The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  Chapter Twelve

  AFTER A FEW DAYS OF TAKING IT EASY, AVA’S COLOR FINALLY RETURNS TO NORMAL and her mood improves immensely. I can see she is antsy to get back to her own life. We have been busy doing low-key activities together, wandering along Boulevard Saint-Germain, Champs Élysées, and Rue du Bac—eating, strolling, shopping, café hopping—keeping things light and easy. Gabe is coming in two days, and I’m determined to be gone before he arrives. As I button up my white capri jeans, I see my daughter Snapchatting someone from the bathroom. It’s time. She’s ready.

  “Ava, we need to talk.” I stand in the bathroom doorway as she puts on her morning makeup.

  “We’ve done nothing but talk.” She laughs. Her old laugh, the happy kind. “I love you, Mom—but no offense, I really need to be around other humans besides you.”

  “No offense taken, I guess.”

  She turns to me, waving the mascara wand. “I mean I really appreciate everything you’ve done but I’ve got to get on with my life . . . and now Dad’s coming.”

  “About that . . .” I begin, seizing the opportunity.

  Ava pauses and has that mischievous look of Gabe’s that says there’s more there than meets the eye. “Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about first.”

  Christ, not Olivier again. I will kill him. “Ready when you are.” I gesture toward the bed—the same one we’ve been sharing since I arrived in Paris.

  She finishes up in the bathroom and we both sit on the bed. Our plan today is to get breakfast and then head over to the Jeu de Paume museum. I have a feeling that after this conversation, the museum followed by a walk through the Tuileries Garden is not going to happen. I almost want to tell her not to put on the mascara, knowing it’s going to be all over her face in just a few minutes. I feel sick to my stomach, but I’ve rehearsed this little speech for the past twenty-four hours in my head.

  “You first,” I say, chickening out.

  She pushes her long hair behind her ears, then nervously plays with the ends. “Well, things with Olivier are officially over.” She lets that settle in. “I’m sure you are happy about that. It was my choice, just so you know. I did a lot of thinking. He really was not there for me at all once I found out I wasn’t pregnant. It was like he just ran away, done with us, you know.” She stops talking for a minute, appears deep in thought. “We were even planning on spending a few days together in Provence—he’s teaching a seminar there next week, but I decided after everything, not to go, and to end things. Look, he has a family and I get it—but the being there part—it was never going to happen. I was crazy about him, but he’s not reliable. Not like Dad, who is always there for you and me no matter what. That’s the kind of guy I want.”

  Oh god, this is going to break her.

  She stares at me, expecting me to comment but I remain mute. Say something now. “Good decision,” I say with a slight tremor in my voice, knowing I’m about to destroy the institution of marriage for her permanently. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Maybe she isn’t ready. Gabe’s coming. Let him do it. But I need to explain why I’m leaving. This has to happen now.

  “But that’s not exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” Ava continues. Her gaze lowers to the floor and she picks up her sandal lying there with her toes, like one of those claw arcade games.

  “There’s more?” The sky already fell, what’s left?

  Ava releases the sandal and stretches out her long legs in front of her. She’s in teensy jean shorts and a skimpy tank top—all of nineteen. “Well, I know I shouldn’t forgive him, but Jake and I have been talking again.”

  “Since when?” I ask. Where was I?

  “Since the day before yesterday, after I broke it off with Olivier. I told Jake everything.”

  My mouth falls open. “You told him about the pregnancy scare?”

  “Not that part.” Her nose crinkles. As if. “I’m keeping that between you and me.”

  Ava’s eyes are wide and expectant as she awaits my judgment, the maternal gavel to come down followed by the requisite soapbox lecture on being honest followed by a sublecture called “Don’t Jump into Things So Quickly; Give Yourself Transition Time.” But I say nothing, none of that. That was the old me—the before Me. I’ve got way bigger fish to fry, and I would take ten Jakes over one Olivier for her right now. And selfishly, she’s going to need Jake once I break my news.

  “Okay,” I say simply.

