Chapter 7
Dear Mrs. Roth,
I have been retained by your husband, Mr. Jeremy Roth, regarding your marital dissolution. We would like to settle this matter amicably and expeditiously. Please have your attorney contact me at this email address.
Sincerely,
Leonard Hardwick, Esq.
As I sit on the dusty sofa of my new apartment, I read the email about five times. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since Jeremy informed me that he wanted a divorce, and I’m already being contacted by his lawyer, which makes me think that he’s had everything lined up for a while.
When did he decide he wanted a divorce? A few weeks ago? A few months ago? The thought that he’s been planning this without me knowing about it makes me slightly ill.
Why? That’s the question I keep asking myself over and over.
We’ve been so happy together. Just last weekend, the three of us rented a paddleboat in Port Washington and spent so long outside that Teddy got sunburned in spite of the SPF 55 I smeared all over his face.
And now suddenly he wants our family to be over? It doesn’t make sense.
Jeremy’s lawyer wants to know the name of my lawyer. Except I don’t have one.
I finger the amethyst crystal around my neck, hanging from the silver chain Jeremy bought me.
Amethyst always makes me feel calmer, so I wear it during times of crisis.
I shift my body on the uncomfortable sofa and slide the laptop over my knees so that I can type a reply. I compose the following email:
Dear Leonard Hardwick, Esq.,
I have decided not to retain a lawyer, because my husband and I will be working things out. This is a temporary blip in our relationship, but a divorce is not the solution. Jeremy and I were happier than most married couples, including, I’m sure, you and your wife. No offense intended.
Sincerely,
Naomi Roth
I don’t send that email. Obviously. But I save it to my draft folder, figuring there will be a day when Jeremy and I will be able to look back at it and laugh.
I’m just having a little trouble visualizing that day right now.
My phone rings where I dropped it on the sofa next to me.
Teddy is in school right now, so I check the screen to make sure it’s not the school calling with an emergency.
Every time I get a call when he’s not home, my heart leaps into my throat.
But as it turns out, it’s not the school. It’s something far worse.
It’s my mother.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my mother. But she is really good at telling me what I’m doing wrong all the time.
At an early age, I remember her telling me to stand up straight or asking me, Don’t you think you’ve had enough cookies, Naomi?
She lives in St. Louis, which is where I grew up, and I’m grateful for the distance.
But at the same time, this apartment is bleakly empty and quiet. My mother certainly has a way of filling a room, even when she isn’t in it. And maybe I won’t mention that Jeremy and I temporarily split up. I’ll pretend everything is fine.
I swipe to take the call and say as casually as I can, “Hi, Mom.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
Damn it, how does she do that? “Nothing.”
“No, something is wrong. I can tell. I knew it before I called you, and now that I’ve heard your voice, I’m sure of it.”
Oh right, my mother thinks she’s psychic.
And I don’t mean that in a joking sort of way.
My mother actually believes that she has psychic powers, which is medically impossible, of course.
I have tried to explain that to her, but it hasn’t stopped her from marching to the police station on three separate occasions with tips on a murder that she had a psychic premonition about.
(None of her premonitions led to the murder being solved.)
Despite the fact that she is definitely not psychic, she knows me very well. And she can clearly tell from my voice that something is wrong. I may not believe in psychic powers, but I do believe in a mother’s intuition.
And my mother knows a thing or two about divorce.
She’s been divorced three times. You would think it would get easier each time, but it didn’t.
Each time, my mother sobbed for days and was miserable for a month.
She even brought me with her when I was eight years old on a little excursion to egg her soon-to-be ex-husband’s new house.
It’s part of the reason I’m so desperate to make things work in my own marriage.
“Fine,” I say. “Jeremy and I…we’re having some issues.”
“Issues? What does that mean?”
“We sort of…we split up.”
She is quiet for a moment, taking in that information. “Who is she?”
“She?”
“The other woman.”
“There’s no other woman,” I insist, despite my earlier suspicions. “We’ve just been having some problems, and we’re taking some time apart.”
Probably better not to mention the letter from the divorce lawyer.
“Bullshit,” she spits out. “Take it from somebody who has been married and divorced three times. When a marriage doesn’t work out, look for the other woman.”
I toy with the crystal around my neck. “He told me there isn’t one.”
“Well, he’s lying.” She says it like I’d be stupid to believe otherwise. But she also once told the police that our neighbor was a jewel thief. “A nice-looking man like Jeremy with loads of money? I’m sure he’s been messing around on you.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.”
“You were lucky to land him in the first place,” she reminds me. “He never would have married you if not for Teddy.”
“That’s not true.” Well, it is technically true. We got married because of Teddy, because Jeremy didn’t want him to grow up in a home without two parents. “We would have gotten married eventually.”
“Then why did he ask for a paternity test?”
I flinch, wishing I never shared that little piece of information with my mother. “Look, it doesn’t matter why we got married. We’re a family now.”
“Not anymore,” she says. “Now he’s with her. He’s probably even staying at her house.”
“Actually,” I say, “he’s the one still at the house. I’m staying at that extra apartment he bought for his parents.”
“What? How did he get you to do that?”
“It’s his house, Mom.”
“Still,” she says. “You should never have left. That was a really stupid thing to do, Naomi.”
I don’t want to admit that I know she’s right. But I would never have moved out if he hadn’t tricked me into doing it. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, “because Jeremy and I are getting back together.”
“What are you basing that on?”
This time, I wrap my fingers entirely around my amethyst crystal. “He still loves me, and we have a son together.”
“Well, that’s what I said about your father, and neither of us have seen him for a couple of decades, have we?”
I flinch because she’s right. I probably saw my father five times throughout my entire childhood. “This is different.”
“The only way you’re getting him back,” my mother says, “is if you can get him away from her.”
“There’s no ‘her,’ Mom.”
“Don’t be stupid.” I can almost see her lips lifted in a snarl to reveal her yellow teeth. “Some girl has got her claws in him. And the only way you’re getting him back is if you get rid of her.”
My mother has no idea what she’s talking about. There’s no other woman in Jeremy’s life. I’m sure of it. If there were, I would know about it by now.
Wouldn’t I?