda, and I were together one afternoon. Marty had practice, a football coach's work was never done, especially during the season, and he asked me to entertain Amanda at McDonald's. Spending time with her was a pleasure.

"Amanda," I said. "Do you want a hamburger or chicken nuggets?"

"A hamburger." She paused, looking at me with hazel eyes. "Can I play before I eat?"

A good parent would have said, "No way." That's probably what Marty's ex-wife uttered every time she was asked, but I answered, "Sure honey, whatever."

"This is taking a long time," she whined. "Can I go now?"

I had to draw the line there. "No, we have to go together."

A huge sigh of disappointment, followed by, "Okay," head down, lips in a pout.

"So," I said casually, while the other customers around me ordered their meals.

"Who came over to Daddy's house last night?"

"You," she said.

"No sweetie, it wasn't me. I think it was another one of Daddy's friends."

"Ummm," she said. Guilt pierced my heart. I felt the size of a peanut as I pried information from a four-year old, unaware spy. "Oh, you mean the girl with long hair. She didn't want to play with me. She liked Daddy."

My stomach tightened, my heart beat faster. I should have quit asking questions, but I couldn't help myself. "Do you remember her name?"

Silence, and then the small mouth revealed the worst secret, "Daddy doesn't want me to tell you."

"Why?"

"He said you'd be sad."

Sad? Try furious. "Honey, I'm never sad when I'm with you."

A high-pitched voice from behind the metal countertop shouted, "Ma'am, I said, can I help you?"

After I ordered and went to the jungle gym room, I watched Amanda remove her shoes and climb on multi-colored plastic tubes, giggling with other children. My food sat untouched on the tray, partially because the cheating was true and partially from my self-disgust of interrogating someone who couldn't even spell her last name.

"Come in," I say.

Before the door opens, I know it is my mother. "Oh honey, you look so beautiful." She stares, checking every inch of my face, gown, hands, shoes, body, hair. "But is that the color lipstick you really want to wear?"

"Yes." I see her reflection in the mirror. At age fifty-five, her beauty has not faded. She wears a perfect lime green mother-of-the bride, look-at-me-I-paid-for- this-shindig suit.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I say louder.

"Okay," she says in that way where she really isn't saying okay. All daughters know what I mean. "Just about forty-five more minutes. The flowers look beautiful."

"Great." I smile at her, then turn and apply more of the same color lipstick.

"Do you want me to bring them to you?"

"Yes, please."

She carefully kisses my cheek without her lips actually touching my skin.

The cold wind numbed my face as I shifted my weight from one foot to the next, waiting, waiting, waiting for her to come out. I had a perfect view between two small brick houses a street over from his, and I could see without being noticed, except for the nosy old lady. She peered out her curtain, then ducked down, stared between two blinds, then ducked down again. Getting on my knees, I pretended to search the ground for something I lost, patting the pavement with yellow mitten hands. This seemed to satisfy her. I didn't see her face after that.

While I waited, I wondered if I would tell anyone I spied on Marty. Hell, I hadn't told anyone he was cheating on me, so I probably wouldn't reveal I had spent an hour, outside in freezing temperatures, because I knew she was in his house, most likely in his bed, hopefully in his bed, and not the kitchen floor or shower. Those were our spots.

I had to see her. If I saw her, then I would know it was true. I could stop telling myself there were thousands of reasons why she was at his house the other day while Amanda was there. Or would I? Would I make up millions of reasons why she was in his house now, and why he had lied?

An hour ago on the phone, I had said, "Marty, I just want to come over."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I miss you."

"Well, I miss you too, but we have plans at seven."

"I know, but what happened to spontaneity? We could make love before the movie," I said.

"Really, that sounds great, but me and Frank. . ." All I heard was "Blah, Blah, Blah." I hung up, threw on my coat, and rushed out because I knew this was my chance to see her.

His front door opened. My heart thumped, my mouth gaped wide for more air. Out she came jogging to her car, strategically hidden down the block. Flowing blond hair, tight jeans, small round butt, bright pink ski jacket-she was pretty and I was right-young.

I stood frozen to the spot, not because of the cold. I didn't know what to do next. Violent thoughts ran through my mind, but were quickly discarded. Perspiration trickled down my chest in spite of the temperature, and I removed my mittens to let my hands breathe, wringing them together, asking myself why I didn't satisfy him.

I fiddle with the brown curls surrounding my face. The hairdresser rolled them much too tight. I try to straighten them a little and wind up making them look even worse. Another knock from the outside world. I prepare for my mother, but am pleasantly surprised by my best friend, dressed in navy blue silk.

