Husband Replacement Therapy

by Lette, Kathy

  I was suddenly crying so passionately that it took me a while to realise that the sky was weeping with me. The torrential summer rain came in icy sheets across the harbour, stinging my skin.

  I took shelter in the tiny cabin, where I curled into a ball and sank down, deep in thought, which, I had to admit, had been totally unfamiliar territory of late.

  Why should Brody believe a woman who could lie about having cancer? Why had I lied and deceived the people I loved? Maybe I am like my manipulative and scheming mother, I thought with dread. If only I could talk to someone who understood me . . . But the only people who did were my sisters, and they were rightly furious with me.

  As the boat laboured its way back to shore in the storm, I breathed in shallow gasps. I wondered if this was how a fish felt, lying on the bottom of a bucket, mouth opening and closing, drowning in air.

  27

  December 1st

  Dear friends and family,

  I’m sorry this is a group email, but I just wanted to let you all know that the cancer scare was a misdiagnosis. This is a mixed blessing, considering that most of you now want to kill me. I can only apologise for my insane behaviour at my birthday bash. Clearly I was a) deranged with worry and shock, and b) drunk.

  If you can find it in your hearts to forgive me, that would be huge. If you want to send me a one-way ticket to a colony for social lepers, that’s also to be expected. But I’m just so sorry I maligned my husband, who is totally faithful. I want to make it clear that my kids are the light of my life. I’m also sorry I was bitchy about my friends – I’m actually just off to the vet to get my claws done. And I was completely out of order about my mother, who single-handedly and heroically raised three teenage daughters after our dad died. Mum, I owe you the biggest apology of all. I’m sorry.

  And to my dear sisters I say, life’s not worth living without you, so please be friends with me again.

  Okay, that’s enough grovelling for one day, or I’ll have no skin left on my kneecaps. Anyway, here’s hoping some of you can forgive me, because, at the moment, I don’t know whose name to write in the ‘In case of emergency, please notify’ sections of official forms, which is truly tragic. Meanwhile, I’ll be here staring at the sky, hoping for an incoming asteroid with my name on it.

  Remorsefully, Ruby.

  I wasn’t sure exactly how this email had been received but I was aware that the looks I got from people in the supermarket or at the gym or on the boardwalk at the beach had shifted from wariness to pity. Old friends and colleagues who’d been snubbing me altogether now greeted me with a cool formality. They looked at me curiously, as if I had spinach in my teeth or had tucked my skirt into my undies.

  My mother was the first vulture to feast on my carcass. When I answered the rat-a-tat of her many-ringed hand on the front door, she greeted me, her youngest daughter, with all the enthusiasm with which she might welcome a gangrenous pustule.

  ‘What have you done to yourself?’ she said, the implication being, ‘you look like shit’. She made lip-farts when she disagreed with anything her daughters said or did. As I now apologised in person, my mother had a chronic attack of lip flatulence.

  The morning light struck my mother’s face starkly, accentuating the lines beneath her foundation and deepening the shadows under her eyes. Her handsome face had sagged of late, and although the flesh was still like tanned leather, it no longer stretched so tautly over her cheekbones. Her grey eyes, though still sharp and clear, were sunk more deeply in her face; the shrewd watchfulness there now half hidden. Her hair, usually bleached blonde, shimmered with touches of grey at her roots and temples. Our indomitable mother was ageing. A small, not unpleasant sadness caught briefly in my throat. But just as I was feeling compassion for the family matriarch, Ruth’s viper tongue lashed out.

  ‘You’re damn lucky Harry took you back, after your monstrous outburst, as well as having squandered all his money on a luxurious cruise with your sisters . . .’ She twisted the diamond rings on her arthritic fingers.

  ‘The girls have paid me back, actually, because they had such a good time. They—’

  ‘. . . not sparing a thought for your poor, abandoned mother.’

  She pushed past me into the kitchen, where she took up position at the head of the table, then began, in a monotone, to go down the long, baleful list of my faults. I sat under her level, ice-grey gaze and ruminated on my mother’s character. My conclusion? That Mrs Ruth Ryan does have some good points – if you like flesh-eating bacteria.

