Chap 1 of Hurricane Season/Working Title

         This is the first chapter of a novel I'm currently working on.  I'm practically finished with the whole novel, and any feedback would be welcome.  Think because I'm near the end I'm second-guessing myself.  I'd be happy to post more chapters if anyone would like to continue reading. 



I blame the whole debacle on that damn Carrie Underwood.  Okay.  Not really.  But she was on the radio this morning singing that damn "Wasted" while I was in the shower.  Probably it was shaping up to be a bad day anyway, and starting my day off with a song about a woman just wasting her time in a relationship didn't help one bit.  It's never a good sign when you wake up feeling generally unhappy and restless, but just can't put your finger on the reason why.  Anyway, my mood did not improve as my daily routine progressed, so I braced myself for a bad day.  By the time I got personal hygiene finished, I was convinced the mirror in the bathroom was warped.  Either that or I was getting old.  Maybe I'll go to Home Depot today after coffee and get a new one, see if that fixes it.  Needless to say, by the time I got to the kitchen for the first cup, I was in no mood!



We sit at the table looking out over the Intracoastal and drinking coffee, but not speaking, not communicating.  Like two strangers sharing a table in a Starbucks.  Just another day in paradise, right?  As he puts down his cup, a few drops spill over the rim and land on the table.  He looks at them, but makes no move to clean it up.  Strangely I feel calm.  I always thought it would end with me in a totally hysterical state, shouting and crying, possibly even throwing a few things for effect.  I've rehearsed it in my mind a million times.  Maybe I just can't muster together the emotion ending a twenty-five-year marriage deserves.  My state of mind doesn't matter.  What matters is that I do what I've been dreaming of. 



"You know what?  Enough is enough.  I'm done, Jeff.  Please pack up and go."  And just like that, it's done.  Today is the day.  My own personal Independence Day.  The day I've been waiting on for the last six years.  I expected it to be more difficult.  But like I said, enough is enough.  A little coffee spilled over the side of the mug.  Just a few drops.  Is that all it takes?  If that were only it.  It's so much more than that.  The spilled coffee is the proverbial straw, and the table is the camel's back. 



Of course, he looks at me with total confusion on his face.  It's almost enough to drive me over the edge this morning.  My patience for his oblivion is wearing thin.  How many times have I seen that look?  Confusion, like he doesn't know what's going on.  Is he even in the same relationship I am?  What we have together, or the lack thereof, how can this be enough for him?  Our relationship is broken.  Beyond repair, I fear.  He thought everything was fine.  And why wouldn't he?  I rarely gave any indication to the contrary.



Surely he thinks I'm insane.  Hell, at this exact moment I have my own doubts.  I thought I was an expert at hiding things.  Shoving them down as far as they could go, all the while keeping a smile on my face.  God knows I've had enough practice.  Well, apparently I'm not.  I always knew I was just biding my time, but I had no idea it would happen this fast.  I also had no idea the liberation I would feel when the words were finally voiced, said out loud.



Come on, ladies?  Haven't we all had a day where a drop of coffee is enough to just push us over the edge?  Ever wonder where it comes from?  Hormones?  Maybe.  Putting up with all we have to put up with on a daily basis?  That seems a little more likely.  Go grab a cup of coffee, and a cigarette if you're so inclined, and I'll tell you a story.  It's one as old as Methuselah, and I'm sure we can all relate in some way.  But this one is mine.  Maybe it will help you just get through the day, amuse you a little, or find the forgiveness that seems so elusive right now.  I wouldn't mind at all if it does all three.  In fact, that's exactly what I hope.



Betrayal, is there anything worse?  Unless you've been betrayed, you probably don't know how to answer that.  It turns your whole world on its nose.  Loss of trust in someone is a horrible thing.  Your world shifts on its axis. Everything you thought you knew, you now question.  Was this the first time?  The fifth?  How blind am I?  Why didn't I see the signs?  Were there any signs?  Were they there and I just ignored them, turned a blind eye?  If I had seen them, would I have acted in time to alter the outcome? 



