The Breakup (11 page)

Mary looked frightened. “What’s he gonna do to us, Mrs. Ryan?”

I held her in my arms. Her hair smelled of Alberto VO5. “He’s never going to do anything to either of us, ever again.”

She started sobbing. “It’s just not fair, Mrs. Ryan.”

“What’s not fair, Mary?”

“I was supposed to be a married American wife. That’s what I was supposed to be!”

Mary seemed to be teetering between heartbreak and an aggressive sense of entitlement, the way Pete gets when he’s denied
something he’d expected to have. (“But you
told
me the ice cream truck would come through the neighborhood today! It’s just not fair!”) I didn’t know what to say except
the lame, allpurpose: “Nobody ever said life was going to be fair.”

She looked up at me and blinked. “True.” She hugged me more tightly now.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ryan. Thank you for being my friend.”

I had no idea what I was going to do with a sixteen-year-old Filipina, but I certainly didn’t plan
to send her back to that cell on Lake Merle. I told her I’d pay for her way back to the Philippines. “Oh no, Mrs. Ryan!” She
was terrified. “I can’t ever go back home. My father would kill me if he found out what happened. I can’t ever go back, ever.
Please don’t send me back there!”

“Mary, do you have any family in the States?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Somewhere in Philadelphia.” She pronounced it “Pilladelphia.” “They are cousins of my father.”

“Mary, I’m going to try to arrange for you to live with them. Until then”—I swallowed hard—“you can stay with me for a while,
me and Pete.”

She was elated. “And Tippy? With the babies?”

“Well, Tippy yes, but we’ll have to bring the babies to the animal shelter. We can’t take them too.”

“Okay, Mrs. Ryan. That’s okay.” She looked disappointed, but quickly brightened. “Thank you, Mrs. Ryan.”

“Call me Valerie, please.” Suddenly I heard the door slam and I knew Roger was leaving. The garage door rumbled open. Mary
and I went to the bay window in the living room and we watched his van back out of the driveway. His eyes met mine as he pulled
away. Then he flashed his middle finger.

Mary is in the guest room now, watching
I Love Lucy.
It’s been a long day.

’Til next time,

V

Mary’s period is eleven days late. This morning she threw up after breakfast. I should be ripping my hair out, but I feel
oddly serene. Is it the Prozac, or the prospect of having a baby in the house again? I know the neighbors would relish the
gossip: First my husband had an underage lover, and now a baby? But the compelling reality is that this child would be linked
by blood to my own son. Why wouldn’t I want that child growing up in this house? On the other hand, the baby would be a constant
reminder of Roger’s sexual hubris. And what if Roger insists on helping to raise this child? On the other, other hand: A baby!
A sweet, soft package of cuddly love! I get all gooey inside just thinking about it. Or am I just losing my mind?

’Til next time,

V

Oh, God. Mary says that she wants to “make the baby go away.” Apparently, Roger phoned her while I was out and insisted she
get an abortion or he would get her booted out of the country. She’s been on the phone all afternoon with her Auntie Esta
in the Philippines. From what I can piece together, Esta belongs to some kind of underground women’s group
that, among other services, dispenses advice on doit-yourself abortion.

“Auntie Esta knows everything,” Mary told me. She waved a paper in front of my face. In the bubbly universal handwriting of
teen girls, Mary had scribbled a list of herbs. I recognized a few. Black cohosh. Pennyroyal. “Please,” she begged. “We got
to go to the store.”

I grabbed the paper and ripped it up. “Roger lied to you,” I told her, shouting over her sobs. “He’s a liar, Mary. Don’t you
realize that by now? Nobody is throwing you out of the country.” I told her that I would arrange for her citizenship. I told
her everything would be okay, though I didn’t quite believe it myself.

’Til next time,

V

Dale called this morning, just when I was yanking Petey out of bed. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

My heart did a little flip-flop of joy. Dale, a social worker and my closest friend when I worked at the Center, one of the
few people who knew me in my former life. Dale knew me when I wore stockings and
high heels, when I carried a briefcase and earned my own money.

“I don’t know, Dale. How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

“Fish.” He paused, waited for me to laugh. I did. “Hey,” he continued, “did you hear the one about the dyslexic-agnostic insomniac?
He stays up all night wondering if there really is a Dog.”

