Rhinestones in the Rough

By Laurie Knitter

Irene DiBello has left a volatile relationship where her husband decreed that two plus two equaled five and where she knew enough not to openly contradict it. But on a rainy Tuesday, amidst the pungent mix of Lysol and mustiness that habitually pervades the church basement that houses her childrens day care, Irene meets Tess Gergen. As Tess corners Irene with an invitation to her sons birthday party, Irene has no idea that this simple exchange between two mothers will soon change her life.

Despite a ten-year age difference, Tess and Irene become fast friends. One night over a bottle of wine, a hidden stash of candy bars, and a few packs of forbidden cigarettes, the women divulge all their secrets about marriage, divorce, and loves. As the two learn every nuance of each others lives, both past and present, Tess realizes that Irene has made a brave journey out of an abusive relationship into single motherhood. Now it is up to Tess to help Irene gain enough confidence to trustanyoneagain.

Rhinestones in the Rough is the inspiring tale of two newfound friends who refuse to give up on each otherno matter what.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462019311

Laurie Knitter

Laurie Knitter has been a managing editor at Columbia University Publications and production editor at Chelsea House Publishers and International Universities Press. For the past sixteen years, she has been the Media Center Director/Librarian at a local high school. She currently lives in Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania, with her husband and two children.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Laurie Knitter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1933-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1932-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1931-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011908793

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 06/16/2011

For Joe, Libby, and Grace

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue: June 1998

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Acknowledgments

My deepest thanks go to my sister, friend, and first reader, Linda Lamothe, for her expertise and constant encouragement in life as well as with this manuscript. Next in line is Mary Markle for her support and fearless critique of the first of many versions. More readers who gave me valuable input include Janet Sassaman, Susan Groce, Christi Hendricks, Linda Herrold, Susan Dufford, Diana Silva, Kathryn Lamagna, Lauren Haddad Friedman, Brian Mikulak, Kit Golden, and Barbara Dombrowski—it’s good to have friends. Another dear friend, Mary Sanders Miller, whose story inspired much of the work, deserves recognition for enduring much more than one person should be expected to endure in a single lifetime. Speaking of endurance: My husband, Kurt, and my children, Emily and Alexander, have stood behind me every step of this long way, never wavering in their support and optimism. I love you guys. And let me not forget to credit Dorothy Parker from whom I apparently stole my title. I thought I had come up with it first, but I was wrong. Thanks to Bob for laughing anyway.

The staff of the Selinsgrove Area community pool gets a big shout-out for keeping my tween-age children safe and occupied during the summer of 2003 while I key-boarded a first draft. You don’t know just how important you were to me during those months. I know I’ll have missed someone, so if we’ve met somewhere along the line and you have ever lived in one of the following places, consider yourself acknowledged: Selinsgrove, PA; Norwich, Hartford, Middletown, and New Haven, CT; and New York City.

Special thanks also go to the iUniverse representatives and editors who provided detailed, accurate, and creative editorial advice and direction throughout the entire process. Their professionalism and expertise are of the highest caliber.

Finally, to the indomitable, unsinkable Grace Giannettino. I prayed to God for grace and look what I got. This one’s for you.

Prologue: June 1998

Irene loved Tetris—the best video game ever. The Mario Brothers could go pound sand, Zelda could fry ice, but Tetris was God. It had become a middling obsession, a mind-numbing disgrace. And she would only play the 2D version—the one with the jumpy calliope music and the quirky rockets. No Super Nintendo for her. Surreality gave her a headache. She liked the simplicity. Truth be told, she simply wasn’t very good at any of the newer stuff. Save that for the kids. She’d stick to the flat screen. Kids’ games at forty-one—and with all she had to do. For shame, her mother would say if she knew, but she didn’t. Irene told no one, since she knew the embarrassment would cause her to preface any public admission with an apology. But Tess knew. Tess understood.

Yes, Tetris 2-D was bliss. The concrete focus of the game calmed her—the fitting together and sudden disappearance of neat stacks of multicolored bricks, the jigsaw puzzle nature of it. It was as if she were truly accomplishing something, doing something right. There were just those times she needed to play; she should have been grading papers, vacuuming, calling her mother, doing something more useful, more meaningful. But now as she sat cross-legged on the frayed, braided rug, neck crunched looking up at the TV, she played. But the colored bars began to undulate and contort. Tears were about to bubble over her lower lids, and Tetris was as meaningful as she wanted life to get at that moment.

If I can just reach thirty thousand points, everything will be okay. She’d never admit she engaged in superstitious little games like this. She always had, even as a kid. If I can just hold my breath for thirty more seconds, Diane Dwyer won’t hit me with her hat on the bus tomorrow. Of course, magical thinking never worked, but she still indulged. What’s the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. Yeah, that was Irene, and it was Tess too, but Irene would like to think that at least she had finally learned, and whether her friend wanted to listen to her or not—well, there was just nothing she could do about it.