Truth is, it really has nothing to do with you.  Although that's a hard pill to swallow, it's a fact.  Marriage is tough.  A relationship with someone is tough.  The fault doesn't lie with you.  If there was a problem, no matter how large or small, it should have been brought to your attention.  There's just no excuse on the other person's part.  After all, isn't that what it's all about?  You shouldn't have to be on guard at all times.  At some point you just put your faith in the other person, expect them to bear their portion of the load.  And if they fail, it's damn near impossible to get through it to the other side.  But there are ways, as it took me almost one nervous breakdown, countless hours of obsessing, exactly one pound of flesh and many tears to find out.



There are three sides to this story, just like all stories:  my side, his side, and lying somewhere in between each of our sides, muddied and nearly impossible to discern, is the truth.



I'll tell you all about my side.  This is the one I know the best, of course, because I have lived it.  I have molded and shaped it to fit me, like a suit of armor I wear over my former self.  It's rife with anger, fear, insecurity, martyrdom and, yes, even love.  It took years to piece together.  And although the burden of wearing it is sometimes almost too much to bear, I don't dare slip it off, even for a moment, for fear I'll fall apart.  You see, my side of the story, while it may not be the complete truth, has held me together and allowed me to sit high on my throne of judgment and dole out punishment to Jeff as only I see fit, without the benefit of a jury of his peers.



Although I can't speak truths about his side, I can provide my interpretation.  This will be based on things that were told to me by Jeff and how I gauged his reactions to the varying situations.  This side will contain very few truths.  In fact, the only one I can offer here is the one that can be verified:  That he did indeed have an indiscretion. 



You'll have to get really good at reading between the lines to find the truth.  It's there, you just have to search for it, which is something I never bothered to do.  After all, I had other things to keep me busy, like raising children, running a household, starting a business and trying to keep our lives together while resembling some sort of normalcy.  It will contain small pieces from both our sides.  I don't know what good it will do anyone to find these truths, as they don't really matter.  What does matter is how each of us chose to construe those truths, forcing them to fit nicely into our individual sides of the story, pounding and manipulating, like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. 



Oh, but maybe I don't give you enough credit.  Maybe I am wishing that you'll see everything through my eyes, and therefore agree with my side.  I'm sure you'll be able to see them for what they are, and apply them in the way you deem best.  After all, if I've learned anything, it's that it's really not a matter of who's right or wrong, but more a process of learning to play the hand you've been dealt and come away with as few casualties as possible.



  It's not that I've had a bad or difficult life.  I've had it better than some, worse than others.  We are upper middle class Americans.  We own a nice home, drive relatively new automobiles.  The bills get paid, and there's enough left over for savings and a vacation every year.  I have two beautiful grown children, a boy and a girl.  Neither of which have given us an abnormal amount of trouble.  Most people would look at my life and think I'd have nothing to complain about.  And to most women, that would be correct.  But I'm not 'most women.'  I'm Abigail Rae Carter Mattison, Gabby to my friends.  I'm a strong, opinionated southern woman.  And as you'll soon learn, we're all unique in our own way.



I guess the best thing to do is start at the beginning.  Well, not all the way back, but close enough.  Jeff and I did not know each other growing up, and we weren't high school sweethearts.  We met each other right after high school.  He grew up in Orange Park, a suburb just outside of Jacksonville, Florida.  I grew up in Palatka, which, at the time, was just a tad larger than a hole in the wall and about 40 minutes southeast of Orange Park. 



Mama moved to St. Augustine as soon as I graduated high school, and I went with her.  Being brand new to the adult world, I wasn't ready to go it alone yet.  Lizzie, my one and only sibling,  was already living in St. Augustine with some roommates, enjoying her new-found freedom.  She and Alex had been dating for what seemed like all time.  There was no doubt they soon would be marrying and starting a family of their own.  Mama stayed in Palatka only long enough for me to finish school.  We had all lived there with our mother and father when we were young.  He died when I was seven and Lizzie was nine.  In the wake of that tragedy, Mama felt it only right to keep us in our hometown with our family and friends.  We all needed that network of support.  When I was finished with school, she couldn't wait to leave the small town of Palatka where she had lost her identity and become known mostly as 'Ronnie's widow' and move to the only slightly larger coastal town of St. Augustine, Florida.  Turned out it was a move that suited us all.  She bought a modest house on the island and never looked back.  Neither did I.