  She raises a suspicious brow, as if to say That’s it? “Well, now that my lease is up, and I’m not going away with Olivier, I decided to meet him in Spain right after you and Dad leave, to see if we can fix things,” she says slowly, gauging my reaction. Then her eyes grow instantly hard and unforgiving. “But Monica—fuck her—so done, so over.”

  When Gabe and I leave together . . . that’s what she’s thinking. My stomach drops. This is really going to be hard for her. And Monica . . . she can somehow forgive Jake but not Monica. I so get it. Lauren’s cheating on me is almost worse than Gabe’s. I can’t explain it, but the betrayal of Girl Code surpasses anything and everything. My eyes swim with tears. Gabe and Lauren. My god, I just can’t stop crying.

  “What’s wrong?” Ava grabs my hands, confused. “You think I shouldn’t see Jake, is that it? Jake said Monica left the group and went back to North Grove. They’re not talking anymore either.” She searches my face for clues and seems to find one. “You’ve got more on your mind than just me and my screwed-up life. It’s Daddy, isn’t it?” She knows. She always had an uncanny ability to see through me. I make a split decision not to lie.

  “Yes, it is about your father.” I hold in my breath and then let it out with a whoosh. “It began the night that you called me about Jake and Monica and asked me to come to Paris.”

  “Your birthday.”

  “Yes, my birthday.” I pause, thinking I’m going to need to find another birthday because my real one was blown to shit forever. Now. Say it now. “I found out that same night that Dad has been cheating on me.”

  “On your birthday?” she repeats, her forehead scrunching with disbelief. “No. It can’t be. You guys are so in love. You’ve had your fights but the way you guys still look at each other, and your PDA—especially in front of my friends—they all make fun of me about it. I’ve always thought I would never find that. What happened?” Ava is trying hard to keep it together, processing her father, her hero’s betrayal. It’s not real. It hasn’t sunk in. Those were just words. Words that float. I get it. It’s still not real to me.

  The actual truth is too awful for anyone’s child to handle. I decide to minimize it. “The details aren’t important, but it happened.” And here I go defending Gabe for Ava’s sake. “But no matter what he did and how wrong it was and how much it hurts me, he loves you. He dropped everything to come here and be with you. He—”

  “Wait!” she yells, cutting me off in middrivel, and stands. “Did you just say Daddy cheated on you? How is that even possible?”

  “Ava, I’m trying to tell you—”

  Her eyes begin to spin wildly like pinwheels, her voice builds to a crescendo. “No, you are trying to minimize and protect. That’s what you do. Damn it, Mom—tell me the truth. Stop defending him and stop protecting me. For Christ’s sake, I thought I was pregnant with my married professor’s baby. I’m not twelve. What the hell happened? And with who?”

  But I don’t take the bait. I know my daughter. Tough on the outside, soft and vulnerable within. No amount of heartache will allow me to destroy her. “Please, Ava, for once, stop pushing. It just makes it even more painful.”

  “Who did Daddy cheat with that could possibly hold a candle to you?”

  There. Right there. That’s the moment I lose it. All gloves come off. I shed my maternal skin and expose the woman scorned. “It was more than one woman.”

  “No, no—not Daddy. It can’t be, it can’t be.” The reality seeps in, the pedestal Gabe is perched on crashes, and she begins to cry. “H
ow could he do this to you? To me? To our family?” Ava is crying, not just about me and Gabe, but about all of her losses and betrayals—Olivier, Jake, Monica—her entire support system exploding inside her with one thrown grenade.

  I stand and open my arms, as she falls limply inside. I hold her or she holds me until she calms down. Whatever it is, whoever is mothering whom, we are intertwined, twinning in pain, clinging to each other—the only two people in this world whom we can depend on, who understand exactly what we’re going through.

  We stand there like that for a really long time. I finally pull back when her tears subside, her body loosens, and I feel myself strengthening. “We have both come to a crossroads, Ava. And there are choices now, for you and for me.”

  Her eyes are bloodred and I’m sure mine are the same. “What are you going to do?”

