The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  I then check into the hotel for the week with the option to extend my stay and walk down the fancy corridor, which is lined with ancestral portraits and oversized antique clocks that all tell the wrong time, toward my room. I take the winding staircase up to the second floor and open the door. The room is stunning, immaculate, smells like fresh flowers, and is decorated in spalike hues of cream, peach, and pale blues. I spin around and spot the best part—the large balcony with a small sitting area and two stuffed chairs—another table for two. I swallow hard. Without Gabe.

  I drop my purse on the bed and kick off my sandals. My dinner reservation at the hotel restaurant is at eight thirty. It’s just after six and the sun, slung low, is still shining bright. I stick my knotty hair into a scrunchie, wash my dusty face, then fling open the balcony doors and step out into paradise. Everything around me is as aromatic as the handsome valet—an onslaught of intoxicating lavender, lilac, basil, and musk. I raise my arms in a sun salutation. So, this is what on-my-own looks like. This is what a sensual five-star hotel room without Gabe feels like. Alone—but for the first time in hours, I’m not enraged. I’m calmer, defused by the postcard-worthy beauty casting a giant welcome mat over my problems.

  The sun, still warm, radiates a rich topaz glow over the hills and valleys on all sides of me, and I see myself as I am: a wounded woman who has come to heal. In the near distance, I look below and spot a luxurious pool bordered by elegant private cabanas and a Jacuzzi surrounded by exotic flowers. To my left, there is a small sculpture garden and an adjoining spice and fragrance garden. Near the pool, off to the side, I see a young couple having cocktails at the elegant white-clothed terrace restaurant. I stare at them. I was once them—hands laced, foreheads practically touching, sexy half-smiles, wine-stained breath. Now I’m not. Now I’m this. Whatever this is.

  I sink into one of the plump chairs, kick my feet up on the rattan console and stare out into the abyss. Now what? What’s the damn plan? What do I want? God knows I haven’t asked myself that question in years.

  The hard truth is that everything hurts—my heart, my body, my head. Is the only remedy for pain time? Am I supposed to follow the heartbreak diet and curl up in a ball and cry it out? Where’s the damn when-life-goes-to-shit handbook called What to Expect When You’re NOT Expecting It? It doesn’t exist. It simply doesn’t exist.

  I lean forward, elbows on the small table, head in hands. What would happen if I did something totally radical like make the decision not to suffer at all? To not mourn my losses. Is that denial? Do I have to go through the five stages and follow some kind of grief timetable? Can’t I make up my own rules? I look around. There’s no grief police to tell me otherwise.

  What if I choose not to be angry, sad, vengeful, and destructive? What if I choose not to wait out a year of mandatory processing and acceptance? What if I don’t go comatose, drown myself in Ambien in order to sleep and wake up on Prozac for breakfast to get me through my day? What if I skip the essential mourning, self-mutilating part, cut my losses, and start my new life right now? Yes, it’s denial—so what.

  I hug myself tightly as the tepid evening breeze passes over me. I yearn to shout: Embrace denial! It feels right, less painful, and certainly less destructive than the Danica Patrick impersonation of an hour ago. Embrace denial. I have picked my poison and that’s the one. I sit bolt upright, holding my head up high, and it feels as though I’m about to meet a new person, as if I’m about to date myself and she’s kinda hot. I laugh for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. Who cares that I seem delusional—who’s going to stop me?

  I stand decisively. First things first in Denial 101 . . . What does one wear to dinner when dining alone? Another admission to self: I have never dined in a restaurant alone. Never, not once in forty-two years. I’ve picked up morning coffee a billion times, salads, sushi, etc.—lunch alone. Even movies on rare occasions. But that doesn’t count. I have never walked into a fancy restaurant for dinner and asked for a table for one.

  No blacks or browns or neutrals, I decide. Nothing dark or drab. Go bright, go bold. Flowers perhaps? I shake my head. Too prissy. Yellow—that’s it. I step back into the room and open my suitcase and pull out the form-fitting taxicab yellow maxidress that I threw in at the very last moment. I hold it up, stare at it, press it against me, and glance in the mirror. I allow myself thirty seconds to remember when I’d last worn this dress. I bought it in Florence on the David trip with the whole crew. Samantha and Lauren also bought the same dress in different colors—I chose yellow, Samantha, orange, and Lauren, emerald green. I smile to myself, remembering how Eric called us the Lifesavers when we all wore our new dresses to dinner at that Michelin-starred restaurant near the Duomo. I wore it just that one time, thinking it was too electric, too neon look-at-me for judgy suburbia.

