Most Likely to Succeed
A Short Story of
A Woman's Journey Back to Herself
by
Paula Renaye
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Diomo Books on Smashwords
Most Likely to Succeed
Copyright © 2012 by Diomo Books
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Most Likely to Succeed
"Yes, we have insurance." John pulled a paper card from his wallet and laid it on the counter. "I think they’ll pay for it. I don’t really know. I’ve never had to do this before."
"There’s probably a co-pay," the woman said, typing in the numbers.
He pulled a pad of blank checks from his jacket pocket, thankful he’d had the foresight to look through the house to find a new box. "I’ll write a check for whatever else you need," he said, wondering if he actually could since he had no idea how much was in the account. Janey took care of everything.
"This should be fine for now, Mr. Burke," the nurse said, handing him back the card. "We’ll get your wife settled then the doctor will speak with you."
* * * *
They’d been married fourteen years when he first noticed her slipping. Nothing much at first, just a leftover sink full of dirty dishes here, an unswept floor there. He never said much about it. Traveling as he did, he wasn’t really that picky about what the house looked like when he got home, he was just glad to be there. In fact, he prided himself on not nagging her about the housework. He’d even told her she could get someone to help out if they ever got ahead on the bills. With one income though, it seemed to always be a struggle just to make ends meet.
Over the years, Janey had talked of going back to work. He’d never been crazy about the idea. He liked having her at home when he got there. Besides, who’d trade staying at home for all the crap he had to put up with at the office? If it weren’t for going to the gym three times a week, he’s probably be crazy himself.
Sometimes he fantasized about how it would be to have nothing to do but pick up a few things here and there, then cook dinner and do the dishes. It sounded like heaven compared to the pressures of crisis management and mandatory overtime he had to deal with. But that’s all it was, a fantasy. At this late date, being a full time househusband and daddy wasn’t even a remote possibility. Not when he had the Master’s degree and twelve years experience, and she hadn’t worked a day since Jessica was born.
Not finishing college didn’t make Janey very marketable either. She was an intelligent woman, of course. Scholarships had paid for most of her first year of college before they were married. She’d gone another year after that, but he’d gotten a job offer in Colorado and they’d moved. Janey never went back to school, which had worked out with the kids and all. But minimum wage was probably the best she could do, and that wouldn’t pay even half the mortgage much less the car payments. And he sure wasn’t moving down to a house in town, not after working so hard to get his mountain dream home. No, his wife wasn’t going to become the breadwinner so he could stay home with the kids no matter how good it might sound.
When they’d first married, Janey had worked part time in a small art gallery and dabbled in oils. He’d bought her a tube of red okra, or something like that, once so she could finish a fuzzy type picture that you had to stand back from to make sense of. The ocean maybe, he couldn’t remember. He did remember, however, that the one little tube of paint had set him back twelve bucks--a small fortune at the time. After one look at the price tags on the brushes, John decided the store could keep their fancy mohair sticks and he’d keep his twenty-dollar bills, thank you very much. To this day he couldn’t see how anyone could make a living painting pictures.
* * * *
There was six inches of snow on the ground when John pulled up to the house that evening at seven. It had been snowing off and on most of the day, but the closer he’d gotten to home, the harder and faster the flakes flew.
Janey hated the snow. Even though she now had a four-wheel drive car of her own, she still hated it, and told him so, frequently.
He’d never understood her attitude. He loved their remote mountain setting. For eight years that place been his haven, his piece of the American Dream. There, isolated from the demands of work and frantic pace of the city, he could be free. After being gone on a long business trip, it was like coming home to paradise. The snow was just part of it. He loved it, in fact. It was a proving ground of sorts--man against nature.
It had been just those thoughts that had run through his mind as he stomped the wet clumps from his shoes at the kitchen door. "It’s really coming down out there," he said, taking off his coat. "I’ll get the tractor going after dinner and at least get the driveway plowed."
Janey stood at the sink, staring out the window. A thick layer of soapsuds covered the water in each of the two sink compartments, the bubbles spilling over onto the counter Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks.
A knot twisted in his chest. He hadn't seen her cry in years. "Honey, what’s wrong? Is it the kids? Janey, honey, please tell me what’s wrong."
She blinked a few times, the fresh moisture flowing down her cheeks and pushing droplets off the edge of her chin. "Wrong?" she said. "What could be wrong?"
Except for the tears, she looked okay. Her long dark brown hair hung neatly down her back. She’d been coloring it for a while now, but he still liked her to wear it long; it made her look younger. He did wonder why she didn’t curl it anymore though or why she mostly just wore jeans and sweatshirts, and only dark colors. The green one she was wearing made her skin look pale even without the tears.
As he looked closer from his side view, he noticed that her eyes were sunken and her face was pinched and sagging. Withered. She looked withered. The realization stunned him. When had that happened? Who was this woman? Fear crushed against his chest like an avalanche. "Janey, are you really okay?"
She flung her head back and a sound somewhere between a cry and a laugh burst from her throat. "Ha! Okay! Yes. Good. I'm always okay, right?"
He bunched hands into fists to still their shaking. Something was very wrong. "Where are the children?"
"Downstairs by the fire. Where it’s warm. Watching a movie."
Faint voices and TV noises drifted up from the family room, giving him a measure of relief. The kids were okay. "Tell me what’s wrong."
She spun to face him, soapsuds and water slinging across the kitchen and onto his silk business suit. "You mean today, or in my life in general?"
"Well, today, I guess," he said, not knowing what else to say. "You’re not acting like yourself."
