The Breakup (3 page)

Libby saw me eyeing her diploma, a law degree from Yale. “Both my parents are lawyers, and, frankly, they’re both miserable,
whether or not
they’re willing to admit it,” she said. She bit into a cookie. “I always wanted to be an investigator. I’m good at it, and
I enjoy it. Studying law wasn’t a total waste. Comes in handy on the job. And people seem to be impressed by the diploma.”
She seems to have a good track record. She gets steady referrals from the top six corporate and family law firms in the state.
She’s worked on everything from extramarital affairs to insurance fraud, but her specialty is digging up buried assets.

“How do you feel about digging up buried gold?” I asked her.

She laughed. “Aye-aye-matey. If you’ve got the treasure map, I’ll bring the shovel. But I’m afraid I don’t have a parrot.”

“No, I’m serious. I have reason to believe that my husband has gold hidden somewhere in the house. Bullions.”

“Then we’ll find it.” Libby wasn’t smiling anymore. I told her about Roger’s affair with Alyssa, about Diana’s allegations,
about the hidden file I’d found in the basement. Libby listened attentively, asked a few pointed questions, and typed notes
into a laptop. Her young face was compassionate, earnest. “Your husband did you wrong, Ms. Ryan. And I have no intention of
letting him off the hook.” She stood up, a signal that our meeting was over. “I’ll send you a letter with a game plan and
my fee schedule. Take a day to look it over, and we’ll talk again.”
She extended her small hand and gripped mine confidently. “I’m so glad you chose to speak with me.”

On the way out I met Dave the secretary, who must have been in the bathroom when I’d arrived. He was a magnificent creature
in a body-hugging black ribbed sweater and snug black jeans. “Have a great day, ma’am,” he called out. How I hated that word.
I don’t care if it’s supposed to be a sign of respect. It was dowdy as a housedress and I refused to wear it.

’Til next time,

V

I went online and ordered this special cream designed to plump up lips. I read all about it in one of those celebrity style
magazines. Apparently all these beautiful actresses use it to keep their lips looking young and juicy. It was forty dollars
for a tube the size of a Polly Pocket but it’ll be worth every penny if it works.

’Til next time,

V

My new computer is too slow. And I think the lady at A-1 Realty lied to me. The copy machine doesn’t work.

’Til next time,

V

I got two estimates to repair the copier. Lakeland Office Supply said it would cost $280. Executive Business Machines would
fix it for $295.50. That’s like four times more than I paid for the machine. Then I remembered Kevin, the sweet guy who handled
most of the repairs at my old workplace—he fixed fax machines, copiers, computers, you name it. He even fixed one of the toilets
after someone (I say it was my former boss Cadence) tried to flush down a sanitary napkin. Kevin is fast and cheap and he
guarantees his work. He’s rather cute in a scholarly way, as I recall. But how would I locate him? I never knew his last name.
He was always Kevin-the-repair-guy.

I phoned Filomena, the receptionist at the Center, who told me in her characteristically world-weary way that she had been
promoted to office manager. She gave me Kevin’s number and I wished her well. It wasn’t until after I hung up that I realized
my hands were shaking. Calling the Center was like making contact with a ghost. Or, more accurately, making contact with the
living. Filomena was in a world of movement, growth, and adult conversation, a world of elevators and proposals and new clients
and business lunches. I was the dead one now.

’Til next time,

V

The lip-plumping cream arrived today! It smells like oranges and coconut. I can feel it working already!

’Til next time,

V

Now I feel really guilty. Petey begged me to invite over Hunter-the-Blob again. I dialed the number and handed Pete the phone;
I wanted to avoid talking to the ever perky Lynette, didn’t want to hear how she was sponge-painting the basement. After a
few moments, Pete waved the receiver at me. “Hunter’s mom wants to talk to you.”

I took the phone from Petey and tried to sound cheerful. “Hi, Lynette,” I said, fake-breezily. “I guess the boys are cooking
up a plan, huh?”

“I don’t think this is going to work,” she said. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically tight. Something was wrong.

“Oh?” I said, trying to stay calm. “Why not?”

“Valerie, I’ll be honest. Whenever Hunter comes back from your house, well, he’s always a little offthe-wall. Do you know
what I mean?”

I pictured Hunger vegetating on my sofa. Is that what passes for off-the-wall in the Kohl-Chase household?
“Really? Tell me more,” I said, trying to sound like the caring-yet-detached therapist I used to be, instead of the hysterical,
guilt-stricken mother I am now.