With blurred vision, Irene was having trouble making it to nine thousand. Come on, I can do better than this. She was frustrated with her lack of precision. She wouldn’t take her watery impairment as an excuse. She would persist until she hit the mark. She would keep plugging, because everything had to be okay. Her life would get better; luck was just around the corner; nothing bad would happen anymore.

Irene had started playing at around nine thirty, just after calling her neighbor Cassie to ask her to stay with the kids while Irene headed up to the hospital. Miraculously, after only a few tries, she hit the milestone. That all-too-perky herky-jerky music began to play, and the big prize at the end of the thirty-thousand level—a midsized white rocket—trembled a little and then ignited with a thunderous bang and took off toward the top of the set. She imagined the stark missile, which she thought looked like a dead white swan, nose in the air balancing on its tail feathers, continuing on its trajectory up through the TV. It would plow through the ceiling, whiz around the kids’ room, and then blow out the roof. By then it would be gigantic. Cool.

Irene lingered on that image for a moment, intending to let the rocket fall back and disappear into the gouged and sliver-riddled wood floor. But somewhere in mid-descent Charles reached out and grabbed it, an illusion grasping an illusion.

Here we go again. Irene hadn’t had a flashback in a while; in fact, since Tess had come into the picture, her PTSD had abated considerably. (Post-traumatic stress! she had shouted at her therapist. That’s what veterans get. I wasn’t in the war—that’s ridiculous. Donna had leaned forward in her chair and said to Irene, Oh? Weren’t you?) Irene could tell this one was going to be a doozy, and there was no way to stop it. It had already arrived.

These episodes came only at night, after the kids were asleep and the house was quiet. Sometimes they came in dreams, undisguised, blow-by-blow as Irene relived it exactly as before. Luckily, in waking moments, they never happened when Irene was behind the wheel, tending to a hot stove, or staunching a bloody nose. It was almost as if her brain would say after the day was done, It’s safe now. Be crazy.

What had brought this one on? Her fight with Tess? The phone call from the hospital? All of the above and more perhaps. After all these years, however, Irene knew she had caused it somehow, deliberately punishing herself, yet unconsciously so. She would relive the torture, feeling again every assault on her skin and psyche as if it were happening in real time for the first time.

SKU-000200437_TEXT.pdf

Irene stood up gracelessly, hitting her knee on the underside of the oak-veneered coffee table. She was four years back in time watching her husband come toward her, their son Joey a crying infant cradled in the crook of Charles’s left arm. Charles moved in so close that she could smell his breath, which, no matter what he had ingested, always smelled like gin and salami. She winced as he shook a stubby, pale finger in her face, scratching the tip of her nose with his buffed nail. Irene was aware that Charles was only five feet nine and 150 pounds, but at these moments it wasn’t that he seemed so much larger than she was; it was that Irene seemed so much smaller.

You don’t meet the minimum standard qualifications for a mother, Charles said, still shaking his finger. He pulled back and handed a screaming Joey to her as if unburdening himself of some pitiful yet disdained house pet.

Unprepared for the sudden handoff, Irene awkwardly grabbed Joey. She tried to shush him by rocking him gently, cooing soft words. Shush, Joey, shhhh, before things get worse …

Years later, Irene would look back and think Minimum standard requirement! Who says stuff like that? At the time, however, she lived in a land where Charles decreed that two plus two equaled five, and, while she didn’t quite believe it, she knew enough not to openly contradict it. As he ranted about how he needed his house to be a sanctuary, how the noise was just killing him, and why couldn’t she control these kids, Irene hoisted Joey on her left hip and listened as she stared down at the apex of the triangle formed by her toes.

You’d think someone with a 140 IQ would know that! he shouted.

That stupid test. She had taken it for a friend in the psych department in college and had casually mentioned the results to Charles. How did something so truly insignificant turn into such a potent weapon? Why had she let it?

Joey was still snuffling as Charles said, Look at him. What kind of mother loses her child’s pacifier! Why couldn’t you have been more careful with it …?

I was outside and …

Outside! What’d you take him outside for? I thought he was allergic to grass. Joey’s legs had broken out in rough red blotches the first few times Irene had taken him out into the yard.

I put him on a blanket …

Charles pushed her aside as he headed for the kitchen, and she almost lost her footing for a moment. She could see his eyes were bloodshot, his thin lips a horizontal line seemingly neutral yet a sure sign that an explosion was to come. Please don’t let this be happening. Just make this stop.