  I shed my clothes and stand naked in the mirror, something I’ve always hated and avoided but something that Gabe used to get turned on by—making me face the mirror and look at myself while he touched my body from behind. No Gabe this time to feel me up. So . . . I do it myself. I caress my own breasts as he once did, slowly in clockwise circles, breasts then nipples, while looking in the mirror. Strange but surprisingly sensual. Full, still firmish. Not so bad at all.

  The rest of my body is not what it used to be, but still holding its own. My stomach is strong from obsessive core work—Pilates, yoga, and Samantha’s boot camp that she drags me to on Saturdays, which I hate but never miss. Legs, long and muscular, slight cellulite but not too noticeable unless you get up close. Still me, with a few good years left.

  I take a shower, pull my hair into a low ponytail and then twist it into a sleek knot at the nape of my neck, mimicking the French chignon style that the receptionist wore at the gynecologist’s office. Large hoop earrings, bangle bracelets, mascara, blush, liner, a little brow filler, nude lip gloss, and funky sandals with a three-inch wedge complete the table-for-one look.

  I return to the mirror for a quick once-over. Nice. Not a lonely look, rather an empowered I’ll-get-there look; a look that pretends what I don’t yet feel. I glance over at the nightstand clock. An hour until dinner. Hmm, why not? I grab a bottle of rosé out of the minibar, take my laptop, and return to the balcony, my newly designated office for Denial Inc. You need a plan, I tell myself, reverting to my anal-retentive habits. You need a to-do list.

  I kick off my wedges and create a new file I call “Me_The Sequel.” The obvious buzzwords come to mind: mind, body, spirit, healing, presence. I shake my head. No. I need much more than a self-care plan; I need a life overhaul, a Reinvention Manifesto. A without Gabe covenant. And I need a title. Something bold, that commits and binds me to this contract.

  I begin to brainstorm and type: Twelve Steps to Finding Sophie Bloom. Trite, sounds like a Cosmo manual. Twelve Ways to Heal Sophie Bloom. No—too Alcoholics Anonymous. Something powerful and gutsy, like The Ten Commandments. This contract must be unbreakable.

  The Unbreakables, I think sadly, recalling the name Eric had dubbed our group—Sophie & Gabe, Samantha & Eric, Lauren & Matt. But we came apart anyway, like those red plastic monkeys holding on to their linked arms for dear life until one falls off. I fell off. No, Gabe pushed me off. This new me is not going to depend on anyone—no more clinging monkeys.

  What do I really want?

  I glance out at the rolling hills in the distance and stare at the sculpture garden beneath me, filled with small, intricately carved stone fountains. I want to sculpt again, I whisper. I want to chisel marble, twist clay, create something. And I want to fuck passionately, just like that young couple down at the restaurant will surely do right after dinner. I want to smile and mean it. Most important, I want to feel my life, to live it, to connect, and not just exist where one day fuses into the next. I want to do things because I want to, not because I have to. Okay, and this is totally childish, but I want to out-Gabe Gabe. I want him to regret what he did, to see me grow and blossom, to really know all that he gave
up when he chose Ashley Madison and friends over me.

  My fingers begin to type furiously, taking on a life of their own.

  THE UNBREAKABLES

  by Sophie Bloom

  WEAR WHATEVER I WANT. No age barriers, no fashion rules. First Move: Get bangs.

  EAT ONLY WHAT TASTES GOOD. Fuck fat-free. No calorie counting. No scales. No pleasing anyone else but me first. Eat in combos—sweet & salty, appetizers & desserts. It will balance me.

  SMILE—FEEL IT, NOT FAKE IT. No North Grove air kisses and playing pretend. I’m in France. Find the joie de vivre. No “settling” on any decision—and most of all, no matter what I do, no regrets.

  NO MORE RUSHING. SLOW DOWN, TAKE CONTROL OF MY LIFE, MY WAY, ON MY TERMS. Stop the rigidity of a schedule, must-do workouts, and all the accompanying stresses. Those days are so over.

  SLEEP AND REJUVENATE. Nonnegotiable. Seven-hour minimum. Even if I have to lie in bed and watch the clock. Read again. No TV and other life-wasting binges. Get off Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Stop squandering precious time and energy in an alternative universe where everyone lies anyway. And most important: don’t be a slave to the phone.

