Autopsy of a Boring Wife Page 13

  “Diane?”

  “Uh . . . yes?”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, yes, sorry. I’m just tired. We got back late from the hospital.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry to hear about Claudine.”

  “Don’t be. That’s what happens when you act like teenagers. We’ll laugh about it one day.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Come by and sign her cast when she gets back. It’s her first one ever, and she’s pretty excited. Only don’t tell her I told you.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  He stood up to see me out, like a real gentleman. As his right arm swung toward the door, his left hand naturally found my shoulder and for one long, beautiful second his body was enveloping mine. He wasn’t wearing cologne. I wanted time to freeze so that I could stay longer, snuggled against him, and stopped in my tracks.

  “Thank you for the card.”

  “I meant what I said. I wanted you to know.”

  I was breathing way too fast. I would need a paper bag if I didn’t get out of there soon enough.

  “Bye.”

  “See you, Diane.”

  When I reached the fourth floor, I did a quick sweep of the hallway: empty. I took off my shoes and ran all the way to my office. I even went back and forth a few times. I was starting to understand what Claudine meant when she’d talked about a rebound.

  “You won’t believe this.”

  “Did you get into more trouble?”

  “No, it’s good news!”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “I went to see J.P., like you told me to do. I thanked him for the wine and the card . . . ”

  “You didn’t tell him about our night, did you?”

  “Well, not the whole thing. Just the bit about us having to go the hospital. I mean, with your cast and all . . . ”

  “What did you say happened?”

  “Uh . . . I said — ”

  “No, you didn’t — ”

  “ — it was because you tripped.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Uh . . . dancing.”

  “Diane! Everyone’s going to make fun of me!”

  “Oh come on, no one’s going to find out.”

  “Hello, Houston, we have a problem! The whole thing will get out!”

  “So what? It’s no big deal.”

  “For you!”

  “Are you mad?”

  “I’d planned on saying I fell from a ladder while I was cleaning the gutters or something.”

  “That’s so boring.”

  “Yeah, but breaking your neck because you think you’re in Flashdance is just plain idiotic.”

  “No way! Anyway, I told J.P. not to say anything.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Go on, finish the story.”

  “Nothing happened, but he walked me to the door and his arm almost touched mine . . . ”

  “And?”

  “I got all flushed. I was almost . . . excited.”

  “That’s it, that’s your story?”

  “Yup, boring as it is.”

  “Excited like . . . ‘turned on’?”

  “That might be an overstatement, but yeah, kind of.”

  “And what about him?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did he seem excited too?”

  “No! It was all just in my head.”

  “Well, don’t underestimate the power of sexual energy, he must have felt something.”

  “I only pictured us kissing. I wasn’t straddling him!”

  “Maybe, but he felt something, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t tell me that. Now I’ll be embarrassed when I see him.”

  “Diane, unless he’s the world’s biggest idiot, he knew something was up from the moment you went to see him about that bogus file.”

  “You think so?”

  “How many boyfriends did you have before Jacques?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, tell Auntie Claudine.”

  “One.”

  “One? Are you kidding me?”

  “And I saw someone for a bit. One and a half.”

  “Okay, the rebound thing is really good for you. Keep your focus on the French kissing part. You’re right. It’s good news. Something’s happening.”

  18

  In which I conclude some things are perfect even when they’re only three-quarters whole

  As Charlotte predicted, it was just the two of us at the apple orchard and in the kitchen. Profiting from our being on our own, we moved furniture around and repositioned artwork to hide the holes I’d made in my clumsiness and by ripping out the speakers. Some of our solutions demanded a lot of imagination.

  “Is Dominic coming to dinner?”

  “I don’t know, he might get off late. But he’ll definitely come by later.”

  “And how’s it going with you two?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Just ‘not bad’?”

  “Well, I found out he was seeing another girl last fall, and it really hurt.”

  “But you’d broken up.”

  “Only just.”

  “Maybe he was trying to get over you?”

  “With a crazy bitch?”

  “Charlotte, exes are always crazy. It’s easier that way.”

  “No, no, seriously. She’s crazy.”

  I was the crazy bitch in Charlene’s story.

  “As for the hole in the living room, what do you think about moving the big storage cabinet over it?”

  Alexandre and Justin showed up at 6 p.m. on the dot with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine expertly chosen to complement the flavours of the stew — vegetarian or not. As always, they were clean-shaven and tastefully and elegantly dressed. Only hugging them did you smell their cologne, with its subtle blend of spices and tree bark. And as always, they wore brightly coloured shirts that could not be further from hipster trends. When they entered a room, the light took on shades of their colourful glow. Alexandre was the spitting image of his father, his good looks enhanced by a few of Jacques’s most handsome features. The Love of My Life would never truly leave me.

