The Breakup (2 page)

“You’re as busy as ever,” I said, challenging her.

“But it’s
good
busy,” she explained. “I get to spend time with my kid and there’s none of that old pressure and panic.”

I’m just wondering if any new pressures and panics would pop up if I were to make a similar life change.

’Til next time,

V

Had a panic attack sitting in Omar Sweet’s waiting room. I would have thrown up, but there was nothing in my stomach. All
I’d eaten was half a tangerine, and that was last night.

I tried as best as I could to calm myself before Omar came out to greet me. The truth is, he had a sexy voice on the phone,
and I suppose that the small part of me that’s still alive and sexual hoped he would find me attractive. I slipped a cinnamon
Altoid into my mouth and waited. I looked around the office, forcing myself to be “fully present.” I literally told myself:
I am sitting in the waiting room of my divorce
lawyer.
My divorce lawyer.
The man who will guide me through the process of legally terminating my marriage. It’s not a fantasy anymore. It’s not a
spiteful threat I’d toss in Roger’s face in an argument. This is for real.

Omar Sweet bounded into the waiting room. He was about fifty, trim, elegant. He was one of those men who surrendered to his
balding pate by shaving the rest of his head (I admire that) instead of struggling to arrange sixteen strands of hair. His
polished dome gave him a sleek, slightly menacing appearance. He had a graying goatee, sharp white teeth, and aquiline nose.
“Ms. Ryan! A pleasure. Please, come in.” He gripped my hand firmly and offered a quick smile, and in that moment I knew I’d
found the right attorney.

We spent the hour talking about the divorce laws in our state (interesting), his track record (excellent), and his fee structure
(expensive). I had a bank check prepared for his retainer ($3,000) and left his office feeling surprisingly more relaxed than
when I’d arrived. But by the time I got home, I was dispirited again. I don’t know what’s depressing me most, that my marriage
is ending, or that it’s not ending soon enough. Omar urged me to keep up the front until all the facts about Roger’s financial
holdings have been gathered. He gave me the name of an investigator who, Omar promises, will unearth everything there is to
know about Roger in forty-eight hours. I know I
should do it, but I’m also afraid to spend any more money.

’Til next time,

V

Today I went to a baby shower organized by the perpetually neighborly Lynette Kohl-Chase. I didn’t know the expectant mom—a
young woman named Jennifer Davis—but I welcomed the opportunity to meet some of my neighbors, people I’ve never seen at any
point in the six years I’ve lived in this house, people I wouldn’t recognize if I tripped over them. But, then, why
would
I recognize them? Every morning they roll out of their garages in vans with tinted windows, and every evening they drive
back into their garages and close the automatic doors behind them. They don’t garden, they don’t walk their dogs, they don’t
walk anywhere. Last year I exchanged phone numbers and addresses with a father of one of Pete’s classmates; we were on the
same committee and needed to plan a fund-raiser. I looked at his address. He lived on my street. I had never laid eyes on
him. The only time I see some of these neighbors is when I go trick-or-treating with Pete, but I’ve already forgotten what
they look like by the following Halloween.

I asked Jennifer what she planned to name the baby. “Trey if it’s a boy,” she said, “and Lokia if it’s a girl.”

I thought I’d heard wrong. “Lokia?”

“Yes. My husband and I made it up,” she said, smiling proudly. “It’s kind of like Loki, the Greek god.”

I know I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I couldn’t help myself. “Are you totally set on that name?” I began, trying
to sound light. “Because, well, you know, lochia is what you call that weird vaginal discharge you get after you give birth.
It’s pronounced the same way.”

“Excuse me?” Jennifer asked.

“No, I mean, I’m just wondering. Also, Loki isn’t a Greek god. He’s a Norse god. By the way.”

Nobody said anything. I left soon afterward.

’Til next time,

V

I’ve just taken my first dose of Prozac, half a pill, five milligrams. I can’t help feeling defeated, as if I’m taking the
easier path. I’m also resentful. If Roger’s the jerk, why am I the one on medication? But I also know that I am depressed.
I’m not satisfied with my
life. I no longer enjoy life’s little pleasures. I’m irritable. I feel worn out. I’m not eating (or I’m eating rolls of frozen
cookie dough).