  EXERCISE—but only what I enjoy. No machines. No treadmills. No StairMaster. Nothing that stays in place and gets me nowhere or hurts. No more boot camp, punishing trainers, or spin tyrants.

  MASTURBATE. Nonnegotiable. Get to know my body again and what turns me on.

  MUSIC AND DANCE—play it loud, play it often, and feel it. ’70s—my fave. Joni, Carly, James Taylor, Carole King, Cat Stevens, Donna Summer, and Aretha, and of course, the musts: Sheryl Crow, Stevie Nicks, and Tom Petty—music and lyrics that fill my soul. Dance again—even alone—especially alone.

  NATURE IS NURTURE. Long walks and hikes whenever I can. Surround myself with natural beauty. It will heal my spirit, empower me.

  PASSION—whatever that means and in whatever form. Remain open to new experiences. No rules—except for one: guilt-free but no hurting anyone in the process. Unless that someone happens to be Gabe. NO MERCY.

  ART—SCULPT AGAIN. Fourteen years in exile using the medical excuse is too damn long. No more fear. My hands are fine. My hands are ready. Now go.

  EMBRACE MYSTERY—Not everything has to be a plan. Prepare to be surprised by life.

  I lean back against the chair, pleased with what came out of me without thinking too deeply. I smile hard—a real smile—a Rule No. 3 smile. And for the first time in what feels like a really long time, I actually feel my lips grazing my teeth. I want this. I close my eyes to take it all in, and then from inside of the room I hear my phone ringing. Damn. Just let it go, I tell myself. Don’t answer it. But what if it’s Ava?

  I jump off the chair without thinking twice to pick it up. My heart sinks. It’s not Ava but Samantha for a FaceTime. I just blew Rule No. 5—failed myself three seconds out of the gate. I stare at my best friend’s number and her picture in the little round circle at the top. It’s the one I took at her fortieth birthday luncheon at Neiman’s Zodiac Room. Samantha’s long, dark hair looks like a sheath of silk, her thick eyelashes with extensions look like mini-brooms, and she is wearing the new Tom Ford red lipstick we all bought together. She is all mom-glammed but giving me the finger—still Samantha. This photo makes me laugh every time she calls—except this time. One ring left before it goes to Missed Call. Do I answer?

  I swipe right. “Sam,” I say. And there she is, in 2-D. Once my best friend, my sister, and now part of the team of liars.

  “Christ, Soph, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. I know you don’t want to talk to me but I’m glad you finally answered. This is the longest we haven’t talked. Wow—you look amazing. You never wear your hair back like that.” Her eyes are glassy. “I’m so sorry about everything. I’m sick about it. I haven’t slept since you left.”

  I just stare at her, detached, as though I’m Jane Goodall observing chimpanzees in the wild. Samantha is in her Lulus with a small towel wrapped around her neck. It’s Monday post-hot-yoga with Jenna, our fave. I don’t even have to ask, I know. I would have been there with her, wearing a similar outfit, matching white towel.

  Embrace denial. My first act: I deny you forgiveness. I deny us this conversation. Seeing you, hearing your voice, just hurts more.

  I then do something I have never done to my best friend. I hang up without a goodbye. I return to the balcony, about to throw the phone as far as I can, and then my arm drops limply to my side. Ava. All the pain in the world—crushed, bulleted, betrayed and stabbed—but I’m still her mom. I can’t just disappear, disconnect.

  I stare at the phone. If I can’t destroy this hateful device then at the bare minimum I’m going to delete and block every single number on my contact list but two: Ava and my office. Tomorrow I’m going to resign from the art gallery and give my fabulous assistant my job—a job she is more than ready to take on. Then I will delete that number as well, which leaves just Ava. Hers will be the only number left on my phone, the only one that matters. I press my hands against my broken heart for what feels like an eternity, and then I let go.

  Embrace denial.

  Zombielike, I walk back inside the room, glance at the digital clock on the nightstand: 8:28. Time to claim my table for one. I reach for my Tory Burch clutch, put back on my wedges. I can’t feel my body move but I’m still breathing, still standing. I’ve got my list now—the only thing I possess that makes any sense. I toss the phone onto the bed. No more slips. No one else deserves a piece of me—except for my daughter. Sophie Bloom has officially gone rogue and is not coming back any time soon.

