Essay
The Ties That Bind
I’m out with Mary tonight. I didn’t want to go, but if I didn’t, I felt like I was being a bad friend; I had been putting her off for months. Mostly I didn’t want to hear all about what David has done lately to screw her over. Four years and she’s still trapped in the downward spiral of her failed marriage. He’s clearly moved on. I think he’s on girlfriend number five? I don’t know what she is waiting for but she seems to have far more interest in his love life than her own.
We are sitting at the bar and she is telling me all about her new job. I think this is her fifth job in the past two years, but I’ve stopped caring enough to keep count. I’m trying to pay attention but she’s talking non-stop and the wine is providing a pleasant hum in my ears that is drowning her out. This is me being a good friend. Clearly I am the wrong choice. The bartender glances over at us and I try to get his attention; my wineglass is empty and it’s just a matter of time before I hear all about what X has done now. His name apparently isn’t worth the energy to speak aloud; he’s been reduced to a single letter. Do I complain this much about Chris? I don’t think so.
I met Mary almost 30 years ago, when we were kids. I lived next door to her father and would see her playing outside every other weekend, when it was his turn to have the kids. One day she was lying outside on the patchy lawn, trying to get a tan. I offered her a beach chair and she returned it covered in Coppertone tanning oil. I told her she was gross. She told me I was uptight. We knew that were destined to become friends. Our summers were spent bouncing back and forth between each other’s houses. We quickly became “no-knock friends,” granting each the privilege to walk straight into the other’s house, open the fridge, and deplete the snack stockpiles.
About five years into our friendship, my grandmother died of breast cancer. Less than a year later, her grandmother was diagnosed with the same disease. I was her shoulder to cry on throughout her grandmother’s illness. By this point, I was in high school, trying to maintain my 4.0 GPA and working 30 hours a week at the local craft store, but I still dropped everything to be there for her, spending countless hours on the phone with her while she cried. When her grandmother passed a few months later, we were united in heartache for the first time.
We had been friends for nearly a decade when she dropped the bombshell that she had caught David talking to other women online. I listened as she vented. I declared him an asshole not worthy of her. I was outraged on her behalf. I was grateful that it wasn’t me; until a few months later when I discovered Chris texting our neighbor. Mary and I would meet for lunch and compare notes about what assholes our spouses were becoming. Neither one of us saw the writing on the wall. It all came crashing down in the spring of 2013 when my phone rang. It was Mary. I don’t know why I didn’t answer it. A few minutes later, I got a simple text: David filed for divorce. I called her immediately.
For the first few weeks, she shut out the world, staying holed up in her apartment. Occasionally she would call me to cry or vent. I didn’t have the words to comfort her. She was living my biggest fear. He was moving out and she was begging him to stay. Four months later, Mary had just turned a corner from heartache to fury when Chris told me that he wanted to separate. She was the first person I called.
The first few months of my separation were a blur of tears and countless stress-induced naps. Friends and family would come over to sit with the kids so I could sleep off my misery. Somehow, I crawled out of the darkness that was the end of my marriage and moved forward with my life, leaving Mary behind to claw at her own wounds. I wanted to heal. She wanted to seethe.
“I’m starting my own business,” she says, pulling my mind back to the bar and my empty wineglass. I try to look interested.
“Oh?” I answer lamely.
“I’m going to make scented candles…” the buzzing in my ears gets a little louder.
The bartender finally takes pity on me and refills my wineglass. The band is beginning to play some bluesy Folk rock. It doesn’t suck but I would have preferred something harder on a Friday night. I look at my wine. This will have to do.
“Candles?” I laugh. “Weren’t you just selling homemade soap on Etsy a few months ago?”
She laughs too. “Yeah but they were taking too long to make. Candles are faster and easier.” What do I say to that? Nothing. I say nothing. I’m being a good friend tonight.
I start to tell her about my classes and my plans for an advanced degree. “I was accepted into the University of Baltimore. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get my bachelor’s in English and my master’s in Legal and Ethical Studies but I haven’t completely ruled out a law degree…”
She nods politely and I let my words trail off. I can tell she’s not really interested. What else am I supposed to talk to her about? This is what’s going on in my life right now. I don’t want to talk about my failed marriage. Is that all we really have in common anymore?
“Oh, did I tell you what X did?”
I wish I had a watch so that I could look at it to see how long it took her to bring him up. Is this glass of wine going to get me through tonight? I decide no. Maybe I should switch to beer. This could be awhile. I hadn’t even been married to David and yet I felt as though he had somehow done me wrong, I had heard the stories so many times.
She is pulling out her phone so that she can show me the text messages she saved from their last petty argument. I skim through the messages on the phone that she holds out to me. I know I’m supposed to say something along the lines of “what an asshole!” but I just can’t muster the indignation tonight. This is just another version of the same story and I’m tired.
She’s telling me about how he blew off their six-year old’s birthday party because he had a date with his latest conquest. I’m supposed to look shocked. I raise an eyebrow. Am I doing it right? I wonder what he is telling his friends about her tonight. She switches to how he changes their custody schedule too often, pausing occasionally, presumably to get feedback from me. “Chris does that sometimes” is the best I can offer her. She’s dragging me into her ex-wife hell. I have better things to talk about than Chris. But I have to endure it, because I’m being a good friend tonight.
