Nineteen
Sara
I have now read, highlighted, and sticky-noted the copy of The Empowered Woman’s Guide to Divorce that Annell tucked in my tote bag when I wasn’t looking last Saturday. A lime-green sticky note with the words “I’m here” scrawled across it was stuck to the cover.
The book is written by a female therapist and a male lawyer who practices family law and is meant to cover both the emotional and legal aspects of what they describe as “your divorce journey.” Which was a little discouraging, since I was hoping that given the fact that Mitch is a liar, a cheat, and a thief, it might be a short trip.
Apparently, my hurt, anger, and fear are a part of this journey for everyone. So is my sense of loss. I thought I’d finally found a partner who would share my life and prove once and for all that I am not unlovable and therefore destined to spend my life alone. I was wrong.
Every night after work I pick up or throw together some kind of dinner for Dorothy and me. Then I sit down to do my divorce “homework,” which includes surfing county court, state bar, and judicial websites as well as attorney blogs and articles. As a result, I now know that Georgia is an “equitable distribution” and “no-fault” state. I also know that Mitchell doesn’t actually have to agree to a divorce.
The book claims that hardly anyone can really afford a divorce attorney without going into debt and has sections on less-expensive options, like mediation, negotiation, and even self-representation—something I consider for about five seconds until I remember Abraham Lincoln’s quote about a person who represents himself having a fool for a client. I already feel deeply stupid for not realizing what my husband was up to.
Today, I have free initial consultations with five family law attorneys. Happily, because of the homework I’ve done, I can use these appointments to ask more specific strategy-oriented questions. Not so happily, I now know a lot of things I wish I didn’t. By the time I get to my last consultation at four p.m., exhaustion has set in. Ditto for hunger and thirst.
Bonnie Traiman appears to be somewhere in her late forties or early fifties. Her brown hair is parted down the middle and hangs in waves to her shoulders. Her calm, appraising brown eyes and her genuine smile are the most comforting things I’ve seen all day.
Given how wilted I feel at the moment, I’m relieved that she’s not wearing a suit, like the sharp-eyed, perfectly turned out lawyers I’ve already met with. Or heels like some of the other female attorneys.
An eyeblink after we’ve shaken hands and introduced ourselves, I’m seated on a sofa and she’s handing me a Kind bar and a bottled water, which she pulls from a mini fridge built into a bookcase.
“Go ahead. Please.” She nods to the bar and drink on the coffee table. “You look like you’ve had a long day. We’re not on the clock until you at least finish the water. I’ll be right back.” She leaves me alone just long enough to devour the bar and gulp down the water. By the time she comes back and takes a seat across from me, I feel almost human.
“So. How many lawyers have you talked to so far today?”
“You’re number five.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of legalese for one day.”
“Yeah. And most of it’s been pretty disheartening.” The sofa, on the other hand, is pretty comfortable. If it were an option, I’d curl up in a ball right now and never get up again.
“I know this isn’t the kind of conversation anyone ever really expects or wants to have. Tell me what brings you here.” She’s definitely warmer than almost all of the “suits” I’ve spoken to today, and I appreciate that she doesn’t dillydally.
“Well, my husband has been working and living in Birmingham during the week and mostly coming home on the weekends for a little over eight months now. On New Year’s Day, I found out, completely by accident, that he has a . . . girlfriend . . . and they have a four-year-old child together and . . . she’s pregnant again.”
She winces. “That’s rough.”
I wince at the understatement, but she’s the first lawyer today, male or female, to offer what feels like actual sympathy. “I thought that we were happy. Or at least okay.”
“So, he asked for a divorce so that he can marry her?”
“No. In fact, it’s really weird, but I’m getting the impression that he’d be perfectly happy to stay married and just keep things the way they are.”
“Interesting,” she says, not at all shocked. “I’m assuming that’s unacceptable to you.”
“Yes.”
