FicWad

Disclaimer...I don't own anything except the characters I create. I do not have rights or possession of Rice Krispies or Wishin' and Hopin'. The opinions of the characters that are expressed through this story are not mine; I have no problem with Dusty Springfield.

Author's Note...For the record, all the chapters are going to be this long. But I am actually kinda worried that it moves too fast. Tell me what you think in your review, if you decide to leave one. Anyway. If anyone would like to offer their services as a beta, that would be awesome. Thanks!

"One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If we've been bamboozled long enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. The bamboozle has captured us. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back."

-Carl Sagan

I suppose the first thing you want to know about me is the way I look, because the general public likes to splash in the shallow end of the pool. Not that I'm judging the general public (what right do I possess to judge something I am a part of?), it is just a fact. As a professional matchmaker, I can honestly tell you that approximately 95 of the men and women that come to me ask me what the person I have deemed their significant other looks like. To this I respond that they will probably fail at any romantic relationship they pursue because they are basing it on something that will change drastically every ten years.

One client insolently replied to this by saying that as a doctor, he knew that such things can be avoided with the help of surgery, and for the record, was I single. I said no.

That was the first time I lied to my husband, but it was certainly not the last.

XXXxxxXXX

He is late.

Of course he is late, I fret. It is karma. You dated a client. You lose, sir! You lose!

Perhaps he will never show up. That would be best, I suppose. Just get this whole big karmatic mess out of my system by getting stood up. And, this way, I will never even get the chance to become further attracted to him. Instead, I will harbor an unrequited love in the depths of my soul, nurse it like a mother to her babe, and name my multiple cats different variations of the name 'James.'

Am I getting a bit carried away?

Nevertheless, the doorbell rings just as I have reached my tenth deviation. I moan; Mamie was the single cutest orange tabby in the world. I trudge towards the door and find my former date standing on the threshold, bashfully holding out a bouquet of daisies and full of excuses. ("A woman right about to give birth...on the sidewalk! I couldn't just walk away, what with my medical degree!") My brain is screaming bloody murder to stay away from this guy, and is perversely happy to have a catalyst to exercise the 'right thing to do' to the guy my mother warned me about.

Unfortunately for me, my mother never said a word about cheekbones.

So I cheekily tell him that I'm rather disappointed that he has already gotten in between some woman's legs and that I hope that he is not some pimp in a lab-coat. He assures me he isn't.

See? He lies too.

XXXxxxXXX

For a man-whore, he is surprisingly chivalrous. James "Call Me Jimmy" Wilson (which I never will) takes off my coat for me, holds the door open, carries on an intellectual conversation, and tells me that I do not need to be on a diet when I decline dessert.

"How can you be sure I'm on a diet," I ask him saucily, peering over my half-empty wine glass.

"From the sirloin steak and sour cream--a combination I still cannot understand, by the way--I gathered you weren't exactly a health nut," he informs me.

"You know of a diet that lets me eat sirloin steak and sour cream?" I grin. The most suprising combonation is often the most delicious.

He frowns. "I'm sure there's one out there. If you want, I'll ask this nutritionist I know..."

I hold up my hand to stop him. "That won't be necessary. Besides, you're not my doctor; you don't know what kind of eating plan I should be on."

"How do you know? Maybe I happen to have a friend who has a friend who's a doctor who just so happens to have your records on file."

"That's impossible," I tell him happily.

"Nothing's impossible."

"Except for that. That's impossible."

"And why is it impossible," he quizzes me, intrigued.

"Because I don't have a doctor."

"Wha...why?!"

"So I can go out with whomever I want to without having to worry about some medical posse telling my doctor date my real age," I quip. He doesn't crack a grin. "Ok, ok, ok. Fine. I don't have medical insuarance. I'm my own employer, and I can't exactly afford private insuarance at this point."

He does not look impressed. Apparently, in James Wilson's slightly narrow-minded world, there is no excuse for not having a regular practitioner.

"Besides," I airily tell him, "I don't believe in conventional medicine."

This he cannot believe. "Yeah, right."

"It's true."

"Come on. Are you seriously trying to tell me you can cure cancer with a few herbs, supplements, and back massages?"

Narrow-minded and ignorant. My conscience is rearing its ugly head again and is telling me, rather loudly, that to be fair; I did provoke him. But then again, there is my pride. I can't exactly tell him that if I did get cancer, I would be visiting with the most highly-certified oncologist I can afford so fast there would be a Caite-shaped hole in the door. "Watch it," I snap.

