Free Better Off Without Him by Dee Ernst Page B

mascara, but without that, my face looked lash-less and bland. Not quite this bland, but still.
    I pulled back my lips in a forced grin. There was not a forest of pine growing between my teeth after all. It just felt that way. The Carmichael Martini again.
    I threw back my shoulders. I had always been proud of the fact that I had only gained ten pounds in twenty years of marriage. Of course, redistribution had become a bit of a problem. My arms were not sleek, but rather rounded, almost puffy. But then, Liz Taylor, in that scene in A Place in the Sun, where she first meets Monty Cliff playing pool, and she’s in that gorgeous white dress with her arms and shoulders bare, well, her arms aren’t very buff either, but you don’t even notice because of all that cleavage. I’ve got cleavage too, but, without proper support, my breasts sag so badly that unfettered, my nipples hover about four inches above my waistline. I’m naturally short-waisted, by the way, but it’s still a pretty impressive drop.
    My thighs rub together. And my butt wobbles.
    I stepped back from the mirror, hoping that a little distance would improve the situation.
    It didn’t.
    But I clean up well. I had a head shot done a few years ago, for a conference or some such nonsense, and boy, did I look good. Black and white, with the light just right on my eyes, which are, with enough mascara, my best feature. My cheekbones looked sculpted, my chin and jaw line firm, my dark hair beautifully styled, my smile seductive. Almost Ava Gardener. That old-fashioned, glam look.
    Not that morning, however.
    I smelled bacon. I suddenly remembered Aunt Lily had offered to get up and make breakfast for the girls so I could, as she put it, sleep off all that Grey Goose. But I felt the need for normalcy, so I slipped into sweats and slouched downstairs.
    My daughters were all sitting around the table, smiling and chatty. As I rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, silence fell. They all looked guilty, torn between the bliss of eating good, hot food that someone else prepared for them, and the knowledge that this was day one of Life Without Father.
    Aunt Lily had found the waffle maker in the appliance graveyard that was my pantry, and the kitchen smelled of baking and hot grease. I began to salivate.
    “Good morning,” Aunt Lily said cheerfully, thrusting a mug of hot coffee at me. “One waffle or two?”
    “Two,” I mumbled, sipping gratefully. “How is everybody this morning?” I asked, feigning real interest in something other than the prospect of crispy bacon.
    “We’re fine, Mom,” Lauren said, smiling bravely.
    “Did you return my outfit?” Miranda asked.
    “Can I go to the sleepover?” Jessica also asked.
    Oh, my wonderful kids. So much for being devastated by their parents’ break-up.
    “Yesterday,” I reminded them coldly, “I was a little distracted, so I didn’t get the chance to do what I had planned to do. Hopefully, today will be a more normal kind of day, and I’ll be able to attend to all your needs. If not, you will all just have to deal, okay?’
    They nodded, but not very convincingly. Thank God for the emotionally recuperative powers of selfishness.
    They didn’t go back to chatting, but they started smiling again as they ate. The waffles, when smothered with syrup, were delicious.
    “Why don’t you ever make waffles?” Jessica asked.
    “Well,” I explained, “you girls usually aren’t down here at the same time on school mornings, and on the weekends, you all sleep really late. When you were little, though, we used to have Pancake Saturday, remember?”
    They all nodded. Brian had made the pancakes. I paused for a moment, expecting some fond sentimental memory to sweep over them.
    Jessica snarled. “It was the only fucking thing Daddy ever cooked.”
    Normally, that kind of language is not tolerated, at the breakfast table or anywhere else, but since I totally agreed with her, I let it slide.
    “Well,” Aunt Lily