"I brought you some crackers and Sprite." Karen hands the snacks over. "It won't stain your dress if you spill."

"Thanks." I set them aside.

"Too nervous to eat?" she asks.

"I'm okay. My mother's driving me crazy, but that's nothing new. She's coming back with the flowers."

"I just left her in the chapel, fixing all the bowties. Guests are starting to arrive." Karen arranges my headpiece. It must have been off center. "You look beautiful."

"Thanks," I say again. "So do you. Listen, I'm going to try to go to the bathroom one more time."

I glance at her and know she wants to say something about him, it seems to be on the tip of her tongue, but she can't find the words and probably figures if she didn't say it already, it's too late now, although it's really never too late.

Leafing through the mail, I climbed the steps to our new two-bedroom apartment. I tripped over Marty's shoes when I entered. He must have come home from football practice, changed his clothes, and went to the gym. I threw my purse on the couch and myself into the rocker after an exhausting day at the bookstore, preparing myself for another late night of working on my novel. It would be nice if Marty could get the head coaching position at his new school to make more money, but he was lucky to have any job after not having his contract renewed.

Lots of mail because of the Tuesday coupon inserts, and I took the time to cut out the pizza ones before fixing dinner. I reached for the scissors on the coffee table when a letter fell out I hadn't noticed. It was addressed to Marty, and it was from her. Bright pink ski jacket her.

The familiar knots rose in my stomach to the tightened feeling in my chest. I dropped the rest of the mail to the floor and held the envelope as if it were poison. I wanted to rip it open, to read her words, to see if Marty had again deceived me. I almost did. But I knew he would get angry and exclaim, "Am I going to have to live with this mistake for the rest of my life? If that's the case, tell me now, because I just can't do that. I can't."

I found myself boiling a pan of water, holding the envelope over the steam, checking my watch, lifting the flap, exposing the letter inside. I set the envelope on the table and read the words of a girl in love.

He was wonderful, the best she ever had, how could she have not appreciated him when she had him, she dreamed of a time when they could be together again, she wanted to call him, would it be all right?

My hands shook as I placed the letter back in the envelope. I searched for glue to seal it up. In the dark, I sat stiffly in the rocker, motionless until he came home. When I heard the key in the lock, I immediately picked up the coupons and began cutting, managing to clap on the light.

"Hi honey!" He kissed me. "How was your day?"

"Fine," I said. "You got a letter."

"I did?"

"Yep, and you'll never guess who it's from." My voice dripped with a tone even though I tried hard for it not to.

"Who?"

"Here, see for yourself." I tossed the letter at him. I could be mad at the simple fact she sent a letter and hadn't left us alone, after we moved to start over.

He opened it and walked away, reading, never suspecting it had already been viewed. I wished to follow him but didn't. I remained in my chair, paralyzed by the guilt running through my veins.

Ripping it up, he came into the room. "I love you," he said.

Nice try. "What did it say?"

"Nothing much." He knelt down in front of me, taking the scissors from my hand. "She shouldn't be writing you."

"I know."

"Have you talked to her?"

His hands unfastened my buttons. "No, I swear. I love you, why would I screw that up?" He removed my shirt, my bra.

"I don't know."

I let him take me.

The bathroom attached to my dressing area is small. I try hard not to let my dress fall into the toilet. I love my dress. It is the perfect one, the one I have always dreamed of.

I inspect myself in the mirror, under a different light. Too much blush, and my mother is right about the lipstick. It is the same color as these bathroom walls, my mother will absolutely detest that when I point it out.

I lift my dress back up to fix the baby-blue garter that fits a little too snug around my thigh, and I ponder my current situation. My gut has been trying to tell me for months not to be here, to speak up, say something, anything. When I was twelve, fifteen, twenty-one, twenty-five, I never once dreamed of a wedding like this. Well, I dreamed of the white dress and beautiful flowers, but not of marrying a man who cheats, of being too scared to tell anyone, of not trusting the person I love the most. I flush the toilet and think oddly of the symbolism. Water twirls down the tubes like my life is about to.

"You used our phone, Marty! How stupid can you be?" I threw the bill at him where I had circled the foreign number, the one I did not recognize, in red marker. A different number, not belonging to bright pink ski jacket her, but a new one. I covered my face and bawled.

He was silent, tried to touch me, but I drew away. "Don't touch me," I shouted. "God, we just spent all that money on the flowers and the invitations. How could you?" I yelled, hitting my fist against the wall. I screamed, trying to release the pain in my heart.

