Three Wishes

by Liane Moriarty

wave of rage would sweep her up and carry her high and righteous until she did something embarrassingly excessive. Then it would dump her, splat, leaving her stupid and small.

Sometimes it felt like all the people in her life were scavengers, pecking viciously away at her flesh, wanting more, more, more.

Opinions were for other people. It was fascinating how upset they got about them.

The bills would keep on coming, no matter what else was happening in your life and that was good because it gave you a purpose. You worked so you could pay them. You rested on the weekends and generated more bills. Then you went back to work to pay for them. That was the reason for getting up tomorrow. That was the meaning of life.

The only thing to do was to wait it out, to fold herself up inside, to pretend she was somewhere else. It was like ducking under a big wave when the surf was especially rough. You took a deep gulp and closed your eyes and dropped as far as you could beneath that raging wall of white water. While you were under it pushed you and shoved you as if it wanted to kill you. But it always passed. And when you broke the surface, gasping for air, sometimes it was so calmly-lapping-gentle you could hardly believe the wave ever existed in the first place.

There were moments when she thought she might survive. And there were other moments when she would catch herself thinking about her life as if it was a party she couldn’t wait to leave. If she lived to say eighty, then she was nearly halfway there. Death was the hot bath you promised yourself while you endured small talk and uncomfortable shoes. You could stop pretending to have a good time when you were dead.

They never said sorry. They just threw down their still-loaded weapons, ready for next time.

I never stopped forgiving him! Me. I forgive me for staying with him. A pressure she didn’t know she was feeling suddenly released. It felt like she was unclenching her fists for the first time in a decade.

Try not to saddle yourself with too distinct a personality too early in life. It might not suit you later on.

Her future back then, thought Cat now, was like a long buffet table of exotic dishes awaiting her selection. This career or that career. This boy or that boy. Marriage and children? Maybe later—for dessert, perhaps. She didn’t realize they’d start clearing the plates away so soon.

“Teenagers!” said Hank. “All the parenting articles say, Talk to them, listen to them! But how can you when they seem to find it physically painful to even look at you?”

“He did treat me badly. I treated him quite badly too. But we were different people! That’s what you girls don’t understand! Do you remember when I was seeing that orthodontist? He admitted that he’d been dreadful to his ex-wife. I didn’t care! He was an extremely uninteresting man, as you know, so that was the end of that, but my point is that when I think about Frank’s ex-wife, she seems like a stranger! I don’t think about her as being me! He has mistakes in his past. I have mistakes in mine. The fact that we actually are each other’s mistakes is irrelevant!”