Holly says I should begin to feel better in about a month. I’ll have to be hopeful, if not for my own sake, then for Petey’s.
I’ve seen how depression infects kids in the household.

’Til next time,

V

I’ve appropriated half the basement for a small office and I consider this a good sign: I’m considering starting a private
practice from the house! I bought an iMac, printer, scanner, and small computer desk, a cordless phone, halogen lamp, and
a clock radio. I checked the classifieds and found a used copy machine for only seventy-five bucks! The woman who sold it
to me—the office manager at A-1 Realty—assured me it worked perfectly. Roger was poised to give me grief about spending the
money, but I dead-panned that I wanted to work from home “so I can be closer to you, my darling.” He squinted at me suspiciously
but kept his mouth shut.

’Til next time,

V

I’ve spent the last few days trying to get in touch with my inner Martha. I’ve finished decorating the tree, hung the lights,
made Christmas lanterns from gourds, created an enormous fresh fir wreath for the front door, scrubbed out the parakeet’s
cage, reorganized the pantry, pulled out my old sewing machine, and made Pete a big red sock to hang over the fireplace.

’Til next time,

V

Roger has made it clear that he wants to have sex tonight. He arranged for Petey to have a sleep over. He announced that he’s
making grilled salmon and fresh bread and my favorite salad (spinach, chilled asparagus, goat cheese, and raspberry vinaigrette).
He cleaned the house. This is Roger at his most romantic. I couldn’t be less interested. What the hell am I going to do?

’Til next time,

V

As I’d expected, Roger had orchestrated the entire evening as a prelude to sex. He came up behind me
as I rinsed dishes in the sink, and I felt nothing but revulsion and an urge to squirt dishwashing liquid in his eyes. But
I lolled my head back and let him press against me. He plunged his hands into the soapy water, resting them over mine as I
sponged the dishes, and it reminded me of that sexy scene in
Ghost
where Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore play with the clay on the pottery wheel. Except that Roger wasn’t Patrick Swayze, I wasn’t
Demi Moore, we weren’t in love, and it didn’t feel sexy, but wet and disgusting. I stared at the bits of asparagus and gray
salmon skin floating in the water and felt dinner inch its way back up my esophagus. I tried not to gag as Roger kissed the
nape of my neck.

While Roger licked my neck, I pictured the condo on Lake Merle. It was probably one of those woodsy developments, pretty cedar
units nestled into the trees. I bitterly remembered the times I’d suggested buying a summer place on Lake Merle. I thought
it would be the ideal weekend retreat. I wanted to get a little boat and teach Pete to sail. “Buy a place an hour away from
home? What kind of vacation is that?” he’d sneer. “Besides, the lake’s polluted anyway. PCBs. That factory in Windsor.” All
that time, he owned a condo right there on the supposedly polluted lake. A condo we could have enjoyed as a family. I wanted
to scream.

Roger pulled my hands out of the water and patted them gently with the dish towel and raised them to
his mouth. “This can wait,” he said, sucking my fingers, one by one. “Let’s go upstairs.” As he led me up the steps, my mind
desperately searched for a plausible excuse. I could say I had a stomach flu, or a migraine. But then he might suspect something.
Roger knew I was usually ready for sex. Even when I was mad at him for coming home late, or coming home drunk—even in the
midst of the Alyssa affair—I’d rarely pass up an opportunity to have sex. I’d never understood women who wouldn’t have sex
unless everything was absolutely perfect: They had to be happy. They had to be in love. They had to be in the mood. They had
to be romanced. Sex wasn’t about sex, it was about emotional attachment. Two hearts beating as one. As far as I was concerned,
love and romance were nice but not necessary. Sex was a biological function, a release, an explosion of pleasure. As soon
as you start putting conditions on sex, as soon as you start intellectualizing it, you’ve ruined it.

Tonight my philosophy was put to the test. First came the strawberry massage oil. He licked me from my toes to my eyelids,
spending a good ten minutes in between—utterly nauseating. When he finally began thrusting inside me, I felt nothing but rage.
I clawed his back and bit his shoulder, which he naturally interpreted as animal lust. “Oooh, baby,” he groaned. “You’re wild
tonight.” He never knew it was hate, not lust, that made me want to tear his flesh away. When he climaxed, I started to sob.
He stayed
inside me and whispered, “Oh, sweetheart.” He rolled off me and reached for my hand. “That was incredible.” He kissed my hand.
“You are incredible, you know that? A beast!”

