Autopsy of a Boring Wife

by Marie-Renee Lavoie

  “And what do I do?”

  “Nothing. Other than think about the move.”

  “I like it.”

  “I imagine that you . . . that you’ve already started looking at other places?”

  “No, this is my first step. Sabrina gave me your name yesterday.”

  “Nice hair, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I could find you something pretty fast.”

  “I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

  “I can create a buyer’s profile for you with the things you already know you’re looking for, like the number of bedrooms you want, the area you’re interested in, the price . . . ”

  “In town.”

  “You sure? There are some nice houses for sale in Montcalm . . . ”

  “In Limoilou.”

  “Limoilou? That area is mostly apartments . . . ”

  “That’s right, an apartment.”

  After a week of minor touch-ups that included repairing the holes in the walls and putting a guardrail around the deck, my house was in great shape. I’d only supervised the work done in the living room to make sure the cursed envelope remained inside its wall prison and nobody found it accidentally. It would rot between two layers of Gyproc, choking in its mire of secrets. The load-bearing wall would stay until the end of time, when it would be demolished along with the house in a great apocalyptic wave caused by glaciers melting or Hell’s inferno. In any case, long after I was dead.

  The staging team arrived in their stilettos to “emphasize the house’s charm.” At the risk of speaking to something I know nothing about, I highly doubt that a fake planter placed above a kitchen island will convince anyone to buy a house — mine or anybody else’s. So when I saw them walk in carrying a basket of plastic fruit and artificial tulips, I took it as my cue to leave, though not before making my own little proposal.

  “What if we made muffins for the open house?”

  “ . . . ”

  “The smell of fresh baking . . . ”

  “ . . . ”

  “Oh forget it, it was just an idea.”

  The aggressive option worked almost too well. The following week, Stéphane announced that we’d received three offers. With muffins, we’d have had a half-dozen.

  “When do you want to hear the offers?”

  “I don’t think I have the nerves for that.”

  “I can deal with the agents and present the offers to you afterwards.”

  “Unless . . . ”

  Stéphane hated the idea, but I didn’t want to have to deal with the beseeching looks from agents trying to persuade me their client “needed” my house and how it was a “great product” — so I hid in the pantry. I was comfortably installed in a soft chair so as not to make any noise when the first agent came in.

  She showed up late: strike one.

  “Hey Stéphane, how’s life? You just keep on getting better looking! Listen, I have an unbelievable offer that’ll knock your socks off, just you wait. Your client’s a real weirdo, though. Did she think I’d bite? (Strike two.) Well anyway, my clients are really nervous — they loved the house, though I don’t really understand why. (Strike three.) Me, I find Cape Cods really depressing (You’re out!),” and so on and so on. She called him “honey” every second sentence, using the word to connect disjointed thoughts ranging from technical considerations of the sale to unsolicited information about her personal life. It had been scarcely ten minutes and already we knew practically every detail of her last breakup. And that she’d just put in an IUD.

  The second agent entered the room as quietly as a mouse and spoke so softly I could hardly make out what she was saying. In an effort to get closer to the keyhole, I knocked over a few potted tomato plants sitting on the ground.

  “Something’s moving in there.”

  “No, it’s the plumbing.”

  “It sounds more like a small animal.”

  “It’s an old house. The heat just kicked in and the wood is reacting to it.”

  “We need to know if there’s a pest problem.”

  “The place is fine, Carole. I promise.”

  “Can we just open the door to make sure?”

  “Oh, look at that, Bertrand’s already here! So when would your clients want to take possession?”

  The Bertrand in question was wearing tap shoes or something similar. I could feel his presence, his weight, his smell. I pictured his tanned skin, dyed hair, heavy watch.

  “Steph, my man! It’s been ages since we’ve made a deal!”

  “Yes, it has. Have a seat.”

  “You won’t believe the offer I’ve got for you, Steph! Big money.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

  “My client’s going to look everything over with a clear head.”

  “Listen, Steph, I’ve got a great price for you. My clients are sitting by the phone, they’re just waiting for the final figure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a real card, Steph!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “I know you do, but I’ll lay it out for you anyway.”

  “Don’t bother, Bertrand. I’m not playing games. Your offer?”

  “No, not my offer, Steph, yours. Your offer is our offer.”

  “Don’t give me that preacher shit. You’ve got three minutes.”

  “I only need ten seconds. Give me your number and it’s done.”

  “You know I can report you for that.”

  “Easy, Steph! Calm down, man . . . ”

  “You’ve got thirty seconds left.”

  He scribbled down a number before leaving in a huff. Like so many others, he didn’t care one bit about the rules of the game. An inquiry into real estate brokerage would reveal no more than what every other commission does: some win by cheating. We encounter genuine honesty far less than we do a little deception. The systems in place are like the human body, imperfect and functional.

