Things Unsaid: A Novel

by Diana Y. Paul

  Joanne dusted off the head, a dead ringer for Cleopatra, resting in the papier-mâché tomb in the front window. She had bought the faux mummy in Seattle from a costume shop that was closing. The majority of its business, the girl at the register had told her, was at Halloween and for the hospital costume ball—no wonder the store hadn’t survived. But Joanne loved her mummy—it was a real eye-catcher, perfect for showcasing all her fossils from the Jurassic and other prehistoric periods. Then again, maybe she just identified with its bandaged face.

  His office was minimalist, located in a four-story building, tall by Edmonds standards. The tallest in town, in fact. Soft, russet-orange leather couches, colorful abstract prints, tall dracaena plants. Joanne felt she was going to be paying for some of that decor. Or, rather, her sister would. Divorce lawyers were expensive, almost $300 per hour. But well worth it, according to her friends who should know.

  She waited in the reception area as the attractive, silver-haired receptionist answered what seemed like nonstop incoming calls. Divorce must be big business.

  Joanne had bought a burrito from the greasy takeout place, Maya’s, across from her store. Comfort food. She had only one hour to consult with Seligman. The message she had left on Al’s answering machine was probably garbled, and she hated the thought of having to repeat herself at the end of her workday, explaining what was obvious. That it was over.

  Seligman entered the waiting room straightening his tie—probably an Italian Zegna silk one. Impeccably dressed. Handsome, early forties. Joanne tugged at her skirt and pulled down her Indian peasant blouse, one of her favorite ones: black cotton with embroidered flowers of red, yellow, and aqua. The drawstring around the neckline could be loosened with one finger. Joanne extended her hand and flashed a smile. Seligman zoomed in on her décolletage, introducing himself to her breasts before looking up.

  “Why don’t we step into my office?” he said, waving her ahead of him.

  Joanne obeyed, and soon found herself sitting across from Seligman, a cup of tea in hand.

  Seligman leaned forward in his chair. “And what can I do for you this lovely noon hour?”

  That sounded a bit sleazy, but Joanne decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You are a divorce lawyer, aren’t you? So you probably don’t have to read my mind to figure it out.”

  “Well, I’m good. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you what you want.”

  “I know this is old hat for you, Mr. Seligman. But this is my first—and hopefully, my only—divorce.” She steadied her voice. When she felt it was safe, she went on. “My heart and mind are backed up. Screwed up, I know. But. I’ve got to stop poisoning myself—and Sarah and Megan, my daughters, too. I really do, but I don’t know where to begin. I’ve been living apart from my husband for years.”

  “Then you can start by actually divorcing him. Not just thinking about it. That’s my job.” Seligman touched her hand. “We’ll try for an amicable divorce settlement without a lowered standard of living for you.”

  Joanne nodded. That sounded good. She needed some breathing space.

  “You shouldn’t consider it a disgrace or anything,” he said in a lighter tone.

  Before Joanne could respond, her cell phone lit up. “Mom,” bright and white, on the screen. One too many calls from Mom. This time she was going through with it. Enough of Mom’s advice that a woman without a man was nothing.

  Joanne placed her and her husband’s joint tax returns on the attorney’s desk, fluffing her hair and pulling her peasant blouse down as she did. Maybe he could reduce the fees. She was almost sure he was single—or at least that he wished he were.

  “You can see from my tax returns that my income by itself wouldn’t be enough to live on. And my mom wouldn’t be comfortable if I had to lower my standard of living. She couldn’t bear seeing me that way. I’d be a failure in her eyes. And besides, I can’t move Sarah and Megan out of our neighborhood—it has the best school system here! They have to have the very best, no matter how lousy my marriage is.”

  Joanne thought again of the conversation her mother had had with Andrew about her topaz ring. Was she as concerned with Joanne’s well-being as Joanne was with that of her own daughters? She wasn’t so sure now.

  She heard her mother’s voice again: “What Joanne doesn’t know won’t hurt her, now will it?” Listening to the recording, Joanne had been able to hear her own breath stop, and her eyes had clouded up so she couldn’t see clearly anymore.

