Kathryn McLeod

Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Wishing Well

So there I was, waiting with Bernie, our elderly hound/lab/beagle/?, while S returned his  empties to the Beer Store, when “Wish You Were Here” wafted across the parking lot.

Do you remember when we went to see “The Wall” and for months after the movie critic in the Star would refer back to it, “So self-indulgent, like The Wall”.

It became a running joke between us, “So self-indulgent, like The Wall”.

Anyway, I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from but later S said it was the truck the couple lives in, parked in back of the grocery store, where they seem to have taken up residence.

Before the pandemic I would’ve found that hard to believe, a couple living in their truck in this neighbourhood, admittedly a drive thru neighbourhood I didn’t think I’d be living in either, but not anymore. We’ve even got people living in tents up in the woods where we used to walk Bernie.

Now he just goes down the block, up the back lane, and home again for his bone.

It’s kind of crazy, isn’t it. Bernie living in a house, the couple, and they’re not young, probably my age, living in a truck.

I mean, they make movies about people living like that in the States.

You remember B, my friend who brought you all that free dope when she visited, trying to win you over while you stuck to your anti-B guns, she thinks some people want to live that way.

Well “want”. I think they’ve just given up on trying to stay on the grid. I’ve never not had enough money, ever, and even I’m finding it harder and harder to keep up.

And I don’t mean to say living in a truck is easy, but there’s a simplicity to it I can see appealing to some people tired of jumping through all those hoops we have to jump through just so we can live through another hoop jumping day.

People do love their trucks too, although I wouldn’t want to live in one.

Bernie, by the way, is our elderly third wheel, as I’m sure you’ve heard over the years from the kids. Fifteen years we’ve been living together. As long as you and I were married, although you and I had eight years together before that. More or less.

I used to feel bad about breaking up with you, always because I’d met somebody else, but one day, not too long ago, I realized you got yourself a new girlfriend each time. You even spent a month in Bermuda with one of them.

We always had our fun with other people, you as much as me. And it’s okay, you know. We were just one of those couples, the funless kind.

Speaking of fun, once a month S and I take Bernie in to the pet store to get his toenails trimmed. It’s cheaper than taking him to the vet and they do just as good a job.

S and Bernie are total bros but I was the one who noticed his toenails bothering him.

Hey maybe Bernie thinks I’m the third wheel.

I tip $10 on the $10 fee but S keeps it to a couple of bucks. To be fair, he mostly takes Bernie in himself, but he’s a bit delicate after his hernia operation, which is why I went with him to this appointment.

Also, S has lived a lot of years hand to mouth, as my mother would say, and he can’t quite bring himself to be as extravagant as I am with the little stuff. The big stuff, sure. But that’s S.

Also, he needs money for beer.

I don’t drink anymore. I’m back to living like I did in those dozen years with you when I didn’t drink. The year before we got married and the next eleven making a home for me and the kids.

And you, of course. I made a home for you, too. You’re living in it.

I used to joke we got married because I’d quit drinking and didn’t know how I’d meet another man without beer.

Really, we got married because I was like every other woman approaching thirty who wants kids, and you were there.

Also pie. Your mother made great pie. Maybe I just couldn’t imagine life without it.

The thing is, I didn’t think it through to the rest of my life, and it’s just as well I didn’t, because I love those three kids and wouldn’t give back a one of them for love or money.

What I didn’t like was being a wife. Quite frankly it’s a wonder to me anyone does.

When I finally told my mother about S she said, “You left your beautiful four bedroom home for an unemployed writer and a one bedroom apartment.”

So I said, to put an end to the conversation, which was only ever about me not doing what she thought I should do, “Well I’m not with him for his money.”

Later I started telling people, “I’m with S because he respects his elders.”

I don’t know if the kids ever said it to you but they used to say it to me all the time, “S was six when Star Wars came out and you were eighteen!”

Of course I’d say back, “Star Wars? What the heck is Star Wars?”

My mother had a point, though. For a long time, I missed the house, almost as much as I missed living in it with the kids.

I paid quite a price for not wanting to be a wife, wanting to be the star of my own show instead, the star of my own show I was always meant to be.

But John Cleese says, “You know why divorce is so expensive? Because it’s worth it.”

There’s a guy who pops up in one of those reels on my Facebook page, where I’m living my best life these days, who says, “It couldn’t have happened any other way because it didn’t.”

I love it, “It couldn’t have happened any other way because it didn’t.”

It’s my mantra.

For a long time, I thought if I had a do-over, it’d be different, but would it?