  ‘Considering your many foibles, it’s no wonder Harry strayed. Now you know what it felt like for me.’ She dug her painted nails into my soft warm forearm, as if trying to draw blood. ‘Do you think I wanted to stay with your father?’ She said the word as though it were toxic. ‘After all his humiliating betrayals? I stayed because it was my duty.’

  I felt florid – as if my face were too near a heating coil on a stove. ‘Harry didn’t stray. It was all a misunder—’

  ‘Once a woman walks down the aisle, her fate is sealed.’

  ‘Women are not envelopes, Mum. We—’

  ‘Although, of course, I had many admirers. I could have taken my pick of men. Unlike you.’ My mother bared her crocodile smile. ‘A plain jane like you – well, what other man would want you?’

  I bit my tongue – the crocodile was obviously on a fishing expedition. My mother’s eyes were always watchful, like a Kakadu salty: feigning sleep, but in reality poised to strike at the first sign of vulnerability.

  ‘As for the hateful lies you told about me – I’ve decided to forgive you. Because it’s the Christian thing to do.’

  When I didn’t rise to the bait, my mother held her mouth pinched up like a rectum. ‘But you’re still out of the will. I’m having it altered when my solicitor’s back from holidays, after the ordeal of Christmas is over. Where is your lippy? You look like death warmed up without it.’

  Clearly my mother was running late for her joy and euphoria seminar. The woman made the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Revolution look perky. Her once-beautiful face bore the deep marks of habitual dissatisfaction. You could smell disapproval on her, like BO oozing out of the armpits of a synthetic blouse on a scorching hot day. After criticising my housekeeping, cooking and child-raising skills, she departed in her new Mercedes, a recent purchase funded by selling off even more of Dad’s shares, without a backwards glance.

  Normally I’d have immediately found Harry to vent my fury about my mother’s vindictiveness, but after my abrupt departure back to the boat for no plausible reason, leaving the prawns to go off on the kitchen counter, we’d turned into the kind of husband and wife who behaved towards each other with a distant courtesy. Expectation weighed like a thick blanket over our every move. Harry was doing everything he could to make himself agreeable. All the jobs he’d put off for eons – clearing the leaves out of the gutters, digging a fishpond, installing a compost bin, painting the laundry – were being ticked off his to-do list with dutiful good humour.

  Hearing Ruth drive away, Harry appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Ding dong, the witch has gone! I still can’t believe she can appear in daylight, being, you know, a vampire. Do you like the fishpond so far? And what about the rockery I’ve started? Are they making you happy?’ he asked with trepidation.

  ‘Yes, I’m really happy,’ I replied, doubtfully.

  Harry walked slowly out of the room, disquieted and puzzled, feeling my cool, pale gaze on his back.

  I wasn’t trying to be disagreeable; but I just couldn’t settle. I didn’t even buy a whole litre of milk in case I decided to scarper once more. I constantly found myself shuffling aimlessly around the house like Marlene Dietrich in her later years.

  One of the little niggling things that had always irritated me about my husband was his habit of splashing pool chlorine onto his T-shirt and bleaching it in pointillist spots. Every T-shirt he owned ended up Jackson Pollock-ed. I’d frequently offered to take over the job of mi
xing the pool chlorine but he always made out how difficult it was to get just the right balance – a cup of chlorine, stabiliser, acid, more pH. He took such care over this cocktail of chemicals and yet clearly could not adjust the chemical imbalance in our marriage. Since my birthday party we were out of whack as a couple and growing algae.

  Was this to be my life? I reflected as I did the housework. Spending our weekends with Harry rotating his tyres, and me swishing a wettex around the toilet bowl rim and taking lint off clothes that were washed with a loose tissue in the pocket, while pretending to the women in my book club that life was sooooo busy, when in truth my most current reading material was the steam iron warranty?

  I pep-talked myself into finding happiness in the little things that life offered, but things that used to make me happy – the joy of discovering a forgotten twenty bucks in a jeans pocket; having my parking ticket validated by the cinema; the free foundation sample in a magazine – meant nothing now. If I’d been back at work, even seeing an article by a colleague I disliked be spiked by the editor, usually an office highlight, would have left me flat. And speaking of the office, I was so desperate to get back on the job that I would have spiked myself on a daily basis, impaled there on the editor’s desk, just for a whiff of newsprint. Not only is writing better and cheaper than therapy, but it would take my mind off my many misdemeanours and painful longings. My boss, Angela, knew about my misdiagnosis, but refused to answer my calls about coming back to work.