"Angie, calm down. You're going to make yourself sick." He attempted touch again.

I pulled away, gasping for air, leaning against the wall, sliding down onto the floor.

He sat on the bed. Our bed. Queen-sized with a red-checked comforter and matching bed skirt, large fluffy pillows, my favorite spot to snuggle, and he sat there and said, "I'm sorry. Do you want me to leave?"

"Do I want you to leave? Is that all you have to say? Do I want you to leave?"

"I don't know what to say." He wouldn't look at me.

"Was she good?"

"Angie, don't."

I sprung from the floor, slapped him, and then locked myself into the bathroom. I didn't know what I wanted him to do. He banged on the door. "Let me in."

"Go away."

"Is that really what you want?"

"Yes."

I heard him walk away, grab his keys off the hook, and open the door. Panic overtook my anger. What if he didn't come back? I pictured phoning friends, desperately searching for him. What if I never saw Amanda again? I would never hear her laugh or see her bright smile. I couldn't bear it.

I rushed out of the bathroom and tackled him before he got away. He turned and hugged me tight. His clear blue eyes stared into mine, puffy and red. He said so tenderly, "I'm sorry. I didn't sleep with her. I promise. I just called her sometimes."

"Where'd you meet this one?" I sniffled.

"At a bar. It was stupid. I'm just scared to get married and wanted to talk to someone. I should be talking to you, not some stranger. It's hard, you know. I'm worried about getting divorced again."

I kissed the tears away that fell from his eyes. "I would never leave you," I said.

Back in my dressing room, I study my figure in the full-length mirror. I would never leave you. The words haunt me. That is what I said, along with telling Amanda I would be her step-mommy.

She enters. "Angie, Daddy said to give you this." She looks darling in a little version of the navy blue gown, basket full of fresh flowers, hair curled with a matching bow. She hands me a note attached to a red rose.

The paper says, "Angie, I love you forever, Marty."

Nice gesture, wish he knew what the words meant.

"You look so pretty," I say and wrap my arms around her.

"I love you," she says.

I choke up.

"You're really going to be my step-mommy."

I can't speak so I hug her tighter.

"Angie!" Marty called. "Are you here? How come you didn't get the mail?"

"I'm in the bathroom." I puked again.

"What's wrong?" he asked, rubbing my back.

"Must be the flu," I whispered.

"Let's get you into bed." He lifted me up, bringing the trashcan. "You got a letter from Karen."

We walked side by side into the bedroom. I let him undress me to my underwear.

"Find my flannel PJs," I said. He removed them from my drawer and gently lifted my arms over my head to place them on my body. He helped me into bed, covering me with a lavender quilt, my favorite. "I need some Sprite. Can you go to the store and get some?"

"Are you going to be okay here by yourself?"

"Yes." I attempted a smile. "Where's my letter?"

I anxiously tore open the envelope. I hadn't heard from Karen in a few weeks and wondered why. The letter was short. Six lines.

One, Dear Angie. Two, I'm thinking of you. Three, No one will hate you if you don't go through with the wedding. Four, Make sure you're not doing this just for Amanda. Five, She has a good mom. Six, Love Karen.

She didn't know about the affairs. I never told anyone, no one, except the lady at work who didn't know Marty very well.

I fumbled for the phone and dialed Karen's number. The answering machine came on so I left a message. "Karen, it's me. I got your letter. Listen, thanks for the concern, but you know I wouldn't want to marry anyone but Marty. It has nothing to do with Amanda. Call me back." I reached for the trashcan, but it was too late- sickness spread over my favorite quilt.

Amanda, Karen, my mother, and my father are gathered around me in my dressing room.

"Listen to the organ music, isn't it beautiful?" my mother says.

"Mrs. Keating, let's take Amanda to the back of the sanctuary and get her ready to go," Karen says.

"Thank you," I mouth as she ushers my mother out.

My father turns to me. "Are you all right, honey? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine. Could I have a few minutes to myself?"

He reaches for my hand, which is ice-cold, squeezes it and says, "Sure. I understand."

"I'll meet you at the back of the church," I say.

He leaves me alone. The room is strange-even though it is small, it has two exits, one that leads to the sanctuary through a tiny, narrow hallway, the other that takes me to the church parking lot.

So again I find myself in a situation I would have never imagined. In my car, I turn the ignition key with my right hand while my left rubs my stomach and I whisper, "I'm sorry."

© Margo L. Dill

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