Living at such a high level of readiness in a socially prominent family provided my mother with the additional challenge of teaching her three little hooligans how to maintain a positive social front at all times, regardless of the Defcon status. Teaching us how to move from mayhem to social maven without missing a beat was one of her most remarkable gifts.
Despite whatever nuclear threat might be brewing behind the walls of the Sterling fortress, if unexpected guest happened to drop by we would dust ourselves off, smooth our hair, and put on our company smiles. My mother would walk to the door with the dignity of a queen about to greet her subjects. We would trail behind, her loyal followers. “Showtime!” she would say to us telepathically. We would close our eyes and draw in a deep breath, visualizing an alternate universe, one where we were happy worry-free children. By the time we opened our eyes we’d have made the jump to light speed. Our company smiles said, “Welcome to our perfect home.”
My mother, possessing the finesse of a countess, would sit upright, poised perfectly on the seat of her rose silk chair entertaining our company. Pre-teenage angst, my sisters and I were outstanding actors, playing the part of obedient well mannered children. We gave a tour de force performance of sanity and domestic bliss until our unexpected guests retreated back to the safety of their cars. We would stand like four perfect little women on the terracotta front porch between the large white columns waving good-bye until their cars drove from sight.
More times than not our father’s voice broke the trance-like state of our temporary dream world; his thickened vodka-coated tongue would unfurl, “Jacque, where the hell are you?!” And just like that we were back in Tatoone, covered in dust and animal dung.
Sitting in my office in our new showhome, I surmised we were at Defcon 4 but could easily slide into Defcon 3 if I didn’t take evasive action. Candler was right, no one could know about my injuries. My childhood training rose to the forefront. I suited up like a battle-hardened warrior and readied my psyche for the jump into light speed.
By nightfall we had sailed past our critical deadlines without a glitch, no one being the wiser to my injuries. When the entourage of showhome executive, owner, real-estate agent and photographer were at last shown the door, Candler turned to me. I raised my hand as my mother had done during the furniture-shuffling exercise in my now-extinct blue apartment. I climbed the stairs to the bedroom in silence. He started to follow; I turned and made a ‘stay’ motion with my hand.
Moving his clothes to the other bedroom didn’t take long, even with only one good arm. He didn’t have much. It was the early days and I hadn’t begun “building” his wardrobe. I placed his pillow onto the guest room bed and retired to the master. I studied the bottle of pain pills the doctor had given me for my injuries earlier that morning. My arm, shoulder, chest, and spine had been brutalized in the fall, my ego in the realization that I had been used for the last four years by a man seventeen years my junior. I ached to relieve my personal distress, but I knew prescription pain meds were out, out, out. Not since I shed my hippie drug life had I so much as allowed one narcotic to slip past my perfect lips. I had a big enough mess to sort out without inviting Darth Violet back into my life. Reaching into the medicine cabinet I extracted my bottle of Advil; four sounded like a good number.
Lying awake in the dark that night Self-Pitting Violet did her thing, although Resentful, Self-Deprecating, Conservative Christian, People-Pleasing and Self-Respecting Violet all made appearances. They paraded themselves before me, the light of the mothership shinning on their ghostly images, as they made their arguments for how to resolve my martial debacle.
People-Pleasing Violet said, “You’ll hurt him. And think of his family! They came all the way from Australia for the wedding. How could you do that to them?”
Self-Depreciating Violet said, “You’ve done it again! You can’t make a good decision about a man if your life depended on it. And you paid for the whole wedding. Idiot!”
Conservative Christian Violet chimed in, “You married him in a church, before God. God would not approve of a divorce. Marriage is forever. You’ve already blown that twice. God has forgiven you because they were addicts and cheaters. But this one is on you. Even if you made a mistake by marrying him, God can fix this. You just have to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurts.”
Self-Pitting Violet began to cry, “You poor thing. How could he have done such a thing! You’ve always been so sweet to him.”
Self-Respecting Violet spoke up, “Who cares what other people think? You got duped. It happens. Cut your losses and get out of this before it becomes a bigger mess.”
Truthful Violet said gently, “You don’t love him anyway. You never have. He was just a distraction from the chaos of the lawsuit and losses. You made a mistake. Who cares? You let yourself get roped into a marriage you didn’t want in the first place. Remember how hard you fought to not marry him? You’re not in love. Just own up to it and let it go. So what if it hurts your pride a bit, it’s only pride. It’s not your life.”
Self-Abusive Violet popped in and began parading every failure of my life before me. She counted them on her fingers, finally throwing up her hands and saying, “All of us together don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the endless mistakes you’ve made. You’re hopeless, Violet.”
And then, like a superstar, Shaming Violet made a guest appearance. She drew from the well of my childhood, “Three marriages, honestly, Violet! You will be an utter failure if you leave him. Can you imagine what people will say? Your entire social circle was there, your attorneys for God’s sake. What will your mother say? She will be disgusted with you, especially after all the crap you pulled when you were younger. If you divorce him you’ll have to tell everyone why. You’ll be a laughing stock, which you are already, but no one knows that right now but you and him.” Shaming Violet put her hook in me and wouldn’t let go. Tears replaced my confusion. I wept without consolation as she dragged me into the ink-black sea.
By morning I was ravaged. Long-Suffering Violet had partnered with Shaming Violet, the heavy-weight champion of my world; together, they emerged victorious. I was locked in for life.