Autopsy of a Boring Wife Read online

  “I never had to do that anyway.”

  “Now you have the whole bed to yourself!”

  “I hate it. I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

  “You could sell the house and buy a little condo downtown, nothing to maintain and in walking distance of all the cute cafés.”

  “But it’s the kids’ house — they grew up here. They still have their rooms.”

  “But that’s just it, they’re not kids anymore.”

  “Charlotte’s coming home for the summer.”

  “For the summer? Come on! Buy a condo with a guest room, that’ll do just fine.”

  “What about when the grandkids come visit?”

  “You don’t have grandkids!”

  “Not yet. But Antoine and his girlfriend are talking about it.”

  “Antoine? He can barely take care of himself!”

  “He’s just a little disorganized.”

  “Buy a condo with an indoor pool. They’ll always want to come see you. Then at night they’ll get the hell out.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “What about Jacques’s family? Didn’t you hate his sister, that princess and her little brats?”

  “Oh my God, didn’t I tell you? I really let her have it!”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Yeah, a few weeks after Jacques left.”

  * * *

  One night, as everyone was talking over each other, Jacques told his sister — who was complaining that she didn’t have a life and could never slow down or take time for herself like everyone else — that we could give her a break and take the kids once in a while. I remember feeling my chest tighten as he made the offer. Jacinthe had become a mother, by choice, in her early forties — she’d found the idea of wasting her youth raising kids ridiculous — and now she had two little monsters who didn’t understand the meaning of the word “no,” had zero respect for people or possessions, got what they wanted when they wanted it, and didn’t see the point of being nice. Their undisputed godlike status apparently exempted them from the rules and punishments that would normally fit the crime. Jacinthe didn’t need to be told twice: the following Wednesday she showed up with a bag full of supplies for the long evening of babysitting ahead. And for herself: hot yoga, followed by dinner with girlfriends at a trendy bar.

  Even though we never repeated the offer, Jacinthe showed up every Wednesday from then on, yoga or not, CrossFit or not. My sweet Jacques, bless him, never could bring himself to tell her that broadly interpreting the expression “every once in a while” for “every single Wednesday” was pushing it. We’d only managed to get out of it the two or three times when I forced Jacques to join me for dinner — at 4:30 in the afternoon. I’d never conceived of pulling such a stunt when my children had been younger, a fact he seemed to overlook when he told me, his eyes full of conviction, “She could use the rest, don’t you remember how hard it was with two kids? And George is almost never around.” And besides, when darling George was around, he didn’t have time to “babysit” his own kids. So I respected Jacques’s commitment for nearly two years, mostly because I didn’t know how to refuse, but also because I really wanted to break those kids in.

  Since she was on the front line when I hurled my Facebook bomb, Jacinthe thought it prudent not to show up that first Wednesday. No doubt her mother had begged her, in the name of the Holy Father who had married me, not to leave the kids with a crazy woman sabotaging family get-togethers. The grandparents never babysat; they were too old to be running after kids and pulling them down from the curtains. The next week, clearly not giving a rat’s ass about how I was doing, she showed up at the usual time — just before dinner, of course — with her bag well stocked for the long night ahead.

  She jammed her finger furiously against the doorbell several times, her anger melting into a smile once I finally answered.

  “Oh, there you are! I was worried you weren’t home. Thank God! BOYS, STOP RUNNING! COME HERE! AUNTIE DIANE’S HOME!”

  “Auntie Diane isn’t in the mood to babysit today. I’d probably murder them, with all the patience I have.”

  “You must be starting to feel better now, no?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you seem fine.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “Okay, I get it. Look, I’ll do my class, then just grab an appetizer with the girls and come right back. I won’t even go out after.”

  “Sorry, Jacinthe, I can’t today. I’m not up for it. You should have called first.”

  “I must have called fifty times! You didn’t answer!”

  “That’s because I don’t feel like talking or seeing anyone.”

  “Well, that sucks, it really sucks. I was looking forward to finally having an evening to myself, a little time of my own. Sometimes I wonder how I even stay sane. I spend the whole day running around, and with George never home . . . ”

  “I know, I get it. Been there, done that. I have three kids, remember? Only I never had an auntie to watch them every week. No one ever offered . . . ”

  “Well, it’s really shitty that my kids have to pay for your breakup. This is the highlight of their week, too.”

  “Well, go ask your brother! He’s still alive, you know!”

  She twisted her face into such a scowl, that in that moment she looked just like her mother.

  “Right then, I guess I’ll have to skip another class. Had I known, I wouldn’t have rushed to pick the kids up early. Fantastic! What am I supposed to make for dinner? OKAY, BOYS, WE’RE GOING! AUNTIE DIANE ISN’T FEELING WELL!”

  “I hope you’ll find someone reliable to watch them.”

  “Someone reliable . . . ”

  “I think I’ve done my part.”

  “Seriously? You’re just going to leave us high and dry? What about the goddamn vacation I have booked! You two break up and life stops, is that it? You tell everyone to go screw themselves and get over it?”

  “My goddamn vacation is seeing your cheeky ass show up here every week to drop off YOUR kids, that YOUR brother offered to watch, not me. NOT ME! Yet I still babysat them almost EVERY week for two years. TWO YEARS!”

  “I don’t believe this! All this time, I thought you liked taking care of them!”

  “I did, but you know what I’d have liked even better? To watch them once in a while, like we’d originally said.”

  “What’s one night a week for you?”

  “The same as it is for you! The same exact thing!”

  “Your kids are out of the house!”

  “And the same goes for your brother! His kids are gone, too. Only I’m all alone and he’s got backup!”