Yes. I’d have come home immediately after I met S and said, “I’ve met someone.”

Put the ball in your court instead of carrying it around with me like I did.

You were downtown looking for me that night when I went to meet a bunch of people from online. Friends I just hadn’t met in person. Yet. Normal for lots of us, just not you.

I honestly don’t think we could be less compatible, you and I.

You didn’t understand a single thing about me. If you had, you’d know I wasn’t meant to be a wife. Not to mention the fact we were only ever competitors, never cooperators.

S asked, “Are you going to have a beer?” And I said, “No because I don’t want to go home smelling all beery. I’ll just have a ginger ale.”

And he said, “But won’t you go home smelling all gingery?”

When I squeezed his shoulder goodbye, I knew. He didn’t. But I sure did.

Yes, if I could go back in time I’d have gone home, waited for you to get home from your fruitless and ridiculous search for me downtown, and said, “I’ve met someone.”

It’s funny, I miss your mother, but not mine. I guess because I left off with yours when she was the age I am now, while I left off with mine when she was old and tired and done with it all.

It was such a relief when she qualified for MAiD.

Anyway, she did eventually come around on S. Your mother did, too. The kids tricked us into dropping in at the farm when we were coming home from one of those trips I stupidly decided to make an annual thing. She had a whole spread laid out.

That’s a happy memory, me, S, the kids, your mom and dad. A really happy memory. I hope the kids appreciate it. I know they do. I love our kids. I’m so glad they’re in the world.

S loved those trips with the kids. I found them to be a lot of work but that’s me as you know.

My favourite times were reading to them at bedtime and watching Delia Smith’s baking show together, all four of us on the love seat, Delia making magic with chocolate.

Oh I’ve forgotten how hard it all was, that’s all. For sure now is my favourite time. I love going to bed, reading a book, doing a crossword, then turning out the light and doing that relaxation technique starting with my toes and working on up.

How could I ever have thought it was no biggie, three kids under four, you travelling all the time, the moves.

Hey, I guess I went on back there about Bernie, but you’re not a dog person at all, are you. I keep forgetting, you’re a cat person, and a cat person only. Although I guess you don’t have any pets now.

No pets, no people.

You live alone, just like you always wanted.

I’m happy for you, I truly am. I hope you’re happy, too. It was all too much for you. I get it now. Honestly, I do.

And it’s okay, I don’t need you to be happy for me, I’m happy enough for me for the both of us.

I hereby relinquish all claims that never existed anyway on your feelings for me one way or the other.

I can’t remember now if I ever said so before but I’m sorry about Trixie. The thing is, you were travelling, you were always travelling, and Trixie was yowling in pain, leaving blood everywhere.

I loved her, too, you know. But I was the one who had to explain to the kids about helping her die, then take the girls over to school, then take M with me and Trixie to the vet.

I’ll never forget it, he said, “How are you helping Trixie by killing her?” Did I ever tell you that? I imitate him sometimes, saying it, “How are you helping Trixie by killing her?” That low voice of his. Like the time he asked Dr. C, “Did you become a doctor because you like hurting people?”

She thought it was hilarious but he was serious.

Also, I’m the one who’s had to live with the guilt of not paying the extra fee to be with Trixie when the vet put her to sleep. I even went back, immediately, having changed my mind – and remember the clinic was right behind our house – reluctant M in hand who’d already moved on from Trixie, a senior citizen before he was born. They were surprised to see me, as if I might not have changed my mind, had a change of broken heart, after they squeezed me into making that hard decision by doubling the euthanasia fee to be in the room with her while they did it.

“Oh I put her to sleep as soon as you brought her in. I didn’t know you’d even left. It was fine. She was ready. It’s done.” And I just stood there with M tugging on my arm to go home. Finally the vet told me to wait while he went into the back room and retrieved her little red collar.

I’d already brushed her and put some fur in that little box. You have it on the shelf in the kitchen. Her collar’s in there, too.

I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you to get home. She was our cat, a couple’s cat, not a family cat at all. She never did take to the kids. Not really. But you should have been there. You would’ve paid the extra fee. You weren’t counting every penny like I was.

You didn’t have to make out like it was the crime of the century, me leaving you for S.

Cripes, before S I was falling in love with every other man I met.

If it helps, and it should, a woman I worked with at the store, this was when I couldn’t get any temp jobs in the government, said, “Nobody leaves a happy marriage.”

Truer words. We did not have a happy marriage.

Neither of us.

I just wish you’d admitted you were in love with T, instead of pretending it was all on me, all the blame, guilt, responsibility. That’s why you were so mad when I told you T was having an affair with M. We were at one of your work parties and T came in, M ten minutes later. After talking to other people for a while, M left, T ten minutes later.