“So, here’s the thing. If we were to work together, you’d have to decide what you care about most. Raking him over the coals or getting this over with in as equitable a way as possible.”
“I was kind of hoping for both. I mean, shouldn’t he be punished for what he’s done?”
“Yes, he should. But the courts aren’t going to do that. In Georgia, you’re looking at irreconcilable differences. What he’s done is abominable. Unfortunately, judges hear stories like this every single day.
“I prefer to represent women because I think they often get the short end of the stick. Women and children tend to come out of divorce worse off while men tend to walk away better off. If we work together, I will help you win your freedom. Because your freedom is the ultimate win. His punishment is not getting to be your husband anymore.”
“But he’s used our money to support another woman, another family.” My eyes well with tears that I’ve been holding back all day.
“That’s something we’d have to document and prove.” She pushes the box of Kleenex gently in my direction. “Judges want to see a father supporting his children regardless of who mothered them, and frankly, I think that is as it should be.” Her gaze is direct and unapologetic. “Is there any one asset that matters to you above all others?”
I dab at my eyes; as always, I’m uncomfortable crying in public. Most of the foster parents I lived with tended to equate tears with ingratitude. “I know Georgia is all about ‘equitable distribution,’ but I never had a home growing up. The one Mitchell and I bought is my first.” My throat clogs with emotion when I think back to the day we took possession. The bottle of champagne we shared sitting on the bare floor of the empty living room. “All I . . . I’d hate to lose the house.”
“Once we have a complete list of assets and debts and so on, we’ll have a better sense of what’s possible.” She meets my eyes. “I am extremely cost conscious—otherwise things can really snowball—and I’ll save you money wherever I can as long as it doesn’t jeopardize the outcome. If your husband hires an attorney, we have a much better shot at reaching a settlement. Going to trial can quadruple the cost.”
I watch her face as she talks. I like that she’s sympathetic but not soft. I hold my breath while she explains the required retainer and a ballpark of what I can expect to pay at her rate of $350 per hour. That ballpark, like all the others I’ve heard today, is far more expensive than I’d hoped, but at least she has addressed the issue head-on and promised to keep expenses in mind. Gut level, I feel comfortable with Bonnie Traiman in a way I didn’t with the others. I just hope my gut knows what it’s talking about.
We both glance down at our watches. I have only five free minutes left and plenty of other questions, but Dorothy’s situation has been in the back of my mind all day. For the first time, I bring her up.
“Are you and your mother-in-law close?” she asks after I explain the situation.
“No, not really. At least we never have been. But . . . what Mitchell’s done to her is just . . . wrong. And lying to the lender to make sure communication came only to him—wouldn’t that be illegal?”
“This isn’t my area of expertise, but we do have someone in the firm who deals with elder abuse.” She goes to her desk and comes back with a business card. “Just remember to be careful what you share with anyone who might not be completely in your camp.”
When I get home, exhausted and oddly hollow inside, I’m shocked to smell food and even more shocked that the tuna casserole and leafy green salad waiting on the table were made by Dorothy. A bottle of wine sits open, and presumably breathing, between our place settings.
“Wow, this looks great.” I wash my hands at the kitchen sink, wondering whether to be grateful or suspicious, then join her at the table.
“So, how did it go?” Dorothy asks, dishing salad and casserole onto my plate while I down half my glass of wine. This may be the most motherly gesture Dorothy has ever offered, but Bonnie Traiman wasn’t the only attorney I met with today who warned me to be careful about who I took into my confidence.
Dorothy may be living in “my camp,” but this was not her choice. The fact that she’s a voracious reader does not automatically make her a kindred spirit. She could be a very thin and somewhat frail Trojan horse.
“Okay,” I say as I drink an entire glass of water, then take a bite of salad. “I think I found an attorney.” I am careful not to offer details. Mostly I eat and drink—a Kind bar can only go so far—but neither the food nor the wine I wash it down with can wipe out this day or the realities of my life.