He opens his mouth and closes it, apparently rethinking what he was going to say.

"I believe an apology is in order." (Why not? I have definitely ruined my chances with this guy; I deserve to have a little fun with him!)

He frowns again, rightly annoyed with my arrogance. Nevertheless, he mumbles something resembling regret and pulls out his credit card as the waiter makes his way over.

This I will not stand for and I hold my hand up. "James, I just put you through what was possibly one of the worst meals in your life. You shouldn't have to pay."

"Actually," he says as the waiter walks away, plastic in palm, "I was just going to ask if you wanted to go out again."

I tell him that I would love to do so, and this is how I know that James Wilson has me wrapped around his pinky finger.

XXXxxxXXX

The question comes on June 3, at exactly 2:54 in the morning. We are both naked; the only thing covering our entangled bodies is a thin blue sheet with a few holes here and there. It is a scene of sloppiness and imperfection, but I can not take any of this in. I can only gape.

"Well?"

Instead of answering, I roll over onto my side of the bed and take deep, cleansing, breaths.

When I was three, my mother who was my mommy, and who loved my father (who was my dadddy), told me that I would marry a handsome prince that lived in a castle and who rode a white horse. When I was seven, my ma who had begun to fight with my dad, told me that I would marry a senator who would buy a nice house for me and never make me work a day in my life. When I was twelve, my mom who was slowly being replaced by my dad's "coworker" told me that I would marry a mayor who always fills the potholes. When I was twenty-four, my mother told me to marry a doctor, one not too unlike her new fiance. That was the day I swore to myself that, at all costs, I would not repeat her mistakes. Bad taste would not be heriditary.

Two weeks ago, on my twenty-sixth birthday, my mom told me men were scum and I would be happier alone. She started to say something else, but her therapist at the rehab center informed us that time was up; our session was over. I did not tell James about this meeting.

"Caite?"

"I want to go to sleep," I say tersely.

He sighs; it is a sad, defeated sigh. I'm sure there are a thousand other ways he has pictured this evening going, and this probably does not fit in with one of those fantasies. It certainly does not coincide with mine.

Finally, I give a muffled reply with my face pressed into my pillow: "Yes."

I can practically hear his mind racing, desperately trying to figure out what I meant.

I'll help him out. "I'll marry you." He says nothing. Did he fall asleep? Did he leave? Did he just decide he is going to point blank not hear anything else I say?

I hear a shifting in the bed, and he rolls over, on top of me. Under his weight, I cannot breathe. I close my eyes, and exhale. "Yes, I'll marry you."

Yes, I'll marry you. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes, I'll marry you and I'll be Mrs. James Wilson. Mrs. Caite Wilson. George Mason and Dina Cardler are pleased to invite you to the marriage of their daughter, Catherine Arabella Cardler-Mason to James Evan Wilson, son of Michael and Cara Wilson.

I do not even realize that I have just agreed to marry a man I have known for five months until dawn. "James," I say that morning, rolling over to kiss his cheek, "I'll be happy to marry you."

XXXxxxXXX

The morning of my wedding, I still cannot believe I have been roped into wearing my mother's wedding dress. It was not a good idea at first, and it is not a good idea now. I was never under the delusion that it was.

I used to live in rural Maine, and on my block, there were only three houses. Mine was in the middle; and a boy lived on either side, both my age. They were named Dylan and John, and they were my best friends. We were the three musketeers, thick as thieves.

One day, Dylan had dared me to climb up the giant tree across the street. It was our Everest; no one had ever climbed it before. I argued the whole way through: No, I would not climb that tree, I'll fall. No, I will not grab that branch right there, it's too high. No, I will not jump down, I'll break my arm and somebody will have to take my notes in school tomorrow.

It was Dylan that convinced me to climb, grab, and jump. He used a simple, time-tested logic, something I never should have fallen for: What are you, chicken?

So I had done it.

My mother, who, by the way, said this before her drinking problem even began, applied a similar technique: "What, Caite, what's the problem? Getting cold feet or something?"

Ultimately, not only did I climb the tree to the very top, but my pant leg got caught on a branch, so when I jumped off; I was hanging upside down and hit my head on the tree-trunk, thus rendering me unconscious. But that wasn't even the grunt of my injuries. I got a scar on my right ear, and, to the day, I cannot wear earrings.