  Why would her mother do that to her? Break her promise to give her the topaz ring she had wanted as a little girl?

  After Joanne returned to her shop from the attorney’s office, she saw two young photographers, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, hurrying down the street, heaving equipment—cameras, tripods, and lights—as a van followed slowly behind them. A pretty young redhead dressed too stylishly for Edmonds was setting their pace. In a snug black-and-white-striped knit dress—the kind so formfitting that only a young woman who worked out every single day could pull off—she led them single file down Main Street, carefully avoiding divots with her stiletto heels. Joanne watched the three of them walk into the Wine Sip, the wine bar that had opened two months ago across the street. A huge wooden placard with purple-colored globe grapes hung outside; at night, it was lit up neon. Joanne liked their happy-hour wine tastings because some of the local guys were hot. So was one of those two photographers. Wonder what that’s all about? Joanne thought as she dusted, peeking out the storefront window. Back from Seligman’s just in time for some action, perhaps.

  She was in the back of the store making herself a cup of Tibetan white tea—hoping for good karma—when she heard the ringing of her sleigh bells slapping against the front door on their leather strap. Her friend, Stacy, had bought the bells as a Christmas present for her. She loved old things—they reminded her of happier circumstances, childhood. And Christmas was fast approaching.

  The two photographers came into the store, followed by the tall, slender redhead. “Good morning. Welcome to A Real Gem,” she beamed, trying to look busy, dusting more frantically. Her happy pill always could be called upon, kicking in in sixty seconds, fast and furious.

  Thank God for her happy pills. Celexa—a lifesaver. Not quite literally a Life Saver; they were more oval, without the hole, and a paler red than the candy she’d liked to suck on when she was little.

  Joanne couldn’t quite remember what had first propelled her to call her shrink. She thought it had something to do with crying at the movies—crying so hard she couldn’t stop, even after the closing credits. Someone in the theater had gotten up out of his seat and yelled at her to stop all that racket one hour in.

  It had to have been a Friday evening—her weekly movie date with Mom, after she closed the cash register and locked up. Just the two of them, mother-daughter quality time. Sometimes Megan and Sarah, or just one of them, would tag along. But not usually. At the last movie they went to see—My Sister’s Keeper—Joanne had run out of Kleenex. Her mother kept needling her, impatient and annoyed.

  “Why can’t you stop all that crybaby stuff? Do you have a bladder for tear ducts, like my mother had? Sobbing at nothing,” she scolded, passing a tissue like a small white flag to her.

  Joanne had surrendered. After her visit with her psychiatrist, Dr. von Simson, she’d watched the same movie, Kleenex box within reach, by herself—and she was fine. No tears.

  “I had gone from cable TV with one lousy channel before I had my appointment with my shrink. But now I’m back to the entire two hundred channels, more alive,” she remembered telling Jules.

  “Happy pills may help,” her sister had said. “But you should seek counseling when you get back to Seattle. Not just medication.”

  Joanne wanted her sister to give her free counseling. Jules had refused.

  “It’s never a good idea to treat your own family,” Jules said. “You need some distance to see the dynamics. Besides, I do learning disabilities, not depression. An
d since I deal with kids—and don’t approve of medicating them—I just don’t keep up on such things.”

  “Well, I have a new, brighter personality. Don’t you know I don’t want the old me—the one no one likes? I donated that one to charity.”

  Where was her sister’s exuberance about her new self? Had she left her capacity for joy by the curb for the garbage collectors to pick up? She was no fun anymore.

  “Well, hello,” the older camera guy said, cutting off her thoughts about her sister. He was about forty, maybe forty-five. Looked cute in his baseball cap and dark blue sweatshirt, which was emblazoned with “Seattle Mariners”—probably bought at the Sea-Tac airport. He was lean, clean, athletic.

  “You must be new in town.” Joanne grinned and stared straight at his camera, admiring her own reflection in the large lens. Surprising reflection, mirrorlike. Her face looked like it should.