From the kitchen Charles yelled, Allergies, huh? That’s not allergies; it’s AIDS. He strode back into the living room and pushed Irene hard under the chin to raise her head. It’s AIDS, you hear me. He got it from you, and you got it from who knows where …

As Irene’s right hand balled into a fist, she spun away from Charles, and to her horror she nearly fell over her daughter. Hannah, with her blonde curls, blue-gray eyes, Barney sandals, and ruffled shorts, chewed the right ear of her stuffed bunny while she twisted the other around the tiny fingers of her left hand. How long has she been standing there? Oh my God, how long?

Still holding Joey, and keeping Hannah in her sight, Irene barreled toward the kitchen to get her keys. Charles attempted to block her way, but she pushed by him and grabbed her purse from the counter. She lifted it onto her shoulder, and as she again pushed her way past Charles, he caught her by the upper arm and squeezed.

Going out? he said with a diabolical smile, one eyebrow raised, the other tensed over the lid. How about that; he looks like Snideley Whiplash. Irene suppressed a smile. How pathetic.

I’m going to the drugstore to get Joey a new pacifier, Irene said boldly, looking Charles straight in the face, winning back her arm.

Easy now, Irene. Be careful. With Joey still snuggled against her neck, she lowered herself at the knees to take Hannah’s hand.

I don’t want to go, Hannah whined, but Charles, true to form, couldn’t let it go.

Charles cut his fleeing family off at the door and wagged that ubiquitous finger in Hannah’s face. You’re going with your mother, and don’t talk back! I won’t have this house run by you. Hannah held her bunny tighter and started to whimper. Irene said nothing; her goal now was simply to get out the door with both kids (and herself) in one piece.

And another thing … She’s almost four years old. Just when do you expect to toilet train her?

Get out of my way, you son of a bitch … And she’s been trained for months! Without a word, Irene pulled open the door, pushed Hannah in front of her, and flew out.

Charles waved both hands after her in a dismissive gesture. Do what you want.

Irene fastened the kids in their car seats, buckled herself in, and then turned the key. He’ll be passed out in fifteen minutes. He won’t remember a thing … But I will.

SKU-000200437_TEXT.pdf

Her descent into the past had been rapid and total, but her reentry into reality was always a longer process. Disoriented and shaken, Irene had to will herself to readjust to her surroundings. She breathed out deeply, as if she’d been holding her breath through the entire episode, and then began to rock slightly and chant, He’s gone; you’re safe. He’s gone; you’re safe. He’s gone …

Irene had stayed cross-legged on the floor, keeping a tight hold on her controller through the entire flashback. Reaching up to disconnect her game, she wound the cord around the controller and moved to the faded plaid couch. As she played with the tear Joey had made in the armrest with a fork, she began to sob great, hefty tears. She pounded the cushions and shook her fists not only at the past, but also at the present, at this horrible, horrible night.

Somewhere in the middle of her tantrum she heard Joey call for her, so she dried her eyes, told herself to suck it up, and went upstairs. Letting it all out never made her feel better anyway. No matter how much she screamed, yelled, or cried, the problem was still there, immovable, enjoying her lack of control. Sucking it up and moving on always seemed the best way to go.

By the time she made it upstairs, the kids were quiet. She adjusted covers, brushed back hair, checked the night light, and then went back down to wait for Cassie. Where the hell is she? It’s been over twenty minutes. She’s just down the street, for heaven’s sake.

Irene returned to the couch, folded her hands, and hung her head. Oh, God—please don’t do this.

Chapter 1

Tess Gergen introduced herself to Irene DiBello one September afternoon in 1997 at their sons’ day care. The moisture dragged in by the comings and goings of little feet on that rainy Tuesday had accentuated the pungent mix of Lysol and mustiness that habitually pervaded the church basement that housed the day care. Reimagined from a series of spaces branching off a narrow corridor, each room of the day care was designated for a specific age group, from infants to kindergarteners. Toys and supplies lined the cinder-block walls, and, in spite of chipped linoleum flooring and inadequate lighting, they were kept clean, replenished, and repaired. At the end of the hall was The Big Room, a large space where children jumped on mini-trampolines, rolled on exercise balls, and climbed indoor jungle gyms (or practiced gross motor skills, according to the director) on those rainy or snowy days when they couldn’t go outside. The one thing Irene hated, however, was that the place had no windows. But in spite of a modest level of decay, the facility passed state inspections yearly, and the staff cared, a fact Irene could certainly confirm.

Irene already knew who Tess was. She was the popular mother with the staff. She knew all about their private lives and would remember each in detail. (How was the picnic? Is your grandmother out of the woods yet? Didn’t I tell you that restaurant was great!) Tess helped them clean up; she volunteered on her days off. People seemed to love Tess. She was outgoing and friendly, whereas Irene was reserved; she kept pretty much to herself. Single parents don’t have much time for friendships (at least this single parent didn’t).

But Tess could also be a pain in the neck. On more than one occasion, Irene had seen Tess arguing with a staff member, and that Tuesday was such a day. Tess was talking loudly, yelling really, at an aide, whom she’d seemed to worship just the day before. (Irene had overheard her singing the girl’s praises to the director.) It seemed her Michael had been left out of something—again.

