The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb
was lush and cheerful, stuffed full of comfy furniture, about six different lamps with funky lamp shades, several plants, and a ton of books. On closer inspection, I noted that all the books had something to do with diseases.
Current diseases.
Past diseases.
Jungle diseases.
Diseases during wars and famine.
Diseases pioneers suffered from on the Oregon Trail.
I paid her before I had even seen my room.
“It’s a super place for me to indulge in my nervous breakdown,” I told Rosvita.
She didn’t blink an eye as she took off her gloves and placed them neatly in a white box lined with lace. “I’m pleased to hear it. You go ahead and do your flipping out and I’ll make sure that it stays quiet around here for you and your nervous breakdown. And clean. It’s clean here.”
“Thank you, Rosvita. But so that you are fully informed-my nerves are in tatters; my psyche has been ground to pieces in a mental garbage disposal; and my emotions have been through a meat slicer. I cry easily, although I have made serious efforts not to cry for the last twelve years. I am prone to embarrassing outbursts. I have recently made rash and wild decisions, but have yet to regret any of them. I have found that I have a vindictive and vengeful side and am pleased to welcome it into the fold of my other personality characteristics. I am simply,” I told her, “not altogether.”
There was silence for a moment as we pondered this.
“Well,” said Rosvita. “If you can gather up your tattered nerves, your shredded garbage-disposal psyche, and your meat-sliced emotions, I can take you upstairs to your room, where you can further your nervous breakdown.” She spun on her cowboy boot heels and headed up the stairs. She reminded me of Tuscany and flamenco dancers and cotton balls. I followed her.
If there is a room in heaven that is light blue and pristine white, it would look like this room. The bed had a spread that was fluffy and white with a white lace canopy fluttering in the breeze overhead and at least eight blue and white pillows. There was also two white wicker nightstands, each topped with a lamp with a frilly blue-flowered shade, and a white wicker desk and dresser. Charming.
French doors opened to a deck which overlooked the Salmon River. I could hear the river gurgling and burbling, the fir trees making their wind-whistling noise. I thanked her and she left, patting my arm gently. “Nervous breakdowns are challenging mental diseases,” she said. “Call me if you need me.”
I grabbed a bottle of scotch out of my suitcase and had a few drinks. To christen my bed of blue heaven, I decided to pull a pillow over my head and cry.
And cry.
And cry some more.
And this is what I learned on that bed of blue heaven: When you live your life trying never to cry, when the tears finally bust through, they make a real wet mess.
I put the scotch on the nightstand. I was gonna need it.
CHAPTER 3
For the next several days, I strolled along the river and told it my problems while drinking the very best wine I could find at the local store. It was made in the Willamette Valley vineyards. When I could walk no farther, I stumbled to a rock, sat down with my wine, stuck my feet in the water, and cried until I felt my guts were about ready to spring forth.
When I could manage to stand without bursting into another round of tears, I toddled my way back to my bed of blue heaven room. That became my routine: Walk. Drink. Cry. Pass out.
When I woke up on the fifth day, I called Roy. It was 3:00 in the afternoon. I decided to have a scotch. He reminded me of my court date. I agreed to show up.
He told me how much money Ex-Asshole wanted.
“That is a lot of money,” I mused, swirling the ice in my glass. “But I have to say it was worth it.”
My lawyer, Roy Sass, laughed. “I’m sure it was, honey.”
After my townhome and furniture were sold and the money added to my savings, I knew I would have an impressive chunk of money. As a workaholic who made a large salary, and a naturally frugal person, except for buying mammoth amounts of shoes, money was one thing I had. But I sure as heck wasn’t going to hand over a darn dime to Slick Dick despite that small assault.
“Lemme tell you something, Roy,” I said, trying to rein in the sudden but not unexpected fury that surged through my voice like burning brandy. “I. Will. Not. Give. A. Dime. To Slick Dick. Ever. I would sooner set up a trust fund for female beetles battling sexist cultures in the backwoods of Alabama than give any to him. I’ll try again for another analogy: I would rather give my money away quarter by quarter to support the ongoing search for ghosts. One more example: I would rather rip all of my money into tiny shreds and eat it.”
I could hear Roy chuckling. He has a short ponytail, a weathered face, and kind eyes that harden up to something scary when he’s in court. He is at least six foot six with shoulders like an overgrown ox. He’s been a massively successful lawyer for four decades. In his spare time, he runs a dog rescue operation on his farm. People bring him strays or he rescues them from the pound and finds them new homes. He is partial to beagles, mutts, golden retrievers, black labs-and did I mention mutts?
“Roy, did you get my check for twenty thousand?”
“I did, honey.”
“Good.”
There was a silence. “You didn’t cash it, did you?”
“Of course not, honey.”
I rolled my eyes. “This is business, Roy. I want to pay you.”
“It is never business with you, honey, it never was, it never will be. I’m doing this for you for free because I love you, and every moment of every bit of work I do for you I’ll be thinking of your mom. I couldn’t help her, but I can help her daughter and damned if I won’t do everything to make this right.”
“Roy, I-” I can’t hear the word “mom” without getting choked up.
Losing my mother was like losing light. And warmth. And joy. I put a pillow over my face.
“Don’t ‘Roy’ me, sweetie. This is final. Now, what do you want me to do to Jared?”
I pulled my wet face from the pillow. “I want you to make his balls rot.”
“I’ll see what I can do, dear,” he said. “You know, your mother would enjoy knowing his balls were rotting.”
Yes, she would.
She hated the man.
“We meet Thursday nights from six to nine. You are to be on time. You are to control your anger and temper. You are to come ready to spill your guts and prepared to hear what your co-anger management classmates tell you. You are to take responsibility for the problems that got you here in the first place. You are not to whine or feel sorry for yourself, because I have no pity for you and neither does anyone else. I don’t give a shit if you had a lousy childhood and that’s why you’re angry or you have a rabid ex-husband or psycho-freak wife. I don’t give another shit if you’re mad at the system, the police, the judge, the exterminator, your dentist, or the local pet shop owner.”
“I’m not mad at the pet shop owner,” I told Emmaline Hallwyler, my new anger management counselor with a voice like a drill sergeant. “Not at all. I will have to admit to some lingering, simmering anger with my dentist, though. Every time I see him, he tells me I have bad gums. Bad gums!”
She ignored that part. “You are to dance when I say dance and to fly when I say fly. You are to sing when I say sing and to scream when I say scream. You are to create when I say to create. You are to be, above all, honest with yourself and with others. No prayers, no religious talk allowed here, no telling other people that they have to