It’s seven o’clock and I’ve had enough. Enough wine. Enough crappy music. Enough David. We stand in the parking lot, attempting to make small talk. It feels forced and unnatural. I wonder if she feels it too. Our commonality, once the tie that bound us together, had become a wedge that drove us apart. Her anger and grief remind me too much of my own. But I can’t bring myself to tell her that it’s over between us; it just feels too cruel to take that away too. So tonight, I was a good friend.
We are sitting at the bar and she is telling me all about her new job. I think this is her fifth job in the past two years, but I’ve stopped caring enough to keep count. I’m trying to pay attention but she’s talking non-stop and the wine is providing a pleasant hum in my ears that is drowning her out. This is me being a good friend. Clearly I am the wrong choice. The bartender glances over at us and I try to get his attention; my wineglass is empty and it’s just a matter of time before I hear all about what X has done now. His name apparently isn’t worth the energy to speak aloud; he’s been reduced to a single letter. Do I complain this much about Chris? I don’t think so.
I met Mary almost 30 years ago, when we were kids. I lived next door to her father and would see her playing outside every other weekend, when it was his turn to have the kids. One day she was lying outside on the patchy lawn, trying to get a tan. I offered her a beach chair and she returned it covered in Coppertone tanning oil. I told her she was gross. She told me I was uptight. We knew that were destined to become friends. Our summers were spent bouncing back and forth between each other’s houses. We quickly became “no-knock friends,” granting each the privilege to walk straight into the other’s house, open the fridge, and deplete the snack stockpiles.
About five years into our friendship, my grandmother died of breast cancer. Less than a year later, her grandmother was diagnosed with the same disease. I was her shoulder to cry on throughout her grandmother’s illness. By this point, I was in high school, trying to maintain my 4.0 GPA and working 30 hours a week at the local craft store, but I still dropped everything to be there for her, spending countless hours on the phone with her while she cried. When her grandmother passed a few months later, we were united in heartache for the first time.
We had been friends for nearly a decade when she dropped the bombshell that she had caught David talking to other women online. I listened as she vented. I declared him an asshole not worthy of her. I was outraged on her behalf. I was grateful that it wasn’t me; until a few months later when I discovered Chris texting our neighbor. Mary and I would meet for lunch and compare notes about what assholes our spouses were becoming. Neither one of us saw the writing on the wall. It all came crashing down in the spring of 2013 when my phone rang. It was Mary. I don’t know why I didn’t answer it. A few minutes later, I got a simple text: David filed for divorce. I called her immediately.
For the first few weeks, she shut out the world, staying holed up in her apartment. Occasionally she would call me to cry or vent. I didn’t have the words to comfort her. She was living my biggest fear. He was moving out and she was begging him to stay. Four months later, Mary had just turned a corner from heartache to fury when Chris told me that he wanted to separate. She was the first person I called.
The first few months of my separation were a blur of tears and countless stress-induced naps. Friends and family would come over to sit with the kids so I could sleep off my misery. Somehow, I crawled out of the darkness that was the end of my marriage and moved forward with my life, leaving Mary behind to claw at her own wounds. I wanted to heal. She wanted to seethe.
“I’m starting my own business,” she says, pulling my mind back to the bar and my empty wineglass. I try to look interested.
“Oh?” I answer lamely.
“I’m going to make scented candles…” the buzzing in my ears gets a little louder.
The bartender finally takes pity on me and refills my wineglass. The band is beginning to play some bluesy Folk rock. It doesn’t suck but I would have preferred something harder on a Friday night. I look at my wine. This will have to do.
“Candles?” I laugh. “Weren’t you just selling homemade soap on Etsy a few months ago?”
She laughs too. “Yeah but they were taking too long to make. Candles are faster and easier.” What do I say to that? Nothing. I say nothing. I’m being a good friend tonight.
I start to tell her about my classes and my plans for an advanced degree. “I was accepted into the University of Baltimore. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get my bachelor’s in English and my master’s in Legal and Ethical Studies but I haven’t completely ruled out a law degree…”
She nods politely and I let my words trail off. I can tell she’s not really interested. What else am I supposed to talk to her about? This is what’s going on in my life right now. I don’t want to talk about my failed marriage. Is that all we really have in common anymore?
“Oh, did I tell you what X did?”
I wish I had a watch so that I could look at it to see how long it took her to bring him up. Is this glass of wine going to get me through tonight? I decide no. Maybe I should switch to beer. This could be awhile. I hadn’t even been married to David and yet I felt as though he had somehow done me wrong, I had heard the stories so many times.
She is pulling out her phone so that she can show me the text messages she saved from their last petty argument. I skim through the messages on the phone that she holds out to me. I know I’m supposed to say something along the lines of “what an asshole!” but I just can’t muster the indignation tonight. This is just another version of the same story and I’m tired.
She’s telling me about how he blew off their six-year old’s birthday party because he had a date with his latest conquest. I’m supposed to look shocked. I raise an eyebrow. Am I doing it right? I wonder what he is telling his friends about her tonight. She switches to how he changes their custody schedule too often, pausing occasionally, presumably to get feedback from me. “Chris does that sometimes” is the best I can offer her. She’s dragging me into her ex-wife hell. I have better things to talk about than Chris. But I have to endure it, because I’m being a good friend tonight.
It’s seven o’clock and I’ve had enough. Enough wine. Enough crappy music. Enough David. We stand in the parking lot, attempting to make small talk. It feels forced and unnatural. I wonder if she feels it too. Our commonality, once the tie that bound us together, had become a wedge that drove us apart. Her anger and grief remind me too much of my own. But I can’t bring myself to tell her that it’s over between us; it just feels too cruel to take that away too. So tonight, I was a good friend.