I should have bought my own wedding dress.

XXXxxxXXX

Whoever said war was hell has never been on a honeymoon.

First, our baggage was lost. James, who was still on a bit of an ego-trip from the success of our wedding, told the airline that there was no real need to worry, as we probably wouldn't be dressed most of the time anyway. I was not amused.

Next, our hotel seemed to have overbooked themselves, so my first night of married life was spent in a somewhat seedy hotel.

The third night I got food-poisening. The sixth day I got stung by a jelly-fish. The tenth evening, someone broke into our room and stole my jewlery. Amazing, James seemed to be untouched by the mayhem while I was a wreck.

When the final day of our trip arrived, we learned that there was a hurricane and our flight was delayed until further notice. We were checked out of our hotel, the airport was flooded with people, and there was no room for us.

I realized what James did not: Essentially, we were trapped in this faox-paradise we had created.

XXXxxxXXX

The first day James comes home late for work is on our third anniversary. His collar is undone and his hair is all over the place and while I know for a fact he was wearing a tie this morning, he is not wearing one now. Any other fidgety, nagging, wife would immediately assume her husband is having an affair, but I know my husband is a creature of habit and comfort. Our marriage may not be one of hot and cold passion, like our young relationship was, but it is the soft spot in the couch, something I can depend on.

That, and James has been treating a sweet teenager, barely eighteen, for leukemia.

"How was Madeline today?"

"Not too good. Infection. Did you find that Pete guy a date?"

"Yes, but a man. I don't like to set up same-sex couples without, you know, knowing that's what the client wants."

James smirks wanly at this and shuffles to the kitchen quietly. I can hear him rummaging around the cabinets; looking for something to eat. "Didn't save me dinner tonight?"

It takes me a split-second to decide not to tell James that he forgot. Feeling even a little upset with it seems petty...my husband is dealing with cancer kids and I'm angry that he wasn't home on time! "Sorry," I reply. "Would you like to go out? Maybe some fast-food?"

"No thanks," he says rather sadly. "I'm fine."

There is silent for a few moments. "Sorry about Madeline," I call out awkwardly, uncomfortable with the silence.

He appears in the doorway, holding the empty box of Rice Krispies that I have finished this morning and the carton of expired milk that I should have thrown out a week ago. He is the picture of pathetic. "And I'm sorry I forgot our anniversary." He yawns. "Look, do you mind if we do the whole nice dinner thing another night? I'm exhausted."

"No, it's fine." He looks doubtful. "Really, it is."

I am not convinced, but he is, or he is just too tired to care, and that is all that is important.

XXXxxxXXX

Tanya Annette Evans paces the length of my office, running her hand through her hair. Her heels click against the new wooden floor, and if she scratches it, I might have to claw her eyeballs out. She has nothing to worry about; her boyfriend does not come home late from work, so immersed is he with someone she has no right to be jealous of. Her boyfriend does not forget his ties at work, what with his very long day. Her boyfriend did not forget her birthday was yesterday, even though he has a busy schedule.

This is why I hate to stick it out with relationships, professional or personal: They always leave you confused, tired, angry, and miserable.

"Tanya," I say carefully, "I cannot help you with this."

"Why not! You're my yenta," she whines.

"If you have a problem, you have to work it out with him. You have to talk with him. You have to communicate," I stress, with the word hypocrite burning itself onto my mind.

"But I'll sound like a crazy person if I bring this up," Tanya complains.

"Welcome to the club. This is your relationship, not mine. This was your mistake, not mine. I know this wasn't how you expected things to be, but this is how they are, and you just have to deal with that. I'm sorry if you want a fairy-tale romance, because you're not getting that. That's not how it works; you can't sign up for love. You can't do that. You can't do that," I rasp, over and over again. "I didn't sign up for this," I finally sob.

This is not the time and place for it, but here is the cry that has been building up inside of me for since the anniversary. Things have gotten worse and worse, and things are getting worse and worse. My sobs are harder now. They consume all my energy. I tuck my legs up under me just as I hear the door slamming open and shut. I bury my face into my hands and I just keep bawling.

I sit like this, tucked up inside myself, for an hour. When it is up, my eyes are dry and my face feels stiff. Taking a deep breath, I get up, leave my office, ignoring the half-dozen or so clients I am supposed to meet with today, and steadily walk down the stairs, my knuckles a ghostly white next to the black banister.