  “Yeah,” the younger man interjected. About thirty years old, Joanne guessed. Thinning blond hair, a friendly face, kind of soft in the gut. A bit taller than the other guy. Someone you would feel comfortable with. But definitely not my type, she thought. She liked the older one. The twenty-something, freckle-faced redhead now stepped forward, reaching for her business card in her expensive-looking woven-leather tote as she did.

  “Hi, I’m Gwyneth Chambers, a reporter for Sunset magazine,” she said, carefully handing off her card as if it were a Tiffany diamond ring.

  Joanne could feel her heart pounding. Sunset magazine! Did they want to feature her store? What a stroke of good luck, and I badly need it, she thought. Maybe it was the Tibetan white tea she drank every day—or maybe those Buddhist chants her sister recommended worked after all.

  “These are my photographers, Brett Ashcroft and Keith Cherkoff. They take all the photos after I decide who we interview. Then there’s a follow-up e-mail requesting any information we may need before publishing the issue.”

  Joanne’s nervousness was almost freezing her insides.

  “We’re doing a piece on downtown Edmonds and thought we would feature a few stores, no more than four,” Gwyneth continued. “Brett liked the looks of the mummy in the front window as a photo-op.” Brett smiled and looked right at Joanne with his steel-black eyes. That sweatshirt probably hides quite the body, from lifting heavy camera equipment all day, she reflected.

  Joanne could feel the two photographers’ eyes checking her out. She’d always liked that. She slowly unlocked the drawers that held her most interesting minerals and semiprecious stones.

  “Let me explain a little bit about what makes A Real Gem stand out from other jewelry stores. Then, why don’t you take a look around?” Joanne suggested, leaning over the counter to display herself. “Would you like to see a piece? For someone special in your life?” Joanne asked shamelessly. All the guys she had dated in the past had been losers. But her luck was going to change. She just knew it.

  Brett looked for a long time at one case that held some of her favorite amethyst geodes. He flashed his perfect white teeth at her—a smile that she hadn’t seen or felt, even on her own face, for so long—and said, “There’s no one in my life right now. Don’t know how to get back in the game.” He smiled and slowly took shots of different parts of the store before landing the camera lens directly on her. “I’d like to take you home and place you around my coffee table,” he said, his voice low.

  Joanne sighed to herself. He probably was a player after all.

  “Well,” Gwyneth interjected. “We could linger here all day, but we do have to find two other stores besides this one. The Wine Sip’s a good choice as a showcase for some of the burgeoning wineries around this area. So, why don’t you”—she turned towards Brett—“get some background info on Joanne while Keith and I go off to take some wide-angle shots of the street and the harbor.”

  As Gwyneth and Keith walked out, Brett awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking down at Joanne’s high-heeled shoes—or maybe it was her bust he was focused on. She could never tell about those things. Didn’t matter, though. Her cleavage was deep, and she was proud of her newly reconstructed breasts. Perhaps they would turn out to be a better investment than even she had first imagined.

  “Guess I should just take photos of the merchandise … and you. You’ll be an eye-catcher on the page,” he said, gulping, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. That always endeared a guy to her. Had a vague phallic connotation. Sexy.

  She was busy plotting a night’s fun with Brett—tonight’s happy pill—when the bells on the front door clanged, and her friend Pamela strode in.

  “Hey, how’re you doing?” Pamela asked, not looking at Joanne but zooming in on Brett, curious, trying to figure out the connection.

  “Hey yourself, Pamela,” Joanne grinned. “Want you to meet someone from Sunset magazine—Brett Ashcroft.”

  “Hi. Would love to take some photos of customer-owner interaction. Always good for our magazine. Doesn’t look so staged.” He aimed his telephoto lens at Joanne, focusing and refocusing.

  I’ll light aromatherapy candles to capture the right mood tonight, she thought.

  The next morning, Brett left very early—without even leaving a phone number or e-mail address. Joanne, uninterested in getting out of bed, phoned her sister. She was surprised when Jules actually picked up.

  “Hey, Jules, what’s up?” she said. “I miss you. And I’ve been waiting for your response to my e-mail. Did you get it?”

  Silence.