  As expected, Antoine and Malika burst in, sweaty and late. In Malika my son had found the female version of himself; someone apparently living in another dimension where Time’s passing was even more accelerated. They were always in a desperate rush to get everything done, even though they had neither children, pets, nor plants. They were forever dashing in breathless and apologizing — it was never their fault — dressed as you’d expect of people who leave everything to the last minute, organization not their strong suit. All of Antoine’s sentences started with “I didn’t have time, but . . . ” Often I wondered how to tell them that certain shirts simply needed to be ironed, but for want of finding a polite and tactful way to say as much, I never bothered. Against all odds, they’d both managed to finish their degrees, find jobs and keep them. They’d proceed in the same fashion, I imagined, when it came to having and raising kids. Already, like a good and modern grandmother, I was gearing up for the repercussions of their lack of time. I was thinking of taking up knitting.

  Even though the joy of having them around almost led me to forget my unhappiness, I was reminded of it in their eager gestures, in the careful attention that so poorly disguised their desire to cheer and console me. Furthermore, nobody mentioned the missing and rearranged furniture, even though the huge storage cabinet from the hallway was now sitting smack in the middle of the living room where the couch had been, visibly defying any decent design sense. They served me water, wine, and appetizers as if I could no longer walk; they handed me a new napkin each time I got my fingers dirty. I’m sure they’d have accompanied me to the ba
throom if I’d asked. I was a victim, the mother abandoned in the family home, the one left behind. Their gaze pulled me down like leaden weights and I tried to fend it off using smiles and funny anecdotes assuring them I was fine. (My caregivers got a kick out of the leaf blower and broken arm stories.)

  We were just getting ready to sit down to dinner when Dominic arrived. I never understood what Charlotte saw in him. He’s kind, and devoted, but so wishy-washy you’d think he had a rubber spine. This one, no question, has plenty of time; I can’t imagine him rushing anywhere. He exudes a “chill out, man” vibe anytime people talk or move too fast for him. When he moves it’s as if he’s trying to slow the pace of everything around him, which generally produces the opposite effect on me: he stresses me out. But since Charlotte’s tastes are none of my business, I’m happy to support her tormented relationship.

  Dominic is also a fierce advocate for animal rights. He works on the front lines, criss-crossing the region in his van to pick up all kinds of animals that have been reported: pigeons, dogs, snakes, lemurs, tarantulas, and more. And, when given the chance, he rails against the cruelty and barbarism of the human race. Some of his stories are utterly compelling and can even turn your stomach. His saviour complex can be charming, I’ll give him that.

  But I was a little alarmed when I watched him enter carrying a pet crate. What if he had something poisonous in there? Or maybe it was a lizard without a tail, a blind hamster without fur. Some beat-up animal clearly in need of help.

  “Hey, Dominic.”

  “Hi, Di!”

  I never had to ask him to call me by my first name. He’d been calling me “Di” since the second time we met.

  “So what have you brought us today?”

  “Wait, Mom, wait! Let me explain first.”

  Charlotte rushed toward the two of us, grabbed the cage, and set it down at her feet with the wire door facing in so that we were unable to see what was inside. I was quite scared but she wanted us to listen to what she had to say before we looked.

  We were hardly surprised when she told the story of a cat hit by a car and taken for dead, but that by some miracle it managed to come back to life inside the garbage bag it had been tossed into. The cat tore the bag open and ran back to its owners, giving them the fright of their lives — they’d seen Stephen King’s Pet Sematary and thought the cat some kind of zombie out to kill them. The poor creature, seriously injured, refused to leave their balcony and so they’d called to have it taken away and put down. Dominic went to pick it up, promised to euthanize it (a lie he told so the owners would be able to sleep that night), and brought it back to the shelter. The veterinarian on duty agreed to treat it, giving it a second chance at life — or was it a second series of nine lives? Science hasn’t decided yet.

  “He’s all better now, and he’s still just a baby, not even a year old. He’s been neutered, dewormed, and vaccinated. And he’s so sweet and cuddly, he’s super soft . . . ”

  “Yaaay! A cat!”

  “Let’s see it!

  “Take him out!”

  There’s no denying it, Charlotte’s a clever girl. She knew the only way I’d take a cat in would be if she gave it to me in front of everyone so that I couldn’t lose my temper or protest without getting bombarded by very logical counter-arguments. And the benefits of pet therapy are well documented.

  Charlotte opened the door gently and the cat peeked its head out, a little frightened and overwhelmed by all the faces staring into the cage. I didn’t immediately realize there was something wrong with the cat, since the grey and black of its fur obscured its movements somewhat.

  “Hey! He’s only got three legs!”

  “Oh, poor little guy!”

  “Huh?”

  “Hmm . . . ”

  It wasn’t enough for it to be a cat, it needed to be a three-legged cat. His deformity was simultaneously touching and repulsive. If I’d put him into a garbage bag believing he was dead, I wouldn’t have wanted to see him get out, either. He took a few steps out of the cage and stopped, resting the remaining half of his hindquarters on the rug like a broken trinket.

  “Ooooh, too cute!”