I immediately felt lighter and happier. It turns out Dale finally quit the Center. “Too much bureaucratic bullshit,” he said.

“So what are you going to do next?”

“Well, Eric and I were thinking of moving out to Vermont to get married, except I can’t stand those snooty New Englanders.
So I guess we’ll just stay here and pretend we’re brothers so our upstanding neighbors keep liking us.”

“You’re not serious. You and Eric pretend you’re brothers?”

“We do! We say we’re twins, fraternal, which explains why we don’t look alike.”

“Which explains why he’s black?”

Dale laughed. “Well, the truth is, we don’t really talk to the neighbors, which is fine by me. They’re all so icky.”

“So you might as well move to Vermont. At least you won’t have to pretend you’re brothers.”

“Maybe. Anyway, enough about me. What’s up with you?”

While Petey brushed his teeth, I gave Dale a quick sketch: Eddie, Diana, Roger’s pathological infidelity, Dad’s illness, Mary,
the divorce.

“Oh, sweetie, that’s a heavy load for one lifetime. How do you find the motivation to get out of bed in the morning?”

“It’s called Prozac,” I told him.

“Hey, welcome to the club.”

“You too?” I asked, feeling like we were sharing a sly secret.

“Yes, ma’am. Every day for the last nine months. Wouldn’t skip a dose if you paid me.”

“Oh, Dale, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed you.”

“Likewise, my friend, likewise.” We made plans to get together for lunch next week, then it was time to get Pete to school.
“By the way,” he added, “I’ve got very juicy news about our old friend.”

“Who?”

“Marissa, Clarissa, whatever her name was. The hooker.”

“Oh, God. Tell me!”

“No. Not now. Next week. Over lunch,” he said. “This way you can’t cancel out on me.”

Later, after Pete was down for the night, I tried to explain my feelings about abortion to Mary, feelings that have always
been more visceral than political, which is why I hesitate to share them. I don’t think
most people would peg me for the anti-abortion type; I mean, it’s not like I’d ever stand in front of Planned Parenthood with
a picket sign. Actually, it was my sister Teresa who prodded me into finally crystallizing my thoughts on the topic. We were
in the kitchen, and I’d spotted some ants marching across the counter. Roger would have crushed them under his thumb, but
I felt compelled to herd them into a Dixie cup and release them outside. I did the same with mice, moths, beetles, even roaches.

“Lemme get this straight, little sister,” Teresa said. “You don’t have the heart to kill a tiny sugar ant, but killing a developing
person is okay?” I didn’t want to debate her because I knew I’d lose, but her comment stuck. And once I became pregnant with
Pete, I became even more ambivalent about abortion.

I dug up a book of photos taken inside the womb, the one I read practically every day when I was pregnant with Pete. As Mary
and I flipped through the pages, I thought: This is Mary’s body, not mine. Mary’s pregnancy, not mine. Mary’s choice, not
mine. But I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t at least tried to offer a different perspective. I think she has changed
her mind. She hasn’t asked about the herbs, hasn’t called her Aunt Esta. So I think we’re okay. For now.

’Til next time,

V

I just had some film developed, which means it’s time once again to confront the issue of my weight. The first few shots were
taken over a year ago, when I was exercising daily, sometimes even twice a day, and eating Lean Cuisines every night. It was
around the time I’d first met Ben on the StairMaster, and I remembered how confident I’d felt in my black flared stretch pants
and tight white cap-sleeved cotton T-shirts.

Toward the end of the roll were the pictures Pete had snapped a few nights ago as I prepared dinner. Only a year had passed,
but I appeared ten years older. My arms were twin dolphins, my face an overripe melon. As Pete happily pawed through the
prints, I felt only shame. What had happened? Why had I lost the zeal to keep my body lithe and fit? A year ago, clothes shopping
was a pleasurable experience. I could wear black stretch capri pants. I felt comfortable in shorts and swimsuits. I’d see
slim women and include myself in their elite club, a club whose members can unselfconsciously wear sleeveless tops and short
skirts and clingy matte jersey. Acquaintances stopped me on the street just to say, You look fantastic! Or, What’s your secret?
A neighbor who had just begun working out confessed that I’d been her inspiration.