  What am I going to do? “There’s no going back, no fixing this. Your dad and I once had a great love. But somewhere along the way it fell apart. He betrayed me and I’m not going to minimize that. But a broken marriage takes two to destroy, even if one person did the crime. I’m so beyond sad, believe me. It kills me to even tell you any of this. And I can’t even comprehend that this is my life now. I’m trying to figure it out and I don’t have any answers yet.” I avert my gaze because I don’t want to break down in front of my daughter.

  “I’m a terrible person,” Ava says softly. “This is what Olivier’s kids would have felt like, and the thing is, I didn’t even care when I was with him. I didn’t even think about them or his wife. So selfish, so shitty of me. Look at you. I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through, with Dad, with me.” She wraps her arms around my shoulders, stares into my eyes. “You were going through your deepest pain and as usual, you put me first.”

  Ava then drops her arms to her side, becomes still as a statue. A moment of calm passes between the crash of waves, but in a few seconds or so I know, because I know my daughter, she’s going to lose it all over again.

  I summon up my soothing voice, the one I’ve always used to calm her anxiety. “I don’t know who I am without your father and I’ve got to go find out. While you travel with Jake, I think I’m going to head to the South of France for a bit. Somewhere quiet, beautiful, surrounded by nature and lavender, wineries and perfumeries. I need to clear my head, to think about everything that happened and figure out what I want to do. I have so much noise going on in my mind right now that I’m hoping to find some inner peace. But I will be back, I promise.” I search her anguished face, wishing I could retract everything aired in this room but I can’t. “Can you handle that? Can you know that I’m not leaving you, just going to go find me for a while?”

  “Do you want me to come with you? I will cancel with Jake. You need me.”

  My baby, this incredible young woman, sees me and that’s enough. I cradle her delicate chin inside my hands. “I love you but no. I want you to go be nineteen, be with Jake and figure that out—if you two can really forgive each other, and if being together is something you still want, or even discovering you want to move on. Go, okay. Take that time for you. I need this time for me. I love that you want to be with me, but I have to be with me alone. Do you understand?”

  She nods reluctantly. “What about your work? The festival? Rachel is probably having a total freak-out.”

  Oh my god, Rachel. I have to call her at the office today. She’s left ten messages that I’ve ignored. Who could think of work with everything going on? I’m usually so on top of everything. “Timing is terrible.” I sigh deeply. “But I really do need to figure everything out. Work will be fine.” Ava is right. Rachel is probably out of her mind with the arts festival just around the corner. But I simply can’t think about that right now. “I’m more concerned about you, honey.”

  Ava gnaws on her chapped bottom lip, trying to be brave. Give her more, she needs more. “You and Dad have always been so close,” I tell her, taking her hands into mine. “He’s coming to be with you and to tell you the truth in his own way. I know this is going to put a strain on your relationship, but that’s not what I want, okay? I’m not asking you to choose sides. Our marital problems are separate from being your parents. You have always been the most important part of our lives, no matter what. Just work it out with him, honey. That’s what I want for you. You never have to choose.”

  “But we will never be the same, never be the three of us again.” Her voice is tiny, retro. The little girl who can’t fall asleep, standing next to my side of the bed, clutching her special blanket and stuffed elephant, wanting me to make it all better.

  I press my forehead lightly against hers. “We won’t be the same. But our love for you is always the same. You are going to be okay, and I’m going to be okay—you know that, right?” I don’t know that. But I want her to know that.

  “How long are you going?” she asks, eyeing me with worry.

  Don’t lie to her or to yourself. “I’m not sure,” I say. “But I’m leaving before your dad arrives this weekend. I need to do that for me.”

  Her brows knit, calculating the timing. “I don’t mean to be selfish, but will you be back to drive me up to school like usual, to help me decorate the new apartment, and get things organized?” Ava’s eyes are hopeful, clinging to ritual, to anything she can count on right now.