  Uh-oh, what does that mean? “And I went to see a lawyer. Followed your advice about that. Of course, good advice—besides yours—is expensive. Seligman—that’s my hotshot divorce attorney—charges $300 per hour. So freedom won’t come cheap.”

  “Well, I need to talk to you about that, actually,” Jules began. Her voice didn’t sound welcoming. “I can’t talk long. Have to be someplace.” She continued, her voice sounding tight. “I’ve been thinking how to respond to the e-mail you sent. You know, Mike and I are not a money tree. This is just too much. Have you thought about asking your healthcare providers for relief from some of your medical expenses? A payment plan?”

  “You know I haven’t been able to make much money on my own. But I just found out that I’m going to be featured in Sunset magazine, so that will certainly help business. Maybe help me pay back some of what I owe you, too.”

  “That’s great! I mean it. Congratulations on Sunset, Jo. But still, you’re going to have to find another way out of debt. Sell some jewelry Mother has given you, for example. Right now, Mike and I have to think of our own daughter. Try to understand. We’ll try to help, but we can’t do it all by ourselves. We’re in serious trouble ourselves.” Jules began to cry.

  “Sis, don’t cry. It will be okay. But the money stuff … you’ve got to help me out there. I feel trapped.” Joanne cradled the receiver. “I still feel like ending everything sometimes. Maybe it would be easier on everyone if I did.”

  “It’s okay, Joanne. It’s okay,” Jules said. “We’ll work something out. Got to go.”

  Joanne promised herself she wouldn’t refuse to see what lay ahead and make matters worse by spending more … on her face, her clothes, and jewelry. She would not be like their mother. But she did want a way out of the mess she was in. Nothing but bills, bills, bills. She was on her way to give them all to Seligman for the asset disclosure review.

  The settlement conference was happening tomorrow. Al would be present with his lawyers to negotiate the settlement over the house. Since they lived in a community-property state, she was confident she should get 50 percent. Still, this year was not exactly the best for real estate. She’d be lucky to get $300,000. They had had the house a long time, at least, so there was some equity built up.

  Joanne could imagine the relief on her sister’s face when Joanne told her she was getting that kind of money from the settlement. And maybe she could help Jules out later. When she got back on her feet.

  “Keep your emotion
s out of it,” Jules had advised her when she first told her she was looking into hiring a divorce attorney. “Try to settle without destroying your family or bankrupting yourself. Don’t fight for petty things. It could cost you $1,500 in attorney fees to get $200 more—that’s what my divorced girlfriends told me. And remember, don’t let Al’s lawyer inflame the situation. You’ve waited the required ninety days for cooling off. Remember this is a ‘good faith’ settlement, not an adversarial one. Not hostile. Do not polarize things. Soon it will all be over. I know this is tough for you, little sis.”

  Easy for Jules to say, Joanne thought as she left the box of past-due bills at Seligman’s front desk.

  Seligman was there waiting when Joanne arrived the next morning, wearing a very conservative, serious black suit. He smelled like an overdose of aftershave.

  “Hi, Mrs. Grant. Your husband and his attorney will be here shortly. Are you ready?” he asked, peering too closely into her eyes. “This may be difficult for you—an intense discussion over financial affairs.”

  Then Al and his attorney walked into the room. Her husband avoided making eye contact. Rusty Weisbroth, his attorney, made with the niceties and then started negotiations. Joanne liked that—the meter was running. The less time they spent there, the better.

  “Both parties seem to be in agreement over everything except the house,” Seligman said after the preliminary rundown of assets.

  “My client feels that the house shouldn’t be split down the middle, 50/50, because of the work he has done to repair and remodel. Here are the receipts, although you’ve received these disclosure documents previously,” Weisbroth said.

  It just isn’t fair, Joanne fumed. She had lost the lottery. She actually preferred her small loft apartment—beautiful, open, and airy—to the house she’d shared with Al. Her new place was spare and minimalist, the opposite of the home she had moved out of, the one her parents had bought for her. She could see the harbor, where the ferry carried commuters and tourists, and the Cascades from her porch—that was the reason for her exorbitant rent. But she had downsized significantly. And most of the time, she had the girls with her.