You know how sensitive he is. You just can’t do that kind of stuff. We’ve been through this!

The girl was silent; she had no recourse, no defense. And even if she had, Tess wouldn’t have heard it anyway. Irene just wanted to get out of there. Public humiliation, hers or anyone else’s, was not something she was up for after another exhausting day at school. She excused herself, since the imposing Tess was blocking the cubbies lining the walls near the exit, and sneaked around her, pretending not to hear. She hustled Joey from the playroom and, as she headed up the steps toward the door, turned slightly and shot the aide a commiserating glance. People liked Irene, and she was determined to keep it that way. You wouldn’t catch her yelling at the help.

Once Irene reached the car, she thought she’d made a clean getaway, nap pad and four-year-old in tow, when she heard a voice behind her. Hey, Joey’s mom! Irene automatically assumed this woman was about to accuse Joey of doing something awful to her precious Michael, like coughing in his direction or making too many baskets in b-ball or some other affront to her son’s delicate sensibilities. Joey wasn’t an aggressive child, but he could hold his own. Michael? Let’s just say a four-year-old with all the symptoms of roid rage without the roid is not a pretty sight to behold. But Joey played with Michael all the time even though he complained about him. Was she raising a masochist, or did he see something she didn’t?

Irene braced herself and said cheerily, Hello, Michael’s mom. Tess was an imposing woman in all manner of appearance. She was rather large and carried herself regally. She had shoulder-length dark red hair that she wore partially up in front, Gibson-girl-like. Eyes the color of amethyst enlivened naturally ruddy, rounded cheeks. She habitually wore flowing floral ankle-length dresses that accentuated yet somehow flattered her size. Irene felt she was rather turn-of-the-century. She wasn’t coiffed and coordinated (Irene liked that); yet she had an evanescence, a soft-edged quality, as if she’d just emerged from a pre-Raphaelite painting.

Irene, on the other hand, felt she was fairly nondescript. Average all around—average height, average weight—average. And that was fine by her. Bifocals (with the line) somewhat obscured gold-flecked green-hazel eyes, a phenomenon Irene secretly cherished, but an observer had to be particularly close to perceive. An outgrown layered cut accentuated the reddish tips of her mostly brown hair, the result of a dye job she was too busy (or too lazy) to keep up. She wasn’t quite the type to sport curlers to the supermarket, but at least curlers in the afternoon held the promise of curls in the evening. That wasn’t going to happen either. She didn’t put too much thought into clothes as well. Slacks, usually slightly high-water, and a jacket completed her school uniform. She was clean and that was enough. Case in point: her thirteenth birthday present was a yellow sweater that ended up with a pink splotch from an ill-timed forkful of spaghetti sauce. After a warm-water wash through the regular cycle, the pink had become permanent.

Ma!

Oh, for heaven’s sake, wear it. It’s clean. It’s just stained. Ma didn’t put up with much. It’s funny how the smallest things can shape our whole lives.

As Tess walked toward Irene, she said, Hi, hi, hi. I’m Tess, and this is Michael. She held Michael in front of her by way of introduction, and he didn’t look pleased. I’m sure Joey has mentioned him. He certainly has.

Yeah, sure. Irene was certain at this point that she was about to be pulled into the incident that she just witnessed, but to Irene’s relief, Tess simply invited Joey to Michael’s birthday party the following Saturday.

"Do you know where we live?’ asked Tess.

Why would I know where you live? Should everyone know where you live?

I’m afraid not … uh, no.

I’ll write down the directions and put them in Joey’s cubby for you tomorrow.

That’d be fine. We’ll see you Saturday. Irene began to put Joey into his car seat, and then turned and yelled after Tess, What does he like? But Tess was dragging Michael to the car, talking sharply but not quite audibly to the little apple who seemed not to have fallen far from the tree.

SKU-000200437_TEXT.pdf

About a half hour after Irene got home, she thought she heard a knock on the front door. The doorbell had been broken for months, but still she resisted putting a note on the door. She missed quite a few unwanted visitors that way. Irene shrugged off the noise and continued sorting through expiration dates in her refrigerator while Joey played with his Legos. She had an hour before she had to pick up her daughter, Hannah, from the after-school program. Then she’d deal with dinner, homework, squabbling between brother and sister, and then the four B’s—bath, brush, books, and bed. It was never that easy, but at least she tried for structure.

The low knock soon turned into persistent banging, and Irene was forced to curtail her seek-and-destroy mission. She peeked out the side window and then reluctantly opened the door. Michael made a beeline into the house to find Joey. Yay! both boys yelled, and they began to wrestle on the living room floor.

Oh, God, I can’t do a playdate now. This is too much. I’m too beat for this.

Tess handed