Her expression is tight-lipped, and I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m drinking too much or because I’m keeping the day’s details to myself. But she hasn’t exactly shared any of the conversations I’ve overheard her having with Mitchell. I have no real idea whether she’s friend or foe or somewhere in the middle, and I don’t know how to ask.
My wineglass is empty, and I’m trying not to dwell on how grossly and painfully unfair life is when Dorothy sets down her fork. She’s only eaten a few bites, and her glass of wine is untouched. Despite the tight lips and her faint air of disapproval, I see a shadow in her eyes, a vulnerability that reminds me that I’m not the only one of us battling fear and uncertainty.
“When I told the attorney I’m planning to hire what happened to your house, she said that it could possibly qualify as elder abuse.”
Dorothy does not meet my eye, but she’s clearly listening.
“She gave me the card of a lawyer who specializes in that field. For you. If you’re interested.”
Dorothy bunches her napkin in one hand. “I’m not that old. And I am not going to sue my son.” She sniffs. “He’s made mistakes. But I know he’ll come through. He’s promised to talk to the mortgage company and I guess I just have to believe he’s telling the truth.”
I beat back a rush of disappointment. Was I really expecting her to take my side over her own flesh and blood?
“Thank you for dinner.” I stand and reach for my plate.
“Leave it. I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “I appreciate it.” My words are heavy and oddly formal. The time for pretending that Dorothy and I are ever going to see eye to eye on her son is over.
So is my marriage. There’s nothing Mitchell could say or do that would erase what’s happened. It’s time to find the money to pay Bonnie Traiman’s retainer and file for divorce.
“I’m going to turn in early. I’m beat.” I turn and head to my bedroom.
lu·gu·bri·ous
loo-GOO-bree-əs
adjective
1. sad or gloomy
2. exaggeratedly mournful
Ex: “I am far too lugubrious due to the state of my marriage and my life to sit here a moment longer.”
Judith
I’m curled up in a chair reading Bill Bryson’s The Body: A Guide for Occupants and trying not to picture the bazillions of bacteria that reside in my belly button, many of which modern science has yet to identify, when my phone rings.
The sound is jarring. While I’m used to the daily ding of texts from the kids, it’s been a while since I got a call from anyone not trying to sell me something.
“Hey. What are you doing?” Meena’s voice is even perkier than usual. I’m pathetically happy to hear it.
“Reading our book club book pick and realizing how miraculous our bodies are even though we have a lot of spare parts we don’t really need anymore.” I flush for the thousandth time at the memory of what happened the last time I used my entire body.
“You gotta use it or lose it, girlfriend.” Meena is the only person who knows just how much guilt and anger are mixed in with my sorrow. Not to mention what a horrible comedy of errors Nate’s death was. This makes her the only person I can share my emotional roller coaster self with.
“Use it or lose it? What exactly are you suggesting I do with mine?”
“I’m suggesting you shower it, put clothes on it, and bring it over here so that we can hang out. Frank’s in California,” she says, mentioning the man she met on match.com and is now seeing regularly. “I thought you and I could walk somewhere for dinner.” Her voice drops a bit. “After we drop by the building happy hour.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear that last part.”
There’s a pause and then, “My building has happy hours at nearby restaurants every other month. The restaurant puts out appetizers, and we buy our own drinks. This time it’s at Del Frisco’s—it’s just a five-minute walk up the street.”
“Happy hour?” It sounds so far removed from my current reality that it takes me a moment to respond. “First of all, I’m in mourning.” I consider myself in the family room mirror. Ratty pajamas. Wild hair. Luggage-size bags under my eyes. “And even if I weren’t, it would take me hours to get presentable.”
“I doubt it. Come on. It’ll do you good. It’s not healthy to spend so much time alone.”
“Thanks, but I don’t really feel up to it. I don’t think I’m ready for strangers.”
“Jude, seriously. You can’t sit in the house forever.”
