by Heidi Lowe
"I don't want any of this to come between the two of you. You've been friends forever."
"We'll always be friends. Doesn't mean I have to agree with, or support, all of her decisions."
We drink in silence for a while, and I feel her watching me. It's as if she knows that I want to cry. Every minute that I'm alone with my thoughts, a feeling of nausea swells in my stomach, and I just want to break down.
Finally she says, "So, what happens now?"
"I don't know. I never thought I would have to think about that, about a life without Nikki."
"What about Em, did you make any arrangements for visitation?"
I sigh, rest my head in my hands. "We didn't get that far. She can see her whenever she wants. But I'm not so sure I want her around Angel, if what you say about her is true. I just don't want to have to deal with any of this." I don't tell her that, even now, the optimist – the hopeless romantic in me – still holds fast to the hope that this separation isn't forever. There's still time for her to wake up. I'm still madly in love with her, even though I don't like her very much right now. My head's in the sand and I'm loath to remove it.
"And I know Emily wants to spend time with her, but I just can't see her right now. It hurts too much."
"Oh, honey." She sets her cup down and wraps her arms around my neck. "I wish I could do something for you. You don't deserve this."
"So why is it happening to me?" I say in a weak voice, choked up. I'm a firm believer in karma. At some point in my past I must have really pissed off the cosmos.
Ivy Dornan, part time literary agent to nobodies like me, cannot read a room. I've known this about her since the first day we met, when she approached me at a cooking event and practically forced me to hire her as my agent. For a book I not only hadn't written, but at the time didn't even know I wanted to write!
"You're a household name, Faye! Everyone's talking about you," she beams. It's a pleasant Wednesday afternoon and we're meeting for coffee at a little place in town. I would rather be anywhere else but here, talking shop, but she insisted I come. I'm waiting for her to notice the lack of enthusiasm in just about every one of my replies, but like I said, she's never been good at reading a room.
"Okay," I say, more interested in making patterns in the spilled sugar on the table with my finger. Just my luck that when my marriage falls apart, I become famous. Typical.
"Okay? Is that all you have to say?"
"Great. Fantastic. Whatever."
"I want to book you a spot on the Beverley Beaker Show. Her key demographic is suburban housewives with nothing else to do with their time but try out new recipes. They'll love you."
"Why, because I'm basically them? At least, I used to be..."
It goes over her head. "They can relate to you. You're the housewife next door. The perfect life, the perfect marriage, the cutest little kid. Something to aspire to, you know. That reminds me, I need to write a check for Rocky's piano teacher." She brushes her dark blonde bangs out of her face for the hundredth time this afternoon. Everything she does is over the top, full of energy. I'm almost certain she has undiagnosed ADHD.
"My marriage is anything but perfect, and certainly nothing to aspire to," I say quietly.
"Oh, it's the twenty-first century, Faye," she says, waving a dismissive hand at me. "No one cares that you're in a civil partnership. Gay is the new black. Everyone knows that."
She really is clueless. Usually I find her babbling amusing, but today I have little patience for it.
"That's not what I meant. My marriage isn't one to aspire to because it's over!"
My words don't register immediately, and when they do she just gawks at me, having stopped chewing her cookie.
"What do you mean it's over?"
"I mean my wife cheated on me then chose the other woman." My voice is casual, even though inside I'm still crying. Why can't I just drop the facade and let myself be vulnerable? I have every right to hurt publicly. I get to have that.
Her eyes search mine for signs of jest, and when she finds none, she sips her coffee, then says, "Whoa, when did this happen?"
"A couple of weeks ago. That's why I haven't been returning your calls. It's kind of hard to enjoy my new-found fame when I'm picking up the pieces of my broken marriage."
"Man, that's tough. Why didn't you say something earlier? I feel so insensitive now. I'm sorry, Faye."
"It's fine. But could we not talk about it? You know now, so let's just move on."
"Yeah, sure. Of course," she says quickly. Then she goes quiet again. I know that when she opens her mouth, she's going to pry. She can't help it. There's something about a train wreck that keeps people staring at it. "Nikki doesn't seem the type to do something like that. Admittedly I don't know her all that well, but she always seemed so devoted to you. My sister and I joke all the time about Mama Kitchen and her picture perfect life."
"She deceived us all."
"My sister, Melanie, went through the same thing with her girlfriend of ten years a couple of years ago. But their relationship had been hopeless from the start. Her girlfriend was bound to cheat."
Perhaps ours had been too, but I was too busy with the book and blog to notice. Isn't that how it usually goes? One spouse ignores all the signs, then turns around and the marriage is over? Was Nikki really miserable with me this whole time and I just didn't notice? The very idea terrifies me. Because it would mean that I pushed her to this, turned her into someone unrecognizable. I don't want to blame myself for this, but I end up doing it anyway. It's easier than considering the possibility that my marriage was a lie, that her heart belonged to another woman for the duration of it.
"Melanie and her ex only had a cat," she continues. "Kids in break ups make things a thousand times more complicated. Custody, new partners..." She shudders. "As a child of divorce, I can attest to how messy things can get."
