The Night That Finally Broke Her
A story of a girl who realizes as she is preparing for a party, that her life has not gone in the direction she wanted. Something must change…
Marinda stood in front of the bathroom mirror and pretended that everything was okay. On the little dish in front of her, she had her scissors, her brow brush, and her tweezers.
She stood there for a moment and stared at her reflection. She looked tired, and her skin was getting a little dry. It didn’t help her appearance either that she wore a faded dress that should have been discarded years ago.
She swallowed and tried to avoid the bitter feeling rising in the pit of her stomach. “It’s okay,” she said weakly to herself, “It’s okay. It’s going to be fun tonight. A lot of fun…” a thin smile crossed her lips. Yes, she shouldn’t focus on the disappointments. She was going to make sure she had fun tonight.
She picked up the brow brush and began to brush her eyebrows downward. She did this mechanically without thought, as she had gone through this ritual many times before.
Her father had often teased her about how well she groomed her eyebrows, and often said, “What, don’t you want to look like me?” and he’d point to the hairy eyebrows and laugh. Soon Miranda would be laughing too.
Those memories of that large colonial house seemed so far away now. The laughter down the halls, the chatting of her girlfriends, the constant flow of interesting guests coming in and out.
She knew she’d miss that big family and all those friends when she moved to the city out east, but what she didn’t expect to miss was the good meals, the warmth, and the comforts of wealth.
Her family wasn’t exceptionally rich, but like many immigrants who came to America for a better life, her Father had worked exceptionally hard. He’d been a well-read man as well and had a natural instinct for business. That meant that by the time Marinda was born, her family was already wealthy.
When she was a teenager, she’d stand in front of the big mirror in the second-floor bathroom with two of her girlfriends, and they’d chat as they prepared themselves for a ‘big night.’
They’d be going to some event in the town or to a high school party. They’d giggle and gossip, talking about who was dating who, what boys would be there tonight, and what could possibly happen.
Though Marinda never thought about it much, now she did, more and more. She realized that there had been an assumption on those hot, promising nights, that the future would be just as exciting and comfortable as it was then. That Miranda’s world would always be filled with laughter, friends, and entertainment.
That dream had quickly evaporated after she had married. She bit her lip as she finished brushing and tried very hard not to think about it. She shivered as she stood there and wished that they could afford to turn on a heater, or even buy one.
She put down the brush and then picked up her small scissors. She began to cut the eyebrow hairs that were too long, that stretched below the invisible line she had created for herself in her mind. As she clipped, she began to think of her husband.
When it came time to pluck her eyebrows, tears were already in her eyes. She picked up the tweezers in her slightly shaky hand and began to pluck viscously at her eyebrows. With every hair that she pulled free, more resentment began to surface.
Soon there were tears coming down her eyes. She plucked and plucked, each time the physical pain was brought together with an emotional pain. She had never known her hurts went this deep, not until tonight. “You stupid girl…” she said to herself, “You stupid girl,” she said, and then found herself holding the tweezers in her hand.
That hand with the tweezers coiled up into a fist. Her face scrunched up in pain as the thought dawned on her, that she couldn’t go. Not like this. Not dressed up in such poor, faded clothes. She couldn’t go, not with the bags under her eyes and her drying skin. She couldn’t go, not with her worn shoes, that had once been so beautiful she had got them when she was eighteen.
She found herself crying, supporting herself against the counter. Like a little girl, she wished for good food, for a warm place to live, for a beautiful place to live, and for enough money to keep herself beautiful. Then she heard him.
He came into the cramped little bathroom, that lost-puppy look on his face. She looked at him and saw that he was dressed in that same suit he’d been given for his graduation. That same cheap suit. That made Miranda cry even more.
“What’s wrong?” Owen said and came close to her. She let him embrace her as she continued to cry.
“I can’t go tonight,” she said weakly, at last.
“What do you mean you can’t go, honey?” He asked.
“Look at me,” she said, irritated, taking a step back from him.
He looked at her dumbly, still with that lost, vague look on his face. “What do you mean?”