“No, Roger, you’re the beast,” I told him.

“I guess I am. But you inspire me.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “You know, I think this was like a new beginning for
us, don’t you?” I made some kind of noncommittal noise—
hmmm
—and he went on. “We can put everything behind us. Just sweep it out the door. Start fresh. New year, new marriage!” I made
more vague noises. I knew if I waited long enough, he’d fall asleep. In three minutes Roger was snoring like an asthmatic
pig. I slid out of bed and used Pete’s bathroom to shower off his stink. Then I went downstairs to watch CNN.

’Til next time,

V

Roger wanted to have sex again this morning but Pete came home early so Roger went shopping for more clothes. In the meantime,
I attacked the file cabinets in the basement but found nothing useful. Pete had a friend over, a neighborhood boy with the
cruelly incongruous name Hunter. Despite the macho appellation, the child is afraid of everything, including the parakeet.
Pete pulled out his Pokémon cards, Wishbone
videos, puzzles, checkers, Lincoln Logs—anything to engage this child. The boy was an amoeba! He wouldn’t play with anything,
I invited Hunter only so Pete could have someone to distract him while I searched Roger’s files. I felt guilty. They would
have more fun if I’d taken the time to guide them. When Pete went over to Hunter’s house, he always returned home with some
crafty little thing. They made picture frames out of twigs and twine, Christmas trees from pine cones. Hunter’s mother, Lynette
Kohl-Chase, created topiaries and elaborate family scrapbooks and mosaic bird baths. She had hand-painted all the tiles in
her kitchen, thirty-eight of which were decorated with farm animals in a kind of French provincial style she copied detail
for detail from a home decorating magazine.

She made me want to retch.

’Til next time,

V

Since I neglected Petey yesterday, I made it up to him tonight by playing something like seventy-two rounds of Candy Land
before bed. Eventually I had to stack the deck just to end the game; I made sure Petey had Snowflake Queen Frostine and prayed
neither of us would get stuck in Molasses Swamp or lost in Lollipop Woods. After I’d finally gotten Pete settled
for the night, I accidentally stepped on the game box and flattened it, and Pete started screaming and hurling his pillows
to the floor. I know he was over-tired and probably pissed off at Hunter, but the tantrum scared me. I’d never seen him so
angry over something so minor. Now I’ve got to tape up the corners of the box, and I have no idea where I put the masking
tape. My house is a friggin’ mess. Oh, crap.

’Til next time,

V

Still on Prozac, still no change, except for a weird taste in my mouth, and a slightly nauseous feeling— which actually isn’t
such a bad thing if it helps me lose weight. I know that some people gain weight on this medication. Maybe I’ll be one of
the lucky ones who actually loses a few pounds!

Martha Stewart be damned, I ordered pizza for dinner. Too tired to cook. Ran out to my parents’ house. Pete wanted to come,
but I made him stay home with Roger. I don’t think either of my parents could handle having him tearing around the house right
now.

Started hunting for the gold bullions while Roger was asleep. Poked around behind some ceiling tiles in the basement. Nada.

’Til next time,

V

I am going to hire Omar’s investigator. I am sick of playing Sherlock. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

I called the number Omar had given me. L.T. Investigative Services. I pictured a paunchy guy in a short-sleeved dress shirt.
L.T. turned out to be Libby Taylor. She sounded young enough to be one of my baby-sitters. At first she said she couldn’t
see me until next week, and my heart sank, but her secretary Dave mentioned a last-minute cancellation. She asked if I could
be there in twenty minutes. Her office was on the south side of town. I knew a shortcut. I made it in a ten.

Libby Taylor, P.I., looked only a little older than she’d sounded. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a bright red Old
Navy sweatshirt. She was shorter than me. She had the kind of naturally curly hair that needed nothing more than a quick toweldry
in the morning, and features that required no cosmetic enhancement. Clear skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, small bow lips.
Libby offered me a cup of green tea and a chocolate chip cookie. I felt comfortable with her but her youth made me nervous.