  Fuck them, now me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SO I DIDN’T GET BANGS. I WENT TO THE NEARBY SHOPPING MALL LESS THAN A mile away from the hotel, where the hair stylist persuaded me to skip the bangs and instead go for a trendy layered bob. She lobbed off six inches (I was terrified) and insisted I get highlights, and it’s perfect. Gazing into the Nike store window, I don’t recognize my reflection between the sneakers and the Just Do It sign, but I love it. It’s younger, flirty; a forty-two-year-old train wreck determined to get back on the track look.

  I then buy skinny jeans, a form-fitting white T-shirt, and chunky-heeled red sandals. I wear the whole getup right out of the store. After that, I purchase a French pocket dictionary, a Riviera guidebook, and a blank leather journal. I’m a walking-talking cliché and I’m okay with it. Grabbing a cappuccino, my second one before noon (no longer care), I head toward my car. I plan to spend the afternoon at the Fondation Maeght, a small museum of modern art on a hill overlooking Saint-Paul-de-Vence, about ten minutes away.

  Driving toward the museum with the wind in my new hair, I feel strangely free, lighter, having no set plan, no one to answer to, no responsibilities, except to see where the day takes me. I park in the lot and walk toward the lovely, lush garden entrance. I take my time before entering the museum itself. No rushing (Rule No. 4). Meandering through the sculpture garden, I encounter an amazing ceramic by Fernand Léger, a fountain sculpture by Pol Bury, a sculpture by Alexander Calder, and a wind sculpture by Takis. Eyeing the incredible art while inhaling the warm fresh air, I feel rejuvenated.

  Entering the museum, I take a brochure and roam my way toward the main gallery, stopping when I come upon a magnificent painting called La Vie—by Marc Chagall, my favorite painter. The whimsical composition covering an entire wall chronicles human love and life. It depicts the artist’s real-life events juxtaposed with his vivid dreams—from his humble Hasidic upbringing in Russia to the end of his days in Paris. Colorful images of his rabbi grandfather, his marriage to his first wife, the birth of his daughter, his lover, are all mixed in with acrobats, dancers, and musicians—representing the vibrant saga of a man whose life was filled with beauty and torment.

  I stare at the painting, imagining my own life and how Chagall might have painted it: my parents’ messy divorce when I was five, my cold, aloof mother, my estranged father and his new family, meeting a
nd marrying Gabe, my short-lived sculpting career, giving birth to Ava, the postpartum depression, the pregnancy struggles, our close-knit group of friends, Gabe’s lovers, Ava’s pregnancy scare, and now me alone—with no acrobats or musicians to prop me up. Like Chagall, I, too, am at an intersection in France, amid beauty and torment. I feel the painter’s brushstrokes roiling inside me. His world, like my new one, is volatile in both mood and color. I stand in front of the masterpiece, feeling both alone and less alone.

  Other visitors gather around the painting. I notice a young couple to the right of me, arms looped casually, heads cocked, jointly assessing the Chagall. I cannot help but stare at them. The guy looks vaguely familiar. How can that be? His hair is gelled and his sinewy arms are filled with colorful swirling tattoos like in one of those trendy adult coloring books. The woman standing next to him is slim and lovely, angelic, with dark blonde hair flowing down her back in waves, wearing a loose peasant dress and booties. I try not to stare, and then it hits me.

  It’s Jean-Paul, the hotel valet. It can’t be, but it is. I suddenly have that displaced feeling like when you were a kid and spotted your teacher at the grocery store—it just didn’t make sense. Teachers don’t shop, hotel valets don’t go to art exhibits. Jean-Paul out of his elegant suit and tie wearing tight faded jeans and covered in tats is deceptive. It’s as though this doppelgänger is the sophisticated Jean-Paul’s badass identical twin.

  He feels my intense gaze on him, turns in my direction, trying to place me as well. And then his crystal blue eyes light up. “Bonjour, madame.” He smiles at me.

  I retract slightly. Madame feels like I’m the Old Maid discovered in a deck of cards. But I return the warm smile, run my hands self-consciously through my new hair. “Yes, bonjour. Jean-Paul, right?”

  “Oui—yes.” His eyes twinkle or maybe it’s my imagination. But he is definitely looking at me differently than he had at the hotel. There, it was all about graciousness and protocol, but here he seems to be eyeing me as a man would a woman from across the bar. Man? He’s not a day over twenty-five.