Another laugh burst out then morphed into an unnatural wild choking sound. She flung her head and turned back to the sink. "I haven’t been myself in ten years, maybe ever," she said, her voice quivering. She pumped the soap dispenser four times and filled her palm. The tang of lemon floated up as she rubbed her hands together. "Look at it," she said, staring at the blue liquid coating her palms and fingers as she wove and swirled them together. "It’s almost like paint gliding on a canvass. The feel of it. The energy of it." She stopped and held her hands in front of her face for a few seconds then plunged them into the water. "And then it’s gone."
Regardless of what she said, something was indeed wrong even if he didn't know what. Knowing he had to do something, he said, "I'll be right back," then hurried down the stairs. He found his children exactly where his wife said they would be, watching a movie beside a roaring fire burning in the woodstove. He motioned to his oldest daughter. She frowned a little, but got up and met him at the stairs. "What’s going on with you mother?"
"What do you mean?" Jessica said, one eye still on the movie.
"Well, she’s not acting like herself. She, well, she just isn’t."
"Oh, you mean the crying and staring out into space and stuff?"
He nodded.
"She does that all the time." Jessica shrugged and flipped her hair over her shoulder, much as her mother used to do. "At least she’s not yelling at us all the time like she used to. What’s for supper?"
"Pizza," he said automatically. He just hoped there was one in the freezer. If not, it would be an hour to go pick one up, maybe more in the snow. "I’ll call you when it’s ready."
When he came back up the stairs, she was sitting on the couch, looking at a book. She seemed okay enough so he went to the freezer, found a pizza and put it in the oven.
The Burke family ate the large thick-crusted pepperoni in relative silence for a family of five. Janey chatted animatedly about the new laundry detergent she’d used that morning and how glad she was that the stain in the carpet from last night’s spill came out perfectly. No one would ever know it had been there. She shared her plans for painting the living room and dining room again--the fourth time this year.
John ate the pizza without tasting it, staring at his wife. When he’d gotten back from his business trip last week, she’d been happy to see him, asking him all kinds of questions about the job, how things went, really showing interest. Where was that woman now? And when had soap and paint become her primary interests in life?
The lights were on over the deck, which was just behind the dining table. Snowflakes blew nearly horizontal, piling up in the corners to foot-high drifts. He needed to shovel and plow--probably a couple of times from the way it looked.
He glanced at his wife again, sitting there with her books. She seemed okay for the moment and he did need to plow.
* * * *
Janey Burke was admitted to Maple Grove Hospital’s psychiatric ward later that night. She went peacefully and without complaint except for the clenched fists she held to her chest.
From her left hand, they pried a wedding photograph. The words "Mr. and Mrs. John Burke" were artistically scrolled across the back in a girlish script.
From her right hand, they took a page from a high school yearbook. Even in black and white, Victoria "Janey" Worthington sparkled. She was somebody--and knew it. Beneath her senior picture was a two-column list of her accomplishments. Who’s Who and All-State honors came first, then honor societies and student leadership awards. She'd been selected class beauty and a voted "Best Dressed" among other student choice awards. Janey, it seemed, had done or won just about everything.
But the last entry in Janey Worthington’s senior yearbook list was deliberately and repeatedly marked through until only a ragged hole in the paper was left. The one award that Janey couldn't forget--the words that she had chosen not to live up to: Most Likely to Succeed.
* * * *
Janey spent the next two weeks in a medicated haze. In the two after that, the fog began to lift. Little by little she began to feel again, began to breathe life into herself again. She came back into her body in a way she never had before--connected and congruent. She became someone she liked and respected. She became someone she cared about.
She also gained the confidence and courage to speak her truth. And when she did--when she told John of her need to have an identity outside of wife and mother, and that she needed to live in town out of the snow--he was shocked and angry. Without his dream home in the mountains--and someone solely dedicated to managing that dream for him--there was nothing left for him and left--left them all. He quit his job, moved to another country and did what a lot of middle-aged divorced men do.
She did what a lot of divorced women do too--she bloomed. She grew in ways that even surprised her. She became herself--Victoria Worthington, the complete woman.
Her paintings are in galleries around the world, and she speaks on the magic of soap bubbles, inspiring women to face their pain and reclaim themselves as she did. She never got that degree though--never needed to. And she makes far more than minimum wage for her talents.
Yes, Janey married again and she is happy beyond words. Her world now is warm and vibrant, inside and out. And no one ever asks her if she's okay anymore--there's no need. Victoria "Janey" Worthington isn't just okay anymore--she's happy.
Maybe that old high school prophecy was right after all.
The End
* * * *
About the Author
Photo by Krystal Harpin
Paula Renaye, CPC, CEH, AFP
Paula Renaye is a certified professional coach, inspirational speaker, energetic healing and regression hypnosis practitioner, and award-winning author of both fiction and nonfiction.
Her acclaimed personal development guide, The Hardline Self Help Handbook, has won four National Book Awards. Hardline has been endorsed by mental health professionals and recommended as having "all the benefits of serious therapy in one book."
Paula is a frequent tough love expert on talk radio shows and her television appearances include BookTV. She writes regular columns for relationship sites, international online magazines, personal development ezines and is featured in trade and specialty blogs. For real world stories and tips, visit her blog at http://hardlineselfhelp.com.
Paula started her career in fiction and published her humorous mystery series under the name Paula Boyd. The first Jolene Jackson Mystery, Hot Enough to Kill, was released in 1999 and is included in the University of Texas Press' Lone Star Sleuths: An Anthology of Texas Crime Fiction. The second, Dead Man Falls, won the 2001 WILLA Literary Award for Best Original Paperback and the third, Turkey Ranch Road Rage, was published in 2010. Killer Moves continues the adventures.
Paula Boyd and the Jolene Jackson Mystery Books have been featured in magazines such as Redbook, Mountain Living, San Antonio Woman, Romantic Times and Colorado Homes and Living, and in newspapers across the country. Excerpts can be read at http://paulaboyd.com.
Cover Image by Adrian van Leen