I groan. She isn't even trying to make me feel better. I know she can't help herself. I think this is why she's only a part time agent; a full time role would require her to have more empathy, be more sensitive to people's feelings.
"Hey, you'll get through it. Throw yourself into your work. That's what I like to do when my personal life takes a dump on me. Let me book you a couple of interviews."
"Do whatever you want," I say with little feeling. "I don't care anymore."
She isn't paying much attention to me, she's already getting out her phone and making notes in her calendar.
"That's the spirit. Hey, and when you're ready to get back out there, my sister's still single..."
She doesn't look up, because if she did she would see the horrified look I'm shooting her. It's been a mere two weeks, and already people are trying to set me up.
FIVE
Several pairs of jeans and a couple of my favorite summer dresses don't fit anymore. Six weeks into the break up and I've already shed close to fifteen lbs.
I examine myself in the mirror in just my underwear. The weight loss hasn't done me any favors. As they say, the first place to lose it is the breasts, which, unfortunately, is true in my case. As I cup them in my hands, weighing them, the feeling of depression only increases. Am I the only woman in the world upset about losing weight?
"Who needs Weight Watchers when you have a broken marriage?" I say to myself.
There are unbecoming bags under my eyes thanks to my lack of sleep. But they're not as prominent as they were at the beginning of the separation. Maybe I can convince a stranger passing me on the street that I'm doing all right. Or at least doing better.
I pull on my jeans, and they sag around the waist. There's a little too much room in the thigh area also. These are the tightest pair I own now.
My concealer has lain untouched for weeks. Now I'm ready to wear makeup again, even if it's just this. I want to say that I'm doing this – making an effort – for myself, but that's not the case. Nikki called yesterday and said she wants to talk. She didn't elaborate, though I can guess what it's about.
She sounded so lost on the phone, so troubled. I think she's finally ready to stop playing this stupid game and come home. We haven't seen each other in four weeks. Cutting off contact with her and letting Sandra be the intermediary where Emily is concerned was clearly the right way to go. It's taken her this long to realize that she messed up. It will take much longer for us to get back to a good place – for the stench of another woman to vanish from her. But it hardly even matters now. I just want her home.
It's a Saturday and Sandra is looking after Emily for the day.
"Make sure she gets down on her hands and knees before you let her come home," Sandra had said when I told her about the upcoming talk.
"We don't even know if that's what she wants to talk about."
"It is, trust me."
I shouldn't be this excited, but I can't help myself. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, making me giddy and lightheaded. Will she grovel and beg for my forgiveness? Will it be a tearful submission? How long will it take for me to break my icy facade and let her hold me again? It's been so long since I felt her, I've all but forgotten how good it feels to be in her arms. I doubt I'll be able to play stoic for long before I give in.
The bell rings and I practically fly down the stairs to let her in. She's opted not to use her key, out of respect, probably. And she's early. I suck in as much air as my lungs will allow and yank the door open, my whole body trembling.
I freeze on the spot when I see who my visitor is. Not my estranged wife, but the very woman responsible for our break up.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I spit.
Even though I can't see those callous blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed designer shades, I know they're smiling. They must match the wide grin she's wearing. In the sunlight, her golden hair glistens, her perfect white teeth sparkle, and she makes me want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Her smile speaks volumes. It's her way of taunting me, as if her being there isn't enough of a taunt. In that smile I see all the nights she's spent with my wife, all the times she's made Nikki climax.
What the hell is she doing here?
"Is that how you usually greet your visitors?" she says.
I don't have a violent bone in my body, but in that moment my fingers itch to slap her, to knock that smile off her face. I hate her, and it seems that my hatred only inspires her.
"Get the hell away from my property," I say, and attempt to slam the door shut, but she's quick. The next thing I know she's in my hallway, and her grin hasn't faded.
"Wow, and here I thought you would be more classy about this. Slamming the door in my face? Really? That's not very polite."
I shoot her a look of daggers, and pray that she gets knocked down by a drunk driver. Then I immediately feel bad for wishing that on another person, and take it back. That's not like me. Though, to be fair, no one has caused me more pain than this woman. I've never had to deal with real, unbridled hate before. This is new. And boy am I feeling it to my core.
"It's bad enough that you sleep with my wife behind my back, but now you're here trying to rub it in my face. That's just sick. What kind of person are you?"
She chuckles. "Apparently the kind of person who's so unforgettable I can come back seven years later and pick up right where I left off."
"Get out of my house!" I scream. My temple throbs. How could she say these things to me?
"Not yet. I think you need to hear what I have to say first."
"I'm calling the police." I start off to retrieve my phone but she grabs my wrist.
"No, you're not. The police can't save your marriage. Nothing can do that."
I yank my hand from her grip. It's taking all my might not to hit her. She probably wants me to, then she'll be able to play the victim. She won't even let me have that.
"If that's the case, why would Nikki be on her way over here to talk? Because she's woken up and seen you for what you are, and knows she'll never be happy with you." I'm inches away from her face. She smells like coconuts. That brings me back to a time a few months ago, when Nikki smelled like coconuts. Although I'm trying to hold my stance, it falters a little upon the realization that I was smelling Angel on my wife back then and didn't even know it.