Classic.

I said on the ride home, “T’s having an affair with M.”

You said, “T would never do that.” Outraged I would dare suggest such a thing.

I gotta tell you, though, I was so disappointed. I’d been hoping you’d run off with T. Honestly, it gave me no pleasure when you came home one day and admitted I was right.

Well, it gave me some pleasure. The way you’d said “never”, as if T was made of pure white snow, and I was the Whore of Babylon. It was a bit much to take. I mean, I saw a picture of the two of you on one of those retreats, the girls left it, tucked in with a bunch of pictures you sent over.

It looked like you were on your honeymoon together.

I needed to talk to you about what was going on with the house, the kids, but you’d cut me off, work was too much, it was all you could do to hold it together, all the socializing, you just wanted to be alone when you got home.

Three kids, a wife, and Kasey, a high-strung nutcase of a dog I thought would be the answer when I didn’t even know the question, and you just wanted to be alone.

When Kasey died, a valiant dog of divorce, tracking and herding to the end, it was like I always knew it would be. He just keeled over in the parking lot outside the apartment. You didn’t care much for Kasey, I don’t think, not really. You and he didn’t get on. A bit like oil and water. Or maybe it got better between you two after I left.

Honestly, I thought it would help after Trixie was gone, bringing home Kasey from the humane society, but it seemed he just added to whatever was going on with you then.

I know I put you through the wringer but you put me through it double.

Why did I think it was all up to me?

I hereby relinquish the control I never actually had over our family.

Anyway, just in case you need closure, because you weren’t there, and it’s possible I have it all wrong about you and Kasey, I stroked his head while he was on his side, breathing his last in that cold wet parking lot, smoothed his beautiful fur, and told him what a good boy he was.

It was just a couple of minutes.

And I thought of Trixie the whole time. That’s how I squared it with her. Which Kasey totally understood.

A man passing by on the street helped me carry him back up to the apartment. M was with me, it was the weekend, the girls were away at university by then. I said to M when he came out of  the bedroom, “Kasey’s just died. He died in the parking lot.” And M said, in that deep voice, “Well shouldn’t you call animal disposal?”

We didn’t pay enough attention to how M was taking my leaving. I have a picture you took of me and M when he graduated from grade five. He’s leaning away from me and I wish I could go back and hug him tight and tell him it will all be fine and none of it is his fault.

I called S, who often stayed with a friend on weekends because he’d given up his apartment by then, living with me during the week, and he borrowed his friend’s car and we took Kasey to a clinic that was open on Sundays.

When they wheeled him out on the gurney, so S and I could say our goodbyes, “Wish You Were Here” came on the radio in the reception area. Well, didn’t both of us just start bawling our eyes out, like, I don’t know, over everything. Everybody. It was just so sad, all of it. I was honestly afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop crying, ever, but of course I did.

Then we laughed about it on the way back to the apartment, what a high-strung nutcase Kasey was, but what a prince to go out like he did. Heading out for his walk in the morning to do his business, and then keeling over like he did, not even very far to carry him back up to the apartment.

S said, “Erk, thud.”

What a gift life is. But I think now we don’t cry enough along the way when we really should. Instead we bottle up all the sadness until it becomes too much to hold in anymore and it floods out all at once.

Let a little out every day, I say.

So back to Bernie, because it all comes around, and there I was, waiting with Bernie while S returned his empties, it’s a beautiful day, and suddenly I’m hearing “Wish You Were Here” from across the parking lot. And just like that time with Kasey lying on the gurney, a wave of sadness washed over me, a great big over-the-top wave, and settled in my heart.

A sea of sorrow.

And of course my eyes welled up and the next thing I know I’m crying about how sad everything is, how hard we try to make it all work out, how the ending is always the same for everybody, and why can’t we just be nice to each other while we’re here.

But, you know, S has put up with a lot from me about you, us, and I decided, no, I’m not going to be sad anymore. It’s not fair. I’m done with being sad. No more guilt, no more shame, no more taking responsibility for other people’s happiness.

Truth be told, sometimes I feel like my heart could burst with all the love I have, all the love I feel.

Happy, grateful, blessed.

Sorry, A, but I was never meant to be a wife. And you were always meant to live alone. So I’m flipping the script on our story. My leaving was the best thing that ever happened to you, the best thing that ever happened to our kids, the best thing that ever happened to me.

For sure it was the best thing that ever happened to S.

Live long and prosper.

Love, K.