Chapter Thirty-Eight
Coup de Grace
Siena, May 21-22, 2012, Dallas, TX
After Claude’s visit, my life became even emptier and lonelier. So, a little outing with my new mom friends would bring a welcome distraction tonight. Rachel and Paige, whom I’d met at the playground, were around my age and seemed warm and friendly. And best of all, they were serious about getting a break with a monthly get-together.
I walked past Ryan’s closet, pretending not to see it. Then, I stood inside mine, not having the faintest idea what to wear and overcome with dread. If only I could open his closet and find it magically filled with clothes and shoes. I sank down on my tufted stool. Why had I agreed to this stupid moms’ night out? I glanced at my phone. The babysitter was coming in thirty minutes—too late to cancel if I wanted to use her services again.
My tops hung in a neat row, organized by color and arranged on brand new wooden hangers I’d ordered for my new life. What did one wear to a moms’ night out? A slutty dress? An oversized sweatshirt? Would it even matter? I grabbed my old skinny jeans, which fit me now that I’d lost my appetite, a pair of beat-up cowgirl boots from college days, and a random top that probably didn’t match. Then, I went to the mirror and ran my fingers through my not very clean hair that hung in strands, limp and dull.
I looked like shit.
I felt worse when I stepped into the restaurant. The place was high-end and filled to the rim with women in dresses and heels and men in slacks and shirts. My two mom friends were so made up, I didn’t recognize Paige at first. A pretty blue-eyed brunette, she sported a killer smokey eye, fake eyelashes, and wavy hair extensions that spilled past her waist.
“Oh my gosh, you’re so cute in those cowgirl boots, hun!” Rachel, also a brunette underneath her bleached blonde mane, gave me a hug. “Sexy without trying! You’re so lucky you’re thin, you can pull anything off.”
There was a bit of a wait, so the three of us settled at a bar table, listening to the cover band—a haunting rendition of an eighties song about surviving in an ordinary world. How fitting. But after a glass of wine, I felt almost normal—out with girlfriends, chatting about local news and popular television shows. Mercifully, the subjects of kids, husbands, and anything home-related were strictly verboten.
A deep baritone behind me cut through our discussion of the hurricane damage. “Mind if we join you, ladies?”
I swallowed, but that was as improbable as it seemed. So I glanced at my friends’ flushed faces, turned—and froze. The world swayed in a flit of furrowed sandy eyebrows and unblinking hazel eyes. I grabbed my empty glass like a lifeline, told myself to put it down. Ryan hadn’t recognized me from the back, but he had an iron control of his face. Still, a flicker of something had passed through his eyes. Alarm? Confusion? No—regret.
Hope surged like a tidal wave. He was out with co-workers. Innocent flirting, a drink or two. He looked a bit leaner, but strong, healthy, handsome. He was okay. Hope pounded to the accelerated drumroll of my heart, thoughts racing fast and wild. Fate had brought me here tonight. A chance to talk to him, to make him understand. And once he did, he’d forgive me, maybe even go home with me. And this nightmare would be over. Never to return.
He didn’t sit beside me as my friends scooted to make room for three men. Stiff and pale, he sat next to Paige instead. His coworker, overweight and with thinning hair, claimed the stool beside mine, said something, and smiled. But I didn’t hear him. A lump the size of a rock rose to my throat, obliterating my capacity for listening. The lump swelled into a boulder as Paige leaned into Ryan, her hand tapping his shoulder as she talked, her hair extensions brushing his white oxford shirt, a very expensive one I gave him for Christmas. He didn’t look at me. He kept his gaze on her, half-smiling, not leaning in, but not drawing back either. She clinked her wineglass to his whiskey lowball in some toast, peering into his eyes behind her fake eyelashes. His smile widened a fraction before he finished his drink.
Everything—the table, the people, the walls—spun like in a dream. My hands went numb. The skin on my face grew so tight, another moment, and it would pop. Something braced my lungs, took all my breath.
My hand rose to grasp at my chest. I forced it down, swallowed bile.
I’d say something. Right now. Hey, Ryan. Paige would stare. Hey Paige, this is my husband, Ryan. No. Hey, Paige, this is Ryan. No, I’d say nothing to Paige. Ryan, can I talk to you? No. Hey, can we talk? No. Hi, Ryan, can I tell you something?
Thinning Hair mumbled under his breath, raised his glass. That’s how it must have felt to be publicly shamed in the dark ages—stripped naked and run through the crowded streets.
“Excuse me.” I stood, straining to see through the blur in my eyes.
It took everything I had not to run. But I couldn’t find the restroom and had to ask a waiter, who demanded to know if I was okay. I had to blink to make out the restroom door handle. The tears came rushing down as I stumbled to the sink. I splashed cold water on my face, grabbed a paper towel. Ordered my chin to stop trembling.
I could return and say something very casual. Hey, Ryan, can I talk to you a sec? He wouldn’t make a scene. Not in front of all those people. Or I could leave. Right now. Get the hell out. Text Rachel and Paige some bullshit excuse. No, I wouldn’t leave. That would be humiliating. Because that would be cowardice.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror: deathly pale skin, bitten lips, raw, naked eyes with mascara smeared all over.
Two twenty-somethings washed their hands, throwing sidelong glances at me.
“What the hell is wrong with her?” one muttered to another in a low whisper.
A woman in her fifties came out of a stall and turned on the faucet. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
She handed me a paper towel. “You got mascara in that purse of yours, sweetheart? You’ll need some if you’re fixin’ to go back out there. Wanna borrow mine?”
“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
Paige waltzed in after everyone had left.