I get in my car, and the last thing I hear before point blank refusing to listen to anything anymore are the first few words of the original Wishin' and Hopin'.

Dusty Springfield does not know what she is talking about.

XXXxxxXXX

When I arrive at home, James is already there, attempting to make dinner. He does not hear me walk in; he is humming too loudly to, what else, Wishin' and Hopin'.

I place my hands on my hips, and immediately hate myself for doing so. "James," I say, cursing every word that leaves my lips, "we need to talk."

He looks at me like a deer caught in headlights. "I know," he says sadly. "But before you say anything...there's something I have to tell you."

He opens and closes his mouth, like a fish out of water. I do not have patience for this; I look at him expectantly. "Well?"

The words seem to inflate his mouth before he says them, as if they have been waiting a long time to be blurted out. "I had an affair."

XXXxxxXXX

Out of body experiences, I believe, are the best things that have ever befallen human beings. They are a protection against shock, a contraceptive for pain. If not for out of body experiences, my heart probably would have simply stopped beating, too mesmerized by what was going on in front of it to do what it needed to endure.

I am a phantom, hovering above my own body. This is the only way I know I do not have a 'loser' stamp on my forehead and that no one is hiding under the table, laughing at me.

So, with an empty heart and a dormant brain, I can--and will--continue.

XXXxxxXXX

"You had an affair," I say carefully. "You had an affair."

He nods, and helps me to a seat. Almost like our first date, my phantom thinks perversely. "Caite, I-"

"Don't talk," I snap, shivering suddenly. I take a deep breath. "With who?"

He pales slightly. "A gir--woman--I work with."

He had an affair with a doctor, a woman smarter and more accomplished and probably prettier than you that cures children that are dying, my phantom tells me. "A doctor," I ask weakly.

"No..."

"A nurse?"

"No..."

I hear my phantom swear as the realization hits the both of us. He slept with a patient. "That's...that's illegal," I stutter.

He suddenly seems to get what I am thinking, and throws his arms up in the air. "I didn't sleep with a patient, Caite! Jeez..."

Hey! He has no right to be angry at you Are you seriously going to take that? What happened to you, Caite? You used to be so smart, so self-assured, so independent. Now...look at you. What the hell happened?

I got married, I tell my phantom. Marriage changes everything it shouldn't, and keeps all the worst things the same.

No, no it doesn't, my phantom insists. James is scum! He's the dirt on your shoe! Why are you even listening to this?

Because, I inform my phantom exasperatedly, I have to know.

"Caite," James asks cautiously. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"No," I enlighten him crossly.

"It was with a patient's sister. Remember Madeline? Her older sister, Alice, always came in with her and she needed company while Madeline was having chemo and I was there and it just...happened." I suck in my breath as he puts a comfort-intending hand on my shoulder. "I swear I didn't plan this, Caite."

"Don't call me 'Caite,'" I snap, shrugging his hand away.

Leave, Caite. Go. You've heard more than you need to hear. Just leave. You were fine before, you'll be fine after. Come on, Caite. Go.

Getting up suddenly, I leave the kitchen and walk into the bedroom that is no longer ours, but his. Not mine. Nothing of mine will stay here.

Getting down on my knees, I angrily pull open the drawers and stuff my clothes in the duffel in his closet. I do not give myself the trip down memory lane when I see the small hole in the thick material. I do not think. I do not act. My phantom, satisfied with the job she has done, leaves me alone.

When I am done only twenty-two minutes later, there are no clothes left. I did not realize I was surviving on so little. All-business, I drag the now overstuffed duffel out of the bedroom and approach James. "Did you call a cab," I ask coldly.

"No," he answers, and does not try to stop me when I grab the portable telephone and dial the operator.

As soon as I am finished talking, he starts. "Caite, don't go. We can work this out." But I look at him, and I hope to G/d that my eyes can plainly tell him that it is a lost cause, because I don't think anything else can.

I leave our small house and sit down on one of the steps leading up to our house. It's not that I want my marriage to be over, I realize, but that I don't want it to begin again. That is the only way to make it work, the lies we have woven around each other and our lives are too tangled to ever figure the truth out. Frankly, at this point I can barely differentiate what has really happened and what was a mere fabrication.

Did we ever even love each other?

I'm sure we must have at some point. We did get married, after all.

But now we're getting divorced. And that, I decide as I board the taxi, is the only thing I should try and remember.