  School drop-off has always been our thing. Bed Bath & Beyond, Target, the Container Store. And of course, our annual spa day spent downtown at the Peninsula Hotel before we part ways. Ava finds comfort in rituals, lists, habits, sameness—as do I. In her eyes, it shouldn’t take me more than a few weeks while she is traveling with Jake to find myself. As long as I’m on her time line, she’s thinking this could work. I’m not so optimistic. A few weeks is nowhere near enough time to mourn my marriage. But hell or high water, I will take Ava back to the university for her senior year, which begins on September 1. I squeeze her tightly. “Of course, I will be there.”

  Ava first, Ava last . . . Ava in the middle.

  III.

  Your gifts lie in the place where your values, passions and strengths meet. Discovering that place is the first step toward sculpting your masterpiece—Your life.

  —MICHELANGELO

  Chapter Thirteen

  FUCK THEM, NOW ME.

  Four words, my newly customized version of Om, repeat feverishly inside my head like a mantra, as I drive from Nice, where I spent the past three days while Gabe is in Paris, to Saint-Paul-de-Vence, one of the oldest medieval towns in the French Riviera. I’ve flipped a switch from pain and sadness to rage and wrath, which is spreading inside me like wildfire. Speeding down the road, I merge in and out of the roundabouts—ironically in the same reckless way that I once imagined I would make my Thelma and Louise getaway during my morning runs in North Grove. But this shit is real. This shit is not going away.

  My heart feels as though it’s pummeling through my chest. How did my life fall apart so fast, so completely? I once had everything and now it’s gone—my marriage, my home, my best friends, even my daughter’s innocence. It’s as if I have been blown to smithereens and somehow survived the trauma with no arms, no legs—just remainders: a head and a heart to comprehend and feel it all. I want to die and I want to live. I want to cry and I want to scream. I want to laugh at the absurdity and I want to go stark raving mad. As I careen in and out of lanes, a violent sensation overtakes me, wrapping its meaty hands around my throat and won’t let go. I pick up speed, now going a solid twenty-five over the limit. Fuck them, now me.

  I hightail with the wind in my hair, knotting and twisting into dreds until I’m forced to slow down due to construction. Ultimately, I mosey up to the finish line: You have arrived at your destination. Siri with a Brit accent, my only friend and companion along the way, congratulates me after I round the serpentine Route des Serres, passing by charming rustic homes, and slowly approach the hotel entrance. Hotel? The elegant wrought-iron gate provides a window into the courtyard. It looks more like a château fo
r the rich and famous. Full admission: I picked the priciest place I could find. Did I mention my car? It’s a vintage white Alfa Romeo convertible that I chose from the exotic car rental place in Nice. My new goal: Live large and let Gabe pay for it.

  This is not how I’ve ever operated. I don’t deprive myself, but I never spend money recklessly. I didn’t grow up with it, so those ingrained frugal habits never really died. But today is a new day, a new me, and all financial prudence is dust in the wind. Lauren? How could they do that to me?

  I stop the car to pull myself together before entering the exquisite hotel grounds. I chose La Cachette because the reviews called it a “secret gem,” bathed in quietude, elegance, and the lush fragrances of Provence. Surrounded by elaborate gardens and aged olive trees, citrus fruits, and thousands of wild Provençal plants, it is a far cry from the SUV-infested landscaped suburban jungle of North Grove—and solitude is just what I need right now.

  Inhaling deeply, I give my name at the intercom and the gate opens. I drive slowly around the pebbled driveway, passing a ten-foot-high modern stone and metal sculpture, and stop at the entrance and wait for the valet’s meet and greet.

  Without Gabe. Everything I do from now on has a Without Gabe tag. It’s all so strange. I have never checked into any hotel without him or my besties. Until now, I never knew how codependent I was on all of them. I have always considered myself independent, a go-getter, but now I know the truth—I’m emotionally crippled and terrified of going it all alone.

  Breathe, I tell myself, just breathe. And then the valet arrives, a vision in black. The elegantly suited young Frenchman gallantly opens the car door with a disarming Chiclets smile, and a full head of gelled hair. As he leans in, I briefly close my eyes beneath my sunglasses. He smells so good. I take my time uncrossing my cramped legs as I get out just to whiff him fully as though he were a human aerosol, a revival spray. I read his name tag: Jean-Paul. Of course, it is.