At the moment, I’m pretty sure I can. It’s one of the few things I feel capable of.
“Sitting there isn’t going to bring Nate back. And it sure as hell isn’t doing anything positive for you.”
“But it would be disrespectful of his memory. He’s only been gone six and a half weeks.” I have been counting the days. One day, I even used the calculator on my phone to add up the hours and minutes. “People will think I’m . . . that I’ve forgotten him already. No, I don’t want to.” Only, some part of me actually does.
“No one here knew Nate, Judith. And they don’t know you from Adam’s house cat. It’s not a crime to do something that might be fun.”
“Fun?” Surely, this word does not belong in my current vocabulary.
“You’re allowed to have fun. All you have to do is come, have a few drinks, and meet some of my friends from the building.”
Drinking alone takes the edge off and can blur the misery. But it is most definitely not fun.
I could go to Meena’s happy hour and just have one drink so that I can drive home. Only, I’m not sure one drink is enough anymore.
I’ve spent a month and a half just trying to get through each day. My biggest accomplishment has been making it until four o’clock—well, sometimes more like three thirty—before I pour the first glass of wine. As if that’s some sort of badge of courage. Or proof that I am not an alcoholic.
“Or better yet, spend the night,” Meena suggests. “You’ve seen the guest suite. We can have a pajama party. Then tomorrow morning we’ll go to Buttermilk Kitchen for breakfast. They have a pimento cheese omelet that is truly to . . . that I know you’ll love.”
“I don’t know.” I’m dug in so deep that I’m not sure how I’ll handle the bright light of day. The idea of going somewhere new, of being around strangers with no preconceived notions about who I am or how I should act, is both exciting and frightening.
“Just say yes, Judith. Honestly, I really think this will do you good.”
I don’t actually feel all that good the next morning when I wake in Meena’s guest room with my face pressed into the mattress and my head buried under a pillow. My mouth is dry and cottony. I drag the pillow off my head, pry open one eye, and see my clothes in a heap on the floor.
A brisk knock sounds on the door. Meena’s voice precedes her into the room.
“I’ve been debating whether to wake you up or not, but I was starting to get worried.” She places a cup of steaming coffee on the nightstand and plops down on a nearby chair.
“Holy shit.” I manage to prop myself up on an elbow and reach for the coffee. My hand shakes slightly as I lift it to my lips. My brain is filled with odd fragments that I can’t quite piece together. “Did I get run over by a truck?”
“Not exactly. But you did have quite a lot of . . . fun.”
I take another sip. But my memory of last night remains sketchy. “So, I didn’t do anything . . . embarrassing?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep.”
“Could you stop grinning like that and give me a recap?”
“Okay, let’s see. First, we had drinks and appetizers at the happy hour as planned. Then we stayed for dinner and drinks with friends from the building.” She smiles. “Then we moved elsewhere and had a couple of nightcaps.”
In my muzzy brain, I hear laughter and music and see a large round table crowded with people. “Did I . . . I didn’t dance, did I?”
“You did.”
“With whom?”
“Everyone!” Meena’s still grinning. “We all danced together. You also danced with Chris and Scott, who both thought you were a hoot. And there was this guy at the bar who tried to talk you into going home with him.”
I blush with embarrassment, but I am also secretly pleased and oddly impressed with myself.
“Everyone really enjoyed meeting you. And you seemed to be having, dare I say it . . . quite a lot of fun.”
“I know I’ll never hear the end of it, but it appears that you might have been right.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she teases.
“Fine. It was fun.” In truth, I still feel a residual sense of well-being. It was the only evening other than book club that I laughed and smiled. A night that wasn’t all about me. Or Nate. Or my guilt. Or the loneliness. “Everyone was very welcoming.”
“It’s what I love most about the building,” Meena says as she puts her feet up on the ottoman with a satisfied smile. “I mean, the location’s great and my condo and its views are fabulous. I enjoy the walkability. But it’s being a part of a community that makes it so special.