  In bed one night, as Harry laboured above me, my nose tucked into his shoulder, I ticked off all the experiences in life that were overrated – oysters, yodelling, experimental opera, expressive dance, sorbet, cricket – eventually concluding that there was nothing as insipid as sex with a husband when your heart is not in it. It was like dancing with no music.

  After Harry fell asleep, I slipped outside. Beyond the jagged outline of the suburban houses, the lights of Sydney glowed invitingly in the distance. In the other direction, across the bay, lay the jet-black expanse of the national park.

  The southerly buster had brought a chill to the evening air. I breathed deeply and felt my body tingle in the coolness. It made me think of Brody’s touch. By day I walked through a world full of carefree, happy people who had not just lost the love of their lives, and at night I silently cried myself to sleep.

  Our house was all Italian tiles and big windows. During the day, its rooms were seared with light. I used to so enjoy opening the blinds every morning. But now I opened the blinds then quickly closed them again, convinced that the best way to start the day was to go back to bed. Curled around my pillow, I’d watch the ABC weather report, but was so fogged with sadness I’d somehow not tune in properly until the presenter had passed Sydney and was now making predictions for Melbourne, Adelaide, Perth. If only there were a reliable forecast of my moods. When could I look forward to a bold, sunny front approaching?

  My eyes in the mirror were pink and watery, like a laboratory rabbit’s. I’d also lost my appetite, felt constantly tired and often nauseous. Plus, my head ached, all the time. I didn’t seek a medical opinion. No, I could self-diagnose this one – chronic love sickness, with no known cure. It was remiss of the Department of Health not to issue a warning that falling in love with a doctor can be seriously hazardous to a woman’s health.

  When symptoms persisted and then became worse, I put it down to the peri-menopause. It had finally arrived and was clearly kicking in with a vengeance. I needed a panacea. What I really needed was someone with a good bedside manner. But Brody was off exploring somewhere exotic and aquatic, exact coordinates unknown. An alternative cure would be a big dose of my sisters – but Emerald and Amber were still both ignoring me.

  Ten days before Christmas, I poured myself a giant gin and emailed them.

  Dear Only Two People in Australia Who Ruby Ryan Actually Likes,

  Since my exile into Social Siberia I’ve been so frantically busy, what with the Aldi sale and the dishwasher filter needing changing.

  As you know, my bitchy boss at the newspaper put me on sick leave. She knows I’m one hundred per cent fine, but has obviously finally realised that I’m wholly unnecessary and was basically only in the job for the free parking, and that my work could easily be done by a wombat with a dictaphone. This means that I suddenly have quite a lot of spare time, and quite a lot of leftover birthday chocolate to eat and vodka to drink, if either of you are hungry or thirsty?

  Now unemployed, I spend a lot of time learning Spanish by watching El Chapo on Netflix. I can now say ‘Where are the drugs?’, ‘Kill him slowly’, ‘Torture a confession out of him’ and ‘Give it to me, big boy’. The neighbours must think I’m running a brothel or a meth lab. I also watch re-runs of I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! all night, just to remind myself that there are people out there far more desperate than I am.

  Actually, I’m working on a pitch for my own reality TV show, in which middle-aged mums abandon all logic and fall in love with unobtainable men, and make total fools of themselves, alienating their beloved sisters in the pathetic process.

  Anyway, if you have it in your hearts to forgive such a person and meet up for a drink, I’ll be in the Sandy Bay beach bar this Friday, where I’ll be buying the drinks and eating my words (yum!). Oh, and, by the way, you’ll actually be buying, as both my cards have been cancelled after being overdrawn when I paid for a very expensive cruise for three. Thanks for reimbursing me, which you didn’t need to do. But it’s just as well you did, as my reality cheque has bounced. If I don’t find employment soon, I may have to sell the children.

  Bring nothing but love (and credit cards), and prepare to slag off the boss who hasn’t taken me back yet. We will drink to my excellent new future, in whichever fast food joint offers me a job first.