Jeff moved to St. Augustine the year he graduated, which was one year before I would move there.  He rented a house on the beach with a couple other guys and they worked only to pay the rent and fuel their party lifestyle.  I worked for my uncle's air conditioning business, answering phones and doing general secretarial work while I pondered college.  Frankly, I was tired of school.  Mama always said it interfered with my social life, and she had no idea how I maintained my grades amid all my outside activities.  Jeff was working as a technician at Mazda.  He was an avid surfer; me, an avid sun worshiper.  Of course, this was back in the days when a girl could still worship the sun and her only fear was getting too red to be comfortable or look good that evening in her sun dress.  It was while he was surfing and I was praying at my temple of the lawn chair that we met.  Both young and just looking for a good time, we never thought anything serious would come of it.  A few dates turned into a few more, which eventually led to moving in together.......You get the picture.



"Gabby, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Just what I said, Jeff.  Don't make this difficult, please.  Just go.  I can't do it anymore, and I won't.  It's been a long time coming.  Six years, in fact."  As soon as 'six years' is spoken he knows exactly what I'm upset about.  I can see the wheels in his mind turning.  I imagine he's thinking, for God's sake, that was six years ago, give it a rest already.  Well, I have given it a rest.  In fact, it's had a nice, long six-year nap.  And now it's awake and consuming me.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

He gets up from the table, leaves the mess and the cup, doesn't bother pushing in his chair, and heads for the bedroom.  I stay where I am.  My legs feel like they're encased in cement.  I can barely lift my hands to raise the cup to my lips.  I'm also a little lightheaded.  I was in fight or flight mode, ready to state my reasons and let some of the poison flow from my lips to his ears.  Another huge miscalculation on my part.  I should have known from experience that I wouldn't get a rise out of him.  Still, like the ever hopeful fool, I thought I just might have miraculously turned into something he felt was important enough to fight for.  Tears of disappointment and frustration threaten to spill over.  I know just how to handle this situation.  I've had plenty of practice.  I turn the frustration in on myself, prepared to go over the laundry list of reasons I need to get my anger in check and start, once again, the process of reminding myself why I'll stay.  Only this time there's nothing to be frustrated about.  I've done it.  I managed to stay long enough to raise my precious babies and get them out on their own.  Now there's no reason for staying.  At that moment I swear I feel the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders.



He comes back down the hallway dressed, but carrying nothing.  He goes to end of the counter where he keeps his keys, cell phone and wallet.  As he's shoving them in his pockets, I speak from the table, not even bothering to turn around. 



"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to work, Gabby.  What do you think I'm doing."

Jeff, I'm serious.  I won't do this anymore.  I'd really like for you to go."

"Well, that's what I'm trying to do."

"No.  I mean leave this house, leave me, for good."

"I won't do this anymore either, Gabby.  I'm leaving for work.  We'll talk when I get home."

"No again, Jeff.  The time for talking is over.  Besides, we both know I'm the one that does all the talking.  And frankly, I'm all talked out."

"This is my life, too, Gabby.  I get a say in all this, don't you think?"

"Actually, no, you don't.  I didn't get a say when you decided all by yourself that you didn't want me anymore."



This is not going as I had planned at all.  Normally I'm all ready for any reason to lament about the woes of my life to him.  But today I just want it over.  I'm tired of playing the victim, the martyr that stayed for the family.  Surely he's as tired of hearing it as I am of saying it.  Can't he just go already?  I stayed here for the kids.  I suspect he did the same.  I also suspect he didn't want to lose half his stuff in a divorce six years ago.  Well, the children are grown now and I have a successful business.  It's not like he'd be losing that much today.  Why doesn't he just see this opportunity for what it is, a way out, and go on?



Miraculously he heads back down the hall.  He appears minutes later with an overnight bag.  I think about stopping him and telling him this isn't just PMS or a bad day, that I really mean it and he should pack everything, not just enough for a night or two.  I mean, it's not like asking him to leave is a normal part of our marriage.  But I really just want him out.  I'm afraid if I speak, I may have the hysterical breakdown I've been suppressing for too long.  So I keep my mouth shut, as does he, and watch my husband of twenty-five years walk out the door.  Just then it hits me:  Today is the first day of hurricane season.  Sitting in my beautiful, comfortable home, I had no idea how fitting this revelation would be.