  In the end, I went with the offer from the loudmouth who didn’t like my house. Her buyers liked it, and they made up for her. Plus, she was representing a family with four kids. All the rooms, including the basement, would be filled with games, laughter, tears, whispered confidences, dreams, and scraped knees. They wanted a forever home, just as we had done twenty-five years earlier. I hated myself for the cynical little laugh that slipped out. My old house, like me, was still licking its wounds and it would benefit from a shot of new blood. Imagining it bursting with life was probably the only way I could tear myself away.

  The kids came by to collect the furniture they needed or wanted to keep. They fastidiously packed up childhood keepsakes that would enhance their lives — or basements. I’d planned it so that, come moving day, everyone arrived at the same time and it felt like we were all changing houses together. It’s what kept me, in the moment, from falling apart. I did tear up a little when Alexandre told me his memories were in his head, not the house. I’d rarely seen him so shaken, my sensitive boy. Whether we liked it or not, from now on our family history would be split into the before and the after. I took my sweet firstborn into my arms and rocked him, standing up. That’s all I could do for the two of us. The reassuring words that, all my life, had come so naturally were out of reach. I was overwhelmed by the pain and incapable of extending a hand to pull us out from under it.

  I came back the next day, alone, and cried for a long time in front of my beautiful old Cape Cod. The life I’d created for myself was losing its final moorings. The last traces of before were being uprooted. My loved ones, every single one of them, had left to make a new life. Without me. They were all building stories in places that didn’t involve me anymore. I felt l
ost, abandoned, like the wounded soldier you have to leave behind to save your own skin.

  I needed to start a new story, a new life. I needed to press “reset.”

  Charlotte had let me keep Cat-in-the-box.

  * * *

  When she saw my new hairdo, my therapist could tell we were meeting for the last time. Paradoxically, I decided to stop treatment once I better understood her role in it. I’d entered her office as if it were a confessional, believing that through penitence — paying a church tithe or an hourly fee amounted to the same thing — I’d free myself from the dark clouds by disgorging them into the woman-sewer. I liked to think she used yoga to shake off the abundance of secrets she harboured in the same way that priests use sacramental wine to unburden themselves of the indignities they shouldered in the name of the Holy Father. But I’d misunderstood: my therapist was a mirror, not a dumping ground. And thanks to her I’d ended up seeing, between two shadows, the woman I was still able to be. This hadn’t been the plan when I’d married, of course. But I had learned, since, that life’s unpredictable nature is one of its best qualities. Nobody gets on a ship thinking it will sink. That said, ships do sink. The ocean floor is littered with wreckage slowly being consumed by sea flora and fauna. But with each passing day more ships, more majestic yachts, take to the sea. It’s understandable; the ocean is so beautiful. Love, like the sea, is so worth the risk.

  “Jacques always protected me. Once he leapt out of the car in the middle of winter with a crowbar to defend me against some idiot I’d cut off who was out for my blood. Jeez . . . he picked up the tiny pieces of me when my mom died, that’s hard . . . he helped me recover from ‘our’ pregnancies, like he used to say . . . he never wanted me to suffer, he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. Now I’m going through the biggest heartbreak of my life, I’m suffering more than I ever thought possible, and he’s doing nothing, he’s watching me bleed and not doing a thing, he’s the one who plunged the knife in . . . All the time I’ve been imagining he was going to come back, that he would take me in his arms and tell me he’d made a mistake . . . ”

  “And now?”

  “He’s not coming back.”

  “Does that scare you?”

  “I’ve never been more terrified in my life.”

  21

  In which I knit, walk, and dance

  “Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Diane, what’s yours?”

  “Simon.”

  “Where do you live, Simon?”

  “In my house.”

  He glared at me with big, mean eyes. His finger was pointing to the end of the lane.

  “You’re alone?”

  “The dwarfs, where are they?”

  “What dwarfs?”

  “The ones that were here!”

  “You lost some dwarfs?”

  “No!”

  “How old are you, Simon?”

  “Five-an’a-half.”

  “Are you in kindergarten?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do your parents know you’re here?”

  “SI-MON!”

  A tall girl came running over, hair flying, fists clenched. She didn’t look especially happy.

  “Simon! You’re not allowed to cross the street alone! Mom’s so mad! Everyone’s been looking for you. Come on, let’s go. You’re in real trouble now!”

  “I think he’s looking for his dwarfs.”

  “Oh, hello!”

  “Hello!”

  “There used to be dwarfs here.”

  “Real ones?”

  “No, garden gnomes. There was a garden full of gnomes and all kinds of gnome accessories . . . ”

  “And a wheelbarrow,” added Simon.

  “Yeah, there were houses, a well, wheelbarrows, a windmill, mushrooms, all sorts of things.”

  “Where’d it all go?”

  “It’s gone, Simon! Madame Nardella moved away.”

  “I just bought this duplex with a friend of mine. I live on the second floor.”

  “You’re lucky, it’s brand new. They tore down the house that used to be here. It was a bungalow.”

  “Yeah, the contractor told me.”

  “We have to go. My mom’s waiting.”

  “You’re so lucky to have such a nice big sister!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “There are five of us and he’s the only boy, so he doesn’t think he’s so lucky.”