“It reminds me of how it was when we moved into River Forge and we all first got to know one another. We became friendlier with some people more than others, but we always had the neighborhood in common. It’s like that here, only it’s not the ‘bubble’ we raised our kids in. I like the diversity. The different ages and ethnicities. It reminds me of book club, only I get to see these people more than once a month.”
She beams, and I think how much Nate would have liked this place if he’d been willing to let go of the familiar and try something new. Maybe our marriage would have been enhanced by the infusion of new people and experiences. Or maybe we would have been over faster, unable to coexist in the smaller square footage, like Meena and Stan. For the first time since I overheard Nate’s “good egg” conversation, I don’t feel that pressing weight of unhappiness on my chest. The need to fix my marriage. My life.
“When we got back it was after eleven and you, well, you were having some difficulty getting your pajamas on,” she says, and a picture forms in my mind of Meena and me giggling hysterically while I try and fail to get my feet into the legs of my pajamas.
“You were a little rubbery last night. It was a miracle you figured out how to get my nightshirt over your head. Lucky for you, I made you take aspirin so you wouldn’t have a hangover.” A last grin. “You’re welcome.”
Sunshine streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I look around the bedroom, taking in the room’s crisp white walls covered with brightly colored artwork, the thick pile rug, and the clean-lined furniture. All so Meena. No sign of the dark woods and heirloom furniture that filled her home in River Forge. No sign of Stan.
“Frank called after I was in bed.” Meena lights up at even the mention of his name. “I wish he didn’t have to travel so much for business, but it does make the sex spicier.” She winks.
We both blush—her in anticipation, me in embarrassment at even the idea of having sex with someone I haven’t spent a lifetime with.
“I think we both need more coffee,” Meena says. “After that, shall we go out for breakfast?”
My stomach rumbles in response. This is the first time since Nate died that I actually feel hungry. “That would be great.”
She reaches for my empty cup.
“Is there time for a shower?” I ask as I get out of bed and stretch.
“Absolutely. As far as I’m concerned, we have all the time in the world.”
When I come out showered and dressed, my overnight bag is sitting open on the ottoman. Meena is standing next to it with a copy of 121 First Dates in her hands. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of buying you a copy.”
“Oh, there’s no way that’s going to happen.”
“Just read it. You know, so you’ll know what’s going on in the world. You don’t have to do anything.”
“Said the snake in the Garden of Eden.”
“I don’t think either of us is Eve,” Meena replies. “And I promise I’m not going to push you to start dating. But one day you might be ready. You were not responsible for Nate’s death, Judith. And thanks to you, he did die with a smile on his lips. A lot of men would be glad to go that way.”
“But I was lecturing him while he was dying.”
“Based on the medical examiner’s report you shared, he was probably already gone before you got out of the bathroom.”
“So, you think lecturing a dead person and not noticing is better? After all those years of complaining that he wasn’t paying attention?”
“Okay. It’s a little ironic. And I’m not trying to belittle the loss. I liked Nate, and I’m sorry he’s gone. I know you miss him. You built a life and raised children together. But you’re still alive. And hiding in the house afraid to come out because of guilt or what someone might think or say isn’t going to bring him back.
“It’s not an insult to Nate’s memory for you to move on with your life. You never have to tell your children that you considered leaving their father. You didn’t do it, and believe me, they don’t want to hear it. I know that from personal experience. You need to go a little easier on yourself. Nate’s heart attack should be a reminder that there are no guarantees in life. None of us know how much time we have left.
“It would be a damned shame to waste your life dwelling on the past rather than figuring out what to do with your future. I hope one day you’ll be as happy as I am right now.”
I agree with this in theory, of course; it’s exactly what I would say to someone else. But in my experience, giving advice is a lot easier than following it. And making it through one happy hour is not necessarily a harbinger of happiness to come.