“I don’t know how to say this, Valerie, but it’s my impression that the boys just aren’t properly supervised.” I bit my lip
and waited. “Did you know, for instance, that they played with matches in your backyard last week?”

“What? No! Of course I didn’t know! Are you sure?” I knew she was sure. Lynette Kohl-Chase was always sure.

“Apparently they were trying to build a campfire.” She paused. “And did you know they tried to carve boats out of Ivory soap
using steak knives?” I suddenly remembered seeing scraps of soap on the kitchen floor. I hadn’t given it a second thought—
just another piece of crap on my floor, what else was new? Now I felt like disemboweling myself. Pete goes to her house, and
they build gingerbread houses. Hunter comes here, and they play with steak knives and matches. What could I say? I was a horrible,
neglectful, pitiful excuse for a mother and we both knew it.

“No offense,” Lynette went on, “but I think it’s best if Hunter stays home today.” She paused. “Of course, Pete is always
welcome here. In fact, we’re building an igloo on the deck if he’s interested.”

I wanted to say, Oh shut the hell up, Mrs. Perfect-Mother-and-Homemaker-Who-Makes-Me-Want-to-Hurl-My-Guts-Out.
Instead I told her Pete would rather stay here. “We’re making double-chocolate brownies,” I lied. “From scratch. Pete’s favorite.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Lynette chirped. “Maybe some other time.” I’m sure she knew I was lying. I’m sure of it.

’Til next time,

V

I woke up this morning with a rash around my mouth. It looks like I have a mustache of red pimples. It itches, and it’s hideous,
and I feel like crying. I guess my new lip plumper worked, though tumescent is probably a better word to describe what has
happened to the lower part of my face.

As I sit here with hydrocortizone cream slathered all over my face, I’m thinking about what it will be like to be single and
alone again, and I’m afraid. The trauma of Roger’s infidelity has left me feeling battered and shaky. I feel so unsure of
myself, my worth, my looks. I don’t know if I have the stamina to put myself “on the market.” Years without love have made
me feel unlovable. While I cognitively understand that Roger is a sick bastard, at the visceral level, I can’t help but believe
I deserved him. I am plagued by the fear that I’m literally incapable of choosing a good man, or that no good man would
want me. In darker moments, I convince myself that no normal man would want a woman my age whose body has born a child, whose
belly is striped with faded stretch marks, and whose breasts sag like water balloons. It’s like the real estate market in
the suburbs. Why would anyone want to buy one of the 1960s bi-levels when they can get a shiny, new house in a shiny, new
subdivision? The old houses sit on the market like relics from another age.

There’s Eddie, I guess. But he’s not exactly the marrying kind, and not just because he’s already married. Eddie is my first
affair, my secret sin, my coconspirator. One day he will be my former lover, but he can never be my future second husband.

’Til next time,

V

It’s 5
A
.
M
. and I’m sitting here wondering how I missed the clues. Why hadn’t I paid attention? Why hadn’t I picked up on the signs?
Before Roger and I got married, I struggled with a cancerous jealousy. But I desperately wanted to be a trusting wife. In
therapy, I learned to view my suspicions as infantile impulses, irrational longings that had more to do with childhood wounds
than my fiancé’s wandering eye. Instead of stiffening when Roger mentioned a
woman’s name, I eventually learned to relax. I welcomed many of those women into my home, served them dinner, laughed with
them, trusted them.
I was such a sucker!

I suppose that Roger’s sudden interest in expensive clothes was one sign, though I didn’t realize it at the time. And the
introduction of new sexual positions. Then there was the female rapper sex music— once I borrowed his van and when I turned
the key in the ignition, hip-hop music boomed at full blast: “I like it hard and thick and I like to lick/I like it in my
butt and I like to strut . . .” At first I thought it was the radio, then I realized it was a CD. I found the case under the
seat. It showed three busty girls in sequinned thongs. I couldn’t believe Roger was listening to this kind of music. He thought
Snoop Doggy Dog was a cartoon character. I guess I should have paid attention.

’Til next time,

V

In my ongoing effort to appear normal, I agreed to go with Roger to Starbucks last night, to meet Wade and Melanie Rosen,
a couple I’ve known for years and always enjoy, but rarely see since they started raising race horses two years ago. Wade
is a lovable panda,
and Mel has a bizarre sense of humor—she once joked about starting a company that did theme funerals. “You know, we could
do a luau funeral. Or a Mexican fiesta funeral. Our slogan would be, ‘We put the
fun
in
funerals.’
Get it?”