  Love, Ruby

  P.S. I am actually thinking of starting up a toy boy boutique for women of a certain age, with a man buffet, shopper loyalty cards and time-share husbands. They’d have to be trained in an appreciation of Jane Austen, be emotionally intelligent and good at massage. What do you think – my next start-up? To discuss.

  Amber was the first to send a reply via our sisters Messenger group. Someone has clearly stolen your Prozac. Whoever they are, I hope they’re happy.

  Emerald’s sarcastic message said simply Who is this?

  I tried again. Emerald, I know you’re super busy. If it’s easier I could come around to your place?

  Emerald: No. My dog hates you. He’ll probably bite your legs, and you can’t afford to lose any more length there.

  Me: Are you two going to meet me for a drink?

  Amber: Thanks, but I’m completely knackered from all the Christmas party catering. I dress like Iris Murdoch these days so don’t want to be seen in public. I’m turning down all invitations too, except to book club. Do you remember Leyla Khoury from school? I’ve just joined her club, as well.

  Emerald: You seem to be booked up for a book club every bloody night. It’s a wonder you have any time to read.

  Amber: At least I don’t only read wine labels like someone I could mention.

  Me: Instead of discussing the book, you could just discuss why you didn’t have time to read it. Or maybe start an abridged book club or a pamphlet club for busy working mothers.

  Amber: What I want to discuss is if you’re okay, Ruby.

  Me: I can’t tell you because I’m too busy slamming my head against a wall. Though, I do feel slightly better than I did yesterday – as evidenced by the fact that I’m vertical – but it’s still, well, how can I put this . . . an absolute fuck-up. Have you both forgiven me for deceiving you?

  Emerald: Sure. Just ignore this voodoo effigy of you and vial of ricin I’m carrying in my pocket.

  Me: So, it’s a yes to meet up for a drink then?

  Emerald: No. I’m either at work inoculating pets for the kind of Christmas holidays in Europe that I can’t afford, or at the gym running on the spot like a hamster on a whee
l to keep the weight off. I’m only communicating to send you the Christmas Day job list. Amber, I’ve got you down for your Thai salad, plus your fab pav and meat for the barbecue. I’m doing the ham and turkey. Mum’s making her Christmas pudding, complete with sixpences and cyanide. Ruby, due to your culinary prowess, oysters, prawns, nibbles, etc. Maybe a potato bake if you promise not to burn down your kitchen.

  Me: I’ll put that request into the swill I’ve been calling my ‘thought process’. But, be warned, my take-charge-planning gene is horribly frozen.

  Emerald: Christmas Day is forecast to be 33 degrees, so I suggest doing everything possible before 10 am. I’ll then just fan myself until late afternoon. Harry and Sandro will barbecue, as usual, and Scott’s in charge of the bar.

  Me: I will require a lot of numbing alcohol.

  Amber: Heartache is painful. But it’ll pass.

  Me: Brody’s not a gallstone, Amber. You’re talking about the potential love of my life.

  Emerald: Stop being ridiculous, Ruby. This is the time in life when we should be knitting doilies and eating lamingtons. Yes, I ran around like a teenager on the cruise. But it’s time to get back to real life. Okay?

  Amber: Emerald’s right. Try to stay calm and be positive. This time of the year is stressful enough.

  Me: The most stressful things in life are death and moving house, apparently. And then there’s divorce, which is death and moving house combined.

  But I was typing into a void, as both my sisters had signed off. I sighed sadly. Life really was going to be the death of me.

  One week before Christmas, in a show of seasonal goodwill, and after eating enough humble pie to stock an entire patisserie, I was finally invited back to work. My first assignment? A front page scoop on dog poop – a dream come true! At first the staff were so surly towards me they made Vlad the Impaler seem helpful. But by day three things were back to normal. I tried to be interested in conversations about gazebo extensions and the merits of kidney-shaped pools over rectangular, the pros and cons of buying a boat and cricket scores, while all the time bleeding inside. Bleeding? It was more of an emotional haemorrhage. I couldn’t believe that people I knew were talking about house prices and cricket scores and whether Harry and Wills would patch things up after Megxit, completely oblivious to the fact that my world had imploded. The only thing that even vaguely amused me was the office party, where at least my colleagues could admit they were drunk and not getting any work done.