Story Frame 30 – A Plot Twist in Four Little Words

A plot twist is a literary technique that introduces a radical change or unexpected occurrence in the anticipated outcome of the plot, changing the direction of the plot from where we thought it was going. Plot twists are designed and intended to be disrupters.

And just as they can happen in films, books and video games, plot twists can also happen in real life.

Martin sold his house. With Mom’s permission, I borrowed my half of the down payment from the equity in the home she and I owned together near the river in order to purchase the house in The Money Pit neighborhood where Martin, the kids and I would soon be living together.

Martin moved in first. Or rather, his belongings did. Busy with one of his film projects, he asked if I could oversee the men moving his furniture and possessions into the new house. I love doing this and was happy to take care of the move for him.

A few days after his things were in place, Martin asked me to come over for a cup of coffee in the kitchen of our new home. We had what was now a years-long habit of talking about projects and work over morning coffee.

I showed up at the agreed upon time, parked my car under the trees and walked inside. It was a sunny and lovely May morning, a few days after my birthday, and about a month after Karen’s memorial. It seemed like there was an almost tangible scent of fresh new beginnings in the air, but it was probably just the lilacs in bloom that stirred up these feelings of optimism inside of me.

Walking into the house, I glanced around at the new arrangements and felt pleased with how everything looked. I found Martin sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, facing the wall of windows. I took a seat across from him, with my back to the view of the garden, looking at the kitchen cabinets instead. It wasn’t my preference – normally I would always take the opportunity to look out the windows but for some reason, this didn’t feel like a sitting side by side moment.

How often, I wondered, do I find myself ceding the better seat, the better view, the credit, the limelight – to others? I do it automatically, almost reflexively, and I do it more often than I ever get it back. Why do I do this?

There were two mugs of coffee in front of him. I noticed an awkward expression on his face as I reached for one of them. I smiled and greeted him. I’m sure there were the routine pleasantries. Or perhaps there weren’t. Maybe he said a few words to me about American Byzantine. Or perhaps he didn’t. But what he did say next is forever seared into my memory.

"I've changed my mind," Martin said quietly, not making eye contact.

He didn’t say what he’d changed his mind about, but somehow I knew. The documentary filmmaker for whom I worked, with whom I had just bought a house, the man I thought I was going to marry and live with, now suddenly didn't want any of the things he had been advocating for. 

In just four words, I lost house, husband – and job.

There were no tears, no angry words, no accusations, and no protestations. In fact, I don’t recall saying anything at all.

After the loudest, long moments of silence, during which we both studied the cooling remnants in our coffee mugs as if that was where the answers might lay hidden, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my key to our house and put it on the counter. Then I stood up, walked through the house and out of the front door. I got into my car and drove away

I never asked him why. Part of me didn’t want or need to know. It’s possible it just came down to the simple mathematics of storytelling. It was his documentary workshop and naturally, he wanted things his way.

But it was a lopsided equation that ultimately didn’t work. I had ideas of my own and I wanted to see at least some of them somehow woven into our work. Stephen, our sound tech who by now had become a friend, once remarked that my frustrations stemmed from Martin being a journalist, whereas I was more of an artist. Martin was newspaper, magazine style reporting and interviews; I was sculptures, stories and canvases.

If I’m being quite honest, a surprisingly big part of me was strangely relieved. Which led me to think there must have been something inside my head or my heart that wasn’t in favor of the idea of marrying Martin, something I had either ignored or suppressed.

I had my own house, which the kids and I were still happily living in. We hadn’t yet packed up even a single box. The good news was the three of us didn’t have to uproot ourselves and move. I’d never really cared whether Martin and I were married or simply carried on the way we’d been. It had always seemed more important to him. I just wanted to keep making interesting films together.

What did upset me, what shocked me beyond the reach of tears, was the imminent loss of my job at the documentary workshop. Despite the hundreds of thousands of dollars I’d raised for him over the past six years, in addition to the valuable work I’d done in terms of production, research, press and what felt like a million other things, Martin didn’t want me there anymore.

A few weeks later, well into the wee hours of yet another dark and sleepless night, I had a Scarlet O'Hara moment. I got out of bed, went downstairs. Feeling my way around my desk, I found a pen and a handful of small white index cards. I turned on a light, sat down and carefully numbered them, one for each of the next five years, beginning with the year 2000 and the start of the new millennium. And then, in the stillness of my house, with my slumbering children lost in their dreams upstairs, I sketched out what I wanted to accomplish each year.

Determined never again to have so many rugs whipped out from under my feet, the first item on the first card read: "Be my own boss."

The next-to-last item on the fifth card was, “Be able to work anywhere I want in the whole damn country!"

That, to me, was freedom.

One by one, over the next four years, I would cross off goals from the cards as I achieved them. It would take me five years, but I would eventually be able to cross off that next-to-last item on card number five when I packed up my car, my kids and our dogs, leaving all the toxic memories of the DC area behind me as I drove west to a new home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina. I wouldn’t go there for job, or love, or money. I would move there simply because it was beautiful and that was where I wanted to live. It felt good there.

That left just one goal still to be crossed out on the cards. It was a big one, one that would take me a couple of decades to accomplish. But I would ultimately scratch that one off, too, when I finally fulfilled a dream inspired by our first shoot in Italy and moved to Europe. But at this moment, that was far, far off into the future.

In the meantime, there was still a film to finish with the man who no longer wanted to marry me.

[The above photo is an old screen grab from my files of a sculpture I can no longer recall. If anyone recognizes it, please let me know the title & artist.]

Kristin Fellows is a published writer, world traveler, and a well-seasoned documentary film consultant. When not writing, Kristin can often be found listening to someone’s story or behind the lens of one of her cameras.

More about Kristin @ kristinfellowswriter.com