What would those admirers think now? I’ve quietly tucked away the black capri stretch pants and all the rest of the small-sized
clothes and remorsefully calculate the money I spent on my new body, the body I’m apparently not destined to have. I find
myself searching through my closet for oversized stretch pants with elastic waistbands. There are angry red marks where my
pants and bra straps cut into my flesh. How can I contemplate dating again, disrobing in front of a man, letting him wrap
his arms around my waist? Intellectually, of course, I believe that everyone has a right to a relationship, regardless of
size or shape. My mother and her neighbors used to cluck over married women who had let themselves “go to pot.” Mom had restricted
her calories through every pregnancy, and never gained more than fifteen pounds with each baby, as she is fond of reminding
me. I once found her weeping in her bedroom—I was sure my father had died in a car accident on the way home from work. It
turned out that she had gained three and a half pounds.

I find it impossible to accept my body as it is now that I’ve seen those pictures. Somewhere at the margins of consciousness,
in that murky place beyond the tranquilizing effects of medication, I feel the purest disgust for my body. I find the prospect
of starting from square one daunting and depressing. I dread starting again with the rigorous workouts, the tiny meals. Weighing,
measuring, calorie calculating. . . .
Motivation is magical and elusive. I had it once. I’ve got to get it back. To hell with self-acceptance. If Prozac is to blame
for any of this—and my doctor says it may be—then I’m through with Prozac. I’d rather be crazy than fat.

’Til next time,

V

Roger called with a news bulletin. He crunched the numbers and came to the conclusion that even with alimony, I can’t possibly
live in the manner to which I have grown accustomed. “Face it, Valerie,” he declared. “You can’t afford to live without my
income. You’ll be pushing all your worldly belongings through town in a shopping cart by the time Pete’s in third grade.”
I shuddered. “So forget about the divorce,” he continued. “Let’s make our marriage work.” I hung up on him and disconnected
the phone.

Omar is scheduled to take Roger’s deposition tomorrow. I can’t wait to see what Roger concocts about his assets. I hope he
lies, I really do, because the less money he claims to have, according to Omar, the larger a settlement I’m likely to get.

’Til next time,

V

Roger’s deposition went exactly as Omar had hoped. My soon-to-be ex-husband insisted under oath that he had no assets other
than the trust fund, the income from his theater projects, the little bit he has made teaching, and our joint holdings: the
house, vehicles, material possessions. Roger made no mention of Swiss or Cayman bank accounts, paintings, cash, or gold. He
didn’t even name the condo on Lake Merle. Now Omar plans to argue that because Roger lied under oath, and given his criminal
history—sexual harassment, statutory rape, bigamy—I am entitled to not merely half, but
all
of his hidden assets. I still can’t believe the court would swallow this reasoning, but Omar’s confidence is unshakable.
“This is my job, love,” he said, and I felt my cheeks flush. “You relax and let me do the work.”

“Okay, fine. You do the work. Just wake me up when it’s all over, okay?”

’Til next time,

V

I’ve been fantasizing about leaving town, finding some place way on the other side of the world where Pete and I can make
a new life, and not just so I can
escape Roger and his current blastocyst. There are so many things about this place that I find increasingly intolerable. I
offer four examples:

1. The Mushroomheads—by which I mean the Junior Leaguers, the ones who pop up everywhere in their white Ford Excursions or
whatever those gigantic new SUVs are called. (I’ve decided, by the way, that my next vehicle will have to be a semi, because
I’m sick of being dwarfed on the road, and no one could possibly top an eighteen-wheeler.) Three Mushroomheads walk the track
at the gym every day. They always walk three-across (flagrantly disregarding the two-across limit), with their three identically
highlighted blond heads coifed in identical mushroom-shaped hairdos, three tiny behinds, three pert noses, three walnut-size
diamonds on their French-manicured fingers. (I had my fake nails removed, by the way; I noticed a tremor in my left pinkie
and decided, in an intensely neurotic moment, that the acrylic was seeping into my blood and would eventually cause Parkinson’s
disease. I realized only after I’d had them removed that the tremor was from using the weed whacker for ninety relentless
minutes, a feat I accomplished only by imagining that the pigweed was Roger’s genitalia.)