She lifts her glasses off. "Wait a minute. You think she's coming here to get back with you?" Her eyes are filled with amusement. And the next thing I know, she's chortling, right in my face, as though I've just told the funniest one-liner ever.
"Oh my God, you really are pathetic. What bit about what I told you six weeks ago didn't register? Your marriage is a joke. It always was. She married you because she couldn't have me. She saw herself getting old, and she didn't want to be alone. It was never about happiness, or love."
"You lying son of a bitch!" I'm like a rabid dog now, all but frothing at the mouth. "You don't know anything. I was with her for six years. Don't you think I know my wife better than the piece of ass she had for a little while when she was younger?"
Her smile falters. Did I hit a nerve? What was it that got under her skin?
"Your wife? Funny you should say that..." She reaches into her purse and takes out a brown envelope. "You wanted to know why I'm here? Open it and see."
I don't want to; I don't want to take anything from her. When I snatch it from her, it doesn't cross my mind what devastating thing might be inside.
"Nikki and I are just trying to correct an error we made seven years ago. Everyone makes mistakes. This is her way of fixing hers."
I'm not really listening as I tear open the envelope. I can hear my heart thumping. It can't be what I think it is. Nikki wouldn't do this. Not like this. Not so soon.
I've never seen divorce papers before, and when I said my vows I hoped I never would. But right before my eyes, in black and white (though it might as well be written in blood) are divorce papers, with my name on them.
The papers slip out of my hand and drop to the floor.
"Consider yourself served. You should probably stop wearing that ring, too. It looks a little desperate." Her voice sounds distant. Everything seems far away. The world seems to be spinning. I'm dizzy and delirious. I drop onto the steps, mouth agape.
"But it's only been a few weeks..." I shake my head slowly, over and over. These words aren't for her, they're for me. "Why so quickly?"
Her words are so heavy with glee when she says, "Because bigamy's illegal in this country."
It takes only a second to comprehend what she means, and I turn to her slowly with a look of pure horror. "She's marrying you?"
This has to be a nightmare. A sick, twisted nightmare. Nikki wouldn't do this. Not like this, especially. You wouldn't do this to your worst enemy, sending your future wife to hand your current wife divorce papers. No. I can't accept that the woman I dedicated the last six years of my life to would hurt me like this. The ultimate betrayal.
"Like I said, it was always supposed to be me. This was always supposed to be my life. It took me a while to see that, but the most important thing is that we found each other again."
I'm trying to glare at her but all I feel is shattered inside, just an all-encompassing sadness that forces tears to my eyes and down my cheeks.
"I don't believe you," I say, but my tears tell a different story. I wish I didn't, but I do. "She wouldn't do it like this."
"Believe whatever you want," she says, shrugging and replacing her sunglasses. "But do everyone a favor and just sign the papers. Sooner rather than later. I want this wrapped up quickly. You can keep the kid, too. She won't fight you."
That's the last straw. The rage takes no time at all to build, to reach boiling point, and I shoot up from the step.
"Get out now! Don't you ever come around here again." It's my turn to grab her by the arm. I drag the cackling fiend to the door, then shove her out and slam it shut. I turn back, see the papers on the floor, pick them up and open the door again. "As long as I still have breath in my lungs, I'm never signing these papers!" I tear them to pieces as she watches on, then let
them fall on the doorstep.
"You lost, Faye. Accept it and move on."
I hurry back inside, close the door behind me, and crumble to the floor in the hallway. It's taken a mere six weeks for my life to fall apart. It will probably take a lifetime to heal.
SIX
Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing is real. It's as if every memory of Nikki and me together has been erased. Every beautiful moment we shared, wiped out as though they never happened.
"She wants a divorce," I keep repeating as I walk in a zombie-like trance up the stairs and into my bedroom.
I'm in shock, like someone who's just witnessed the death of their whole family. In fact, this was precisely how I felt the night my sister, my last remaining family member, died. It's like an out of body experience, like the ordeal is happening to someone else and I'm merely watching from the sidelines.
"My marriage is over," I say, sitting absently on the edge of the bed. That's it, a dissociative state. Isn't that what you call it when a person loses all sense of reality, of time and place, and becomes so lost in their trauma that they can't think, or reason, or cry?
Now it hits me. I've been holding on to false hope, the hope of a fool. A fool who has, up till now, only been seeing what she wants to see; believing what she wants to believe. The truth is, and has always been, that my marriage was over the second Nikki walked out on me and our daughter. I should have known. Nothing would prompt a person like her to do something like that unless every fiber of her being convinced her it was the right move.
She was never coming back to me.
But to send her mistress – her whore – to relay the news, only a person with no heart would do such a thing.
My body shakes as I try to quell the tears. I try to blink them away, but they keep falling. They're so used to that by now; I couldn't stop them if I tried.
Then I do something that I've never done before. A bloodcurdling scream rips from my mouth and fills the room. It's so loud it burns my throat.