  “Aw, look at him — what a beautiful cat!”

  “He’s kind of disgusting.”

  “Antoine!”

  “This whole thing’s weird.”

  “You’ll see, he’s super sweet.”

  Charlotte smiled at me and murmured, “Don’t worry, I’m taking him back with me.” When I asked what her roommates would think, she’d subtly averted her gaze.

  I’m not allergic to cats, dogs, or anything else for that matter — what I have is a slight intolerance to leaf blowers. We never had any pets when the kids were growing up because Jacques thought they complicated things unnecessarily. He hated all that hair sticking to fabric, slipping into food, and gathering into little clumps beneath the furniture. I never put up a fight. Until Charlotte arrived, I’d actually forgotten I liked cats.

  Steve — yes, that was his name, I kid you not — didn’t put any one of his three legs on the ground all night. He could have lost all four and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. We practically had to take numbers for a chance to hold him. The dinner slowly turned into a night of telling stories about cats. And thanks to Facebook, everyone knew — or had endured — tons of them: stories of adorable kittens with heart-shaped patches between their eyes; stories of cats giving birth in their litter boxes; of dumb cats stuck underneath the hoods of cars or in their tailpipes, and supercats that had saved a child, a woman, or a dog . . . When Malika said that a friend’s grandmother had fallen down the stairs and killed two kittens — what were they doing sleeping on the basement stair rug? — I laughed until I cried, despite Charlotte’s horrified expression and the tragedy of it all. Oh my daughter, the sweet, sensitive future veterinarian.

  The conversation turned to how everyone was doing, the good along with the not-so-good. It had been a long time since I’d been so happy. It felt like the air I was taking in was reaching that inaccessible space at the back of my lungs for the first time in months. It would be good for jogging.

  When my kids were little, I used to marvel at how they made it to the end of every day alive. They might have been hit by a car, kidnapped, injured, but no, the god of chance heard my prayers and always sent them home in one piece, if with a scratch or two. Now that they were out on their own, this visceral fear was coupled with a kind of gratitude; I knew how fabulously lucky I was to watch them get older. Twenty-five years on, gathered around the same table, the insignificant incidents of our lives continued to nourish family folklore as it gained new voices with each new couple — some, inevitably, decoupling. I had never felt so moved at my own table. Well okay, in an ideal world there wouldn’t be any cell phones, but our flaws help us better appreciate the rest.

  No one mentioned Jacques or how his split from our nucleus would work. Organizing birthdays, special events, and visits would be a headache, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. For the moment, we weren’t ready to undo the fragile balance of our new lives. The children were suffering too, of course, and they would need time to learn how to create a new well of memories and love each of their parents in separate tableaus. In order to fill Jacques’s absence at dinner that night, I’d replaced his setting with bread, the butter, a vase of flowers, the bottles of wine, and a pitcher of water. I’d reclaimed the space lost when I’d dispatched his mother’s buffet table. Everything was perfect.

  When it was time to leave, Alexandre and Justin sandwiched me in a big hug without a word, which almost made me cry. Antoine told me he’d come take care of the yard as soon as he found the time — I didn’t tell him about Mr. Nadaud, I wanted him to think I was counting on him — and Charlotte made a classic exit.

  “Can I leave the cat here for a bit, just until I talk to the girls?”

  “But I
thought . . . ”

  “Well, I had to take him right away, otherwise they’d put him up for adoption. You understand.”

  “Of course, I get it. Leave him here until you sort things out.”

  “Thanks, Mom! Really, thank you! You’re the best!”

  As a child, she used to bring home all sorts of inconvenient, often stinky animals, some found outside — a pigeon, a cute injured mouse, a baby squirrel that had fallen out of a nest — and others friends had given her (a dog, a cat, a lizard, a ferret . . . ). We’d had to trick her into getting rid of them, which always left her sad and hurt. Her decision to become a veterinarian had surprised no one.

  “Dominic has food and a litter box in the truck.”

  “Oh, so you planned the whole thing!”

  “Just say if you can’t take him or don’t want him. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Uh . . . ”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart. And it’s just temporary, like you said.”

  “That’s right. I’ll take him as soon as the girls say it’s okay.”

  “Can he climb stairs?”

  “Yes. It takes him a while, but he can. He gets around like a normal cat.”

  “Is he on any medication?”

  “No, the scar healed up well. Keep an eye on it, but everything should be fine.”

  “He won’t pee everywhere?”

  “No, he’s litter-trained.”

  “How much food do I give him?”

  “There’s a measuring cup in the bag. Give him one in the morning and another at night.”

  “And if I don’t come home?”

  “Oh! Do you have something to tell us?”

  Her face lit up, her little hands joined in prayer. She’d have loved for me to have a life preserver. But I couldn’t tell her how I’d felt when J.P. brushed against me to open the door. She’d have pitied me. And I certainly didn’t want to tell her how sure I was that I’d never have a love life again.

  “Sometimes I go out to dinner with Claudine.”