  “Five? And you all have the same mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “ZAZIE, LOOK, A CAT!”

  “Whoa! A three-legged cat!”

  “That’s Steve, my cat. I call him Cat-in the-box. He follows me around everywhere.”

  “Where’s his leg?”

  “He had an accident.”

  “OH NO!”

  “It’s okay, he went to the doctor and now he’s doing really well. He runs everywhere and loves the back lane. He’s got tons of friends here!”

  I thought it best not to mention the several birds and two mice he’d brought home since we moved in.

  “I got a cat, too.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

  “Potato-B.”

  “Potato-bee? That’s a funny name!”

  “It’s because Potato-A died.”

  “Save it for later, Simon. We’ve really got to go. Mom’s waiting.”

  “But I wanna pet it!”

  “Another time.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Isabelle. But everyone calls me Zazie.”

  “I’m Diane.”

  “Hi, Diane.”

  I chose the second floor so I’d have more light. I set up two beautiful guest rooms. Claudine moved into the first floor. Her daughters have a room in the basement. Everyone is happy. Laurie loves being in the city, so close to her college. Adèle was kicked out of her private school for a whole packet of reasons — any one of which, according to her principal, would have sufficed. And while it was humiliating — there’s that old saying, the apple not falling far from the tree — Claudine was happy with the way things worked out.

  “The new school doesn’t cost a dime and it’s right around the corner. No more drop-offs and pick-ups for Ms. Can’t-Move-Her-Ass.”

  Claudine believes, a little naïvely, that the new school is going to pull her daughter out of her vegetative torpor. I truly hope she’s right. And as every second week I see Adèle almost every day, the two of us are doing our best to get her into gear. Her doctor has confirmed she’s in perfect working order, biologically speaking. We’ve just got to get the machine going.

  Alexandre refused to be his future baby brother’s godfather. He thinks that even for a man in a mid-life crisis, his father was pushing it by asking. It’s bad, I know, but that did me good. My son went to bat for me, and I’m grateful. I’ll be capable of generosity later, once we’ve gotten over the pain.

  I gave up running. Life’s given me enough reasons to suffer; I don’t see the need to add another. Not for now, at least. For the same reason, I asked for a divorce without waiting and without fuss. I cashed in what the mercies of marriage — and the services of a good lawyer — determined was my due, all the while ignoring my ex-mother-in-law’s entreaties. Marriage does have its advantages: I’m in no rush to find a job. And I’ve taken up knitting.

  On the other hand, every day I lace up my sneakers and walk kilometres to get reacquainted with the neighbourhood I grew up in. The aged trees are still there, the old baseball stadium too, along with a few schools and the hairdresser-barbershop on the corner of 3rd Avenue. Little cafés, specialty food stores, and artisan boutiques keep popping up all over the place. And the balconies and alleys are still the centre of the universe for locals. On hot nights you can hear the clinking of glasses, bottles, and dishes. I c
lose my eyes and drink in this music — me, the rhythmically challenged one. The great hiccup of my separation brought me here, to revisit childhood memories almost intact.

  These new spaces in my life have taught me a terrific lesson: my children are not Jacques. What I see when I look at them is in no way tainted by the fact of his being their father. Quite the opposite, actually. They embody what I most loved about him, and certainly I’ll never deny the feelings I had for him. Trying to put into words the love I have for my kids is a dizzying exercise. I love them immeasurably. All things considered, nothing else matters.

  In the gardening section of the local hardware store, soon to be transformed into a mess of snow shovels, I came across a nice collection of garden gnomes. If someone had told me that some day I’d purchase a garden gnome for anything other than a joke, I would have never believed it. They’re so kitsch they’re almost cute. My middle-aged heart trembled a moment.

  “They’re really popular these days, ma’am. I was out of stock almost all summer. Those ones came in at the end of the season, that’s why I still got some left.”

  “They’re not on sale?”

  “No, miss! They’re going up three bucks in the spring, and they’ll fly off the shelves like hot cakes.”

  Far be it from me to be fashionable. I just want to make Simon smile the next time he comes by with one of his sisters.

  I chose a gnome pushing a little wheelbarrow.

  • • •

  * * *

  “J.P. says hi.”

  “Uh-oh! J.P. the hottie! Give him a kiss for me.”

  “You bet I will.”

  “You look funny.”

  “Here, open this up.”

  “Champagne? No!”

  “Oh yes!”

  “What happened?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “I finally got a cheque from Philippe!”

  “NO WAY! PARTY TIME!”

  Friday nights are reserved for Claudine and me. We crack open a bottle or two of “temporary solution” and solve a few of the world’s problems over takeout from the corner shop. No cooking, no dishes, no guilt; we share our big, messy lives, the ones our grandmothers never knew. Once we’ve warmed up enough, we turn on the music and dance in our socks on the varnished living room floor. My body moves to its own beat and I let it: I’m free. Laurie tells me I have a “unique” way of dancing. For a boring wife with such an ordinary story, that’s a pretty great compliment.