After eleven (childless, I feel compelled to point out) years of marriage, Mel and Wade are still wildly in love. If I didn’t
like them so much, I’d hate them. In fact, I might kill them. After I killed Lynette Kohl-Chase. “Hey! Have you checked out
Paradise Suites?” Mel asked, dipping a tongue into her latte. My throat tightened. As far as the Rosens were concerned, Roger
and I were stable and happy, and I wasn’t about to disabuse them of that notion.

“No! Tell us!” I said, faking interest. This couple’s vigorous sex life was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

“Oh! You guys! You’ve got to try this place,” Wade chimed in. He was stroking his wife’s curly brown hair. “Mirrors everywhere.
Free dirty movies. And a hot tub to die for. Shaped like a heart.”

“So’s the bed. A great big heart!” Melanie exclaimed. “What a weekend! I think I lost ten pounds from all the exercise!”

Wade ran a hand over his wife’s plump belly. “You’re gorgeous, with or without the ten pounds.”

Melanie tittered. “I may be chubby, but I can sure please my hubby!” The next thing you know, they’re making out. I wanted
to cry. Here I am, sitting there
with my future former husband, while this sweet, rotund, deliriously happy couple necked like teenagers. They weren’t just
lovers, they were best friends. I pictured them sitting on twin rocking chairs on the nursing home porch. She was his little
hotsy-totsy. I WANTED TO BE SOMEONE’S HOTSY TOTSY, DAMN IT! Wade grabbed his wife’s cheek and said, “Isn’t she a doll? Don’t
you want to eat her up?”

“Actually, we should probably leave that task to you, Wade,” Roger said, droll as ever. I despised him.

As we were leaving I thought I saw someone watching me from the corner table. Ben Murphy. He smiled brightly and waved. I
waved back, perhaps a bit too wistfully. Then I felt something slide down my pant leg. I looked down. It was black, it was
soft. At first I thought, absurdly, Oh! It’s a black kitten. A black kitten was hiding in my pants leg! Then I realized it
wasn’t a kitten, it was my bunched-up black underwear, the underwear I wore yesterday, the underwear I forgot to disengage
from my pants when I put them on again this morning. I quickly scooped up the panties and shoved them in my bag. Ben didn’t
notice. Wade and Melanie didn’t notice. But Roger noticed. He rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say, “You poor,
pathetic slob.” And even if he wasn’t thinking it, I was.

’Til next time,

V

The Prozac must finally be taking effect, because I’m feeling strangely detached from everyone and everything. When I returned
home from the health club last night, I found Roger watching the basketball game. Dishes were stacked in the sink, and Pete—
who should have been in bed—was sitting on the kitchen floor in his Pokémon underwear eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box.

This in itself is nothing new. Once basketball season commences, everything else can go to hell as far as Roger’s concerned.
What
is
new: I didn’t really care! Sure, it all registered when I walked in: Pete. Awake. Underwear. Cocoa Puffs. The thing is, I
didn’t feel
anything,
as if I’d been anesthetized, which sounds unpleasant, but is exactly what I’ve needed. For once, I had no interest in arguing
with Roger. I just led Pete upstairs, tucked him in, jumped into the shower, and went to bed.

’Til next time,

V

Libby Taylor’s letter came this morning. Her fee is $250 a day. She said she’d have the job completed in ten to twelve business
days. She wanted $500 now,
and the balance after she turned in her report. I called and gave her the go-ahead. Now comes the hard part. Waiting.

’Til next time,

V

Yay! Keven is a genius. He fixed my copy machine. Total cost: sixty-five dollars and he threw in an extra toner cartridge.
He also told me he could upgrade my computer so it would run programs like Napster. I invited him to stay for a cup of coffee
and he agreed without hesitation. I hinted at the deteriorating state of my marriage, and he admitted to a string of unhappy
relationships with women. I noticed he was wearing a Michigan sweatshirt. I probed a little and found out that he dropped
out of Michigan in his senior year—he was a philosophy major—and never finished his degree. He wouldn’t say why. He’d always
had a knack for building and fixing things, so he went into business for himself. “I still read philosophy,” he said mildly.
I refilled his cup. “It’s a hobby, I guess.” I noticed that his eyes were the loveliest hue, a golden brown, like amber. I
thought I could lose myself in those eyes. It was so nice to have a man in the house.