“Do you expect me to go looking like this? To see all my old friends looking like… like a homeless woman?”
“You don’t look like that,” he said, genuinely shocked, “You look beautiful.”
This last remark made Marinda freeze up with anger. How long had she wasted with him? He’d always talk about big things of the future when his acting career would explode when he’d ‘make it.’
Yet for three years it had been the same. He’d go to audition after audition, and Marinda would bounce between jobs in cafes and restaurants, earning just enough to pay the rent and buy food.
Now, all the heartbreak of those three bitter years were swelling up in her. “Beautiful?” she asked, “I look beautiful? Look at these bags under my eyes Owen. I have been working so hard while you’re free to just… run around… wasting our time. I look beautiful? I have hardly felt alive these past few months… these past years… I look beautiful?” she began to sob now, “No… no, I don’t… I don’t look beautiful…”
Owen stared at her in shock. She gripped the pair of tweezers in her hand tighter and tighter. Somehow, he led her to the bedroom. They sat down on the bed, while she continued to cry. “I’m sorry,” she said, her head against his shoulder. She sniffed now, and both of them were silent.
“You’re not happy?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her voice taking on a cold, emotionless tone, “No I am not.”
“Well,” Owen asked, and looked down at her, “What do you want to do?”
“I want to go home,”
“This is home,” Owen said.
Miranda looked around the shabby apartment. She looked at the piles of laundry, at the cracked dresser, at the gray walls, and sighed. “No, it isn’t. This place has never been my home. I’m beautiful somewhere else.”
Owen tensed up. He moved away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. He put his hands to his face. She knew she should comfort him now, say something nice, but she couldn’t. Her feelings for her young husband were now tainted with hatred, regret, and a longing for a better life.
“I can’t be with you anymore,” she said to him. Now he began to cry. She stared at him, impassively. She looked at him with the same look a child gives another child that is crying. For Marinda, having said those words, she felt somehow free. This was someone else’s husband. Someone else’s terrible apartment. Someone else’s broken life.
She, Miranda, was the girl from the West Coast. She was the girl who had lots of friends and had fun at the beach and at the pool. She was the girl who was alive, and who loved life.
A feeling of bliss moved through her as she realized that girl had never died, that she could be her again. That feeling of bliss was so intense, that it didn’t even seem inappropriate for the situation. She should be feeling happy, now that she realized what she really wanted.
She put a gentle hand on his leg and shuffled a little closer to him. He’d wiped his face and was now looking at her. “This will be best, for both of us,” she said, as a few tears grew in her eyes. “I can’t be your wife,” she said, “I can’t wait for you. I’m sorry. I still love you, but I can’t be with you,”
“I don’t understand,” he said and looked back down at the ground. “I… you are my wife.”
“No,” she said, and carefully she pulled the ring from her finger and put it on the bed. She was about to put the tweezers down with it but then realized, she’d need them.
She’d need her tweezers, and her scissors, and her little makeup brushes. She’d need it all. She was going to be true to herself again. She was going to have fun. She didn’t need Owen, but she’d need her makeup.
That’s when Miranda got up and began to pack her things, while Owen sat, desolate on the bed. He made no move to stop her and didn’t try to win her back like another man might. Instead, he watched her with quiet, defeated eyes, as she packed up all her things.
It worked out to be two bags worth. She’d leave the rest, it was mostly junk anyway. She was about to leave when Owen said weakly, “Can’t we work this out?”
“No,” she said, and looked back at him, and smiled sadly, “No, we can’t. Goodbye Owen… we’ll be in touch… to figure out all the legal stuff I suppose… but I mean this. This is what is right for me.”
He looked down, and she could see that he had been broken. Oh well, he had broken her, so it was only fair. They’d both have to get over this mistake, she knew.
Soon she was out of that terrible apartment and out of that terrible building, and in a taxi headed for the airport. She had her phone pressed against her ear and was waiting for someone to pick up.
“Yes,” came a heavy voice from the phone.
“Dad,” Miranda said, “Can you send me some money for a plane ticket. I’m coming home.”
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