“Prettying up, too?” She headed to the mirror without looking at me. “Ain’t my man so fine?” She took out her powder compact. “Ah...should I let my hair down and have a little fun tonight? I mean, I never do this. I love Brad. But I mean, what’s the harm, he ain’t got a wedding ring on—”
“What—?” The word escaped in a gasp, wheezy and anguished.
She caught a glimpse of me in the mirror. “Oh, gosh...you okay?”
“A migraine,” I forced out. “I’m going to have to bail...I’ll pay you back for my drink...”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry—no worries! Good thing your man is so-so—nothin’ to lose. You want me to call someone? Geez, you don’t seem well, hun. Maybe your husband can come and pick you up?”
I stared at my hands. What would she think of me if I screamed?
“I’m going to be sick.” I bolted to the stall. “Go back, don’t worry,” I breathed before throwing up.
After Paige left, I returned to the sink, covered in cold sweat and trembling from head to toe. I looked like I’d been hit by a truck: most of my mascara gone, remnants of it smudged under my eyes and on my left cheek, nose red, eyes puffy and pink, lips swollen.
I gazed heavenward. Please help me.
No help came, so I washed my face, rinsed my mouth, gurgled, popped a mint, ran my hands through my hair. All I have to do is walk out and drive home. One foot in front of the other.
I pushed open the restroom door—and came face to face with Ryan.
I stopped breathing. He was here. Not with Paige, but here, waiting for me outside the restroom he knew I’d gone to. We stood feet apart—a faint trace of his deodorant, laundry detergent, and him. Hope surged again, wild and pounding.
“Out with co-workers?” My question came out feeble and thin. Stupid and inappropriate.
He said nothing, his face a tight mask, eyes two frozen ponds. He didn’t care that I’d been crying. That I was shattering into thousands of irreparable pieces. Hope fizzled out, replaced with the chill that froze my veins and pinned me to the floor. The silence became crushing, all-consuming. I was cold, so very cold.
“It’s a...like a moms’ night out,” I choked out. “From the playground—”
He raised a hand to stop me. “Who’s watching Austin?”
“A babysitter—very sweet and experienced. He’s fine, don’t worry...” My voice emerged strained and hoarse. I never sounded uglier. “I mean, you should visit him—”
“Yes. You’ll be hearing from my attorney soon. You should hire one, too, although I doubt it’ll help you.” His tone turned dispassionate and factual, like a surgeon’s scalpel. “I hope you’ll keep it civilized for Austin’s sake.”
The floor cracked like ice, the chasm between us widening and deepening at hundreds of miles per hour. A small iceberg I stood on carried me out into an open ocean as Ryan grew more and more distant—feet, then yards, then miles away. A beautiful stranger I had no claim to. A spurned man who would take my baby away from me.
My voice was a suppressed sob, a panicky wail. “Ryan, you know I’m not unfit—”
His mask fell, revealing pain as searing as mine and fury as bright as wildfire. “No, I most definitely don’t know that.” He turned but halted. “And stop contacting me.”
“Iad siúd a cheangail Dia, ná scaoileadh duine iad.” Those whom God has joined together, let no man separate. My words erupted as if from elsewhere against the emptiness behind his diminishing form.
I didn’t remember how I got home, how much I paid the babysitter, or what I said to her. Did she ask if she should call someone? Did I answer?
Austin lay asleep in his crib, his long eyelashes brushing velvety cheeks, his breath sweet and even. My precious baby boy. Ryan would never take him from me. He was hurt and angry, but not insane. Was he?
I threw open his closet door. Pulled one of his few remaining shirts off the hanger. Light blue with sleeves rolled up. I yanked the slacks off the pant hanger. Black, flat front. I carried both to the bedroom and laid them out on Ryan’s side of the bed—shirt on top, slacks on the bottom. Then, I stripped, unrolled the shirt sleeves, wrapped them around my torso, and placed a pant leg on top of my leg. His shirt still held remnants of his deodorant—the heartbreaking mixture of ocean breeze and deep woods.
I reached up and stroked his hair, thick and smooth, ran my fingertips along his clenched jaw, caressed his rigid shoulder. “Forgive me for this pain. I never loved you more.” I buried my face in his chest, solid and warm. “Even if you hate me,” I said into his chest, into the empty shirt, “you still love me, don’t you?”
The divorce papers arrived the next day at noon, but I didn’t even click to open. I’d had all night to think this through. Ryan asked for Jason’s attorney’s number months ago, so he’d been sitting on this for an unaccountably long time. Knowing his rational mind, this was a knee-jerk reaction—as was his ridiculous attempt at retaliation.
So I changed Austin’s diaper, gave him his favorite lunch of mac-n-cheese, then put him down for his nap, and got on my computer. Two hours later, I knew all there was to know about the divorce process in the state of Texas.
After setting up Austin with his toys, I made myself a late sandwich. It tasted like cardboard. Everything tasted like cardboard now.
I spat it out into the trash can and grabbed my phone.
“It’s going to be okay, buddy,” I said to my baby, opening my text app. “Mommy loves you more than anything in the world.”
“Ma-ma!” He beamed. “Ma-ma!”
I opened the text app and tapped Ryan’s number.
I’m going to make this living hell for you if you don’t let me tell you my side of the story. I won’t sign anything. I’ll ask the judge to order counseling. I’ll claim your infidelity after the separation. It won’t be hard to prove, especially after last night with all those witnesses. So we talk, or this is war. Your call.
Ninety-nine percent of this was bluff, but I’d gotten my point across.
I put down my phone and returned to my sandwich. It tasted okay now.