  “Fine, forget it, we’ll just go home. Fuck class. So what if I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown. No big deal. Madame needs all her nights to herself . . . ”

  “HEY, DIPSHIT! YOU AREN’T THE ONE HAVING A HARD TIME, HERE! I AM! ME! I’M NOT PISSING ANYONE OFF, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? YOUR BROTHER’S PISSING ME OFF, YOU’RE PISSING ME OFF, JUST ABOUT EVERYONE IS PISSING ME OFF, CHRIST ALMIGHTY! DO WHAT EVERYBODY ELSE DOES AND HIRE A BABYSITTER! DID YOU EVER BABYSIT MY KIDS BACK WHEN YOU HAD ALL YOUR NIGHTS TO YOURSELF? NO, NEVER! NEVER! NOT A SINGLE BLOODY TIME! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ALL YOUR NIGHTS ALONE, YOU SELF-CENTRED BITCH?”

  * * *

  “I shouldn’t have sworn like that in front of the kids.”

  “God! I would have loved to be there!”

  “Wait, there’s more — just before I slammed the door, I heard her mutter something like ‘Poor Jacques, now I get it . . .’ I almost puked in my mouth.”

  “What a bitch!”

  “So I opened the door and screamed, ‘Hey lardass, you’ve got camel toe! You’re too old and fat to wear leggings!’ ”

  “She was wearing leggings as pants?”

  “Yup
. Patterned ones.”

  “That must have felt good.”

  “Not really. I closed the door, then curled up in a ball and cried all night.”

  “It’s nerves.”

  “I’m really going to miss those little brats.”

  “Okay, so that’s not the bright side. We’ll think of something else.”

  But Claudine’s efforts were wasted, and it wasn’t helping that Jacques had left. He was the one who took out the trash, the recycling, the compost. He did a lot of the cooking — he was better at it than me — the grocery shopping, paid the bills, remembered important appointments, was never late, always put the toilet seat down, liked wine, good food, my friends, and always brought me home bran nut muffins on Saturday mornings. Other than fewer hairs here and there, I had no reason on the domestic front to be glad he was gone. “Someone Else” was probably in the process of discovering that her lover was also a kind companion who was good at multitasking. She would never let him get away. That’s the problem when you’ve done too good a job choosing your husband: afterwards it’s tough to have to share him.

  “But you must have been so sick of hearing the same stories for the past twenty-five years.”

  “No, he was good at telling them.”

  “Then he was a bad dresser.”

  “No.”

  “Did he snore?”

  “No.”

  “Stink?”

  “No.”

  “Not even when he exercised?”

  “Not even.”

  “Was he disorganized?”

  “Not compared to me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t listen to you, or he just feigned interest?”

  “No.”

  “He spent Saturday mornings washing the car in front of the garage.”

  “He never washed the car.”

  “He wore socks with sandals.”

  “No.”

  “And he was always patient?”

  “Like he had all the time in the world.”

  Once we’d finished going through it all, I felt like I was dangling above a bottomless pit. Each of his non-faults exposed a little more of my own, all of which left me with the distinct impression that I had never been, in all our years together, good enough for the man who probably had married me more out of goodwill than love.

  “Stop, you’re being ridiculous. Now you’re in the stage where you think your ex is some kind of god and you’re shit in comparison. It’s normal, don’t let it get to you — it’ll pass. He couldn’t have been that great, you’ll see that when you get to the ‘letting go’ stage. We’ll find something else in the meantime.”

  “There’s no point.”

  “It’ll help pass the time. Because it really will take time, lots of time. And as it doesn’t look like he’s going to turn into an asshole any time soon — ”

  “He’ll never be an asshole.”

  “ — we might have to resort to drastic measures.”

  “Like?”

  “There’s an almost sure-fire way to flip things around.”

  “Pfff . . . ”

  “But I know it’s not your kind of thing. I do know lots of people who’ve done it, but you may not like the idea, and I respect that. I’m not sure it would be all that helpful anyway . . . ”

  “You’re being really cryptic.”

  “Maybe Jacques was more than just a nice husband, darling.”

  “No. He’s human, everybody is, but he was always a perfect gentleman with me.”

  “What a stupid thing to say! He cheated on you. He played you! And he called you boring to your face!”

  I used to believe that if we say them often enough, words become worn and faded, little slivers of soap that slip between your fingers — but I was wrong. They had taken on a terrible destructive force, covering me like a slick of oil. Boring. It sliced through me like a dagger.

  “That was a real cheap shot. You’re just a . . . ”

  “A what? Come on! A WHAT? Get angry! At me if you have to! I can take it! Hate me — hate anyone! Jacques isn’t coming back. It’s over, honey. He left you for a thirty-year-old bombshell!”

  “You’re only saying that because you’re bitter Philippe never came back.”

  “Well, Jacques isn’t coming back either. You’re in denial, honey. Move on, it’s been months! He’s a prick like all the rest. He wanted some fresh ass, like they all do.”

  “It’s a phase, a rough patch. It’s just a fling — ”

  “NO! He moved in with her! Earth to Diane! He’s gone. Wake up!”

  “But . . . we’re married . . . ”

  She took a step back, as though I’d just told her I had Ebola.

  “Okay. Let’s get one thing clear. You need to stop saying that. Everyone keeps laughing at you during lunch.”

  “Stop saying what?”

  “When you talk about the breakup, you always bring up how you’re married.”

  “But being married means something.”

  “No, Diane, it doesn’t mean a thing. When the love runs out, it runs out. Married or not. It’s not some magic spell, marriage — a ring doesn’t protect you from anything.”

  “But marriage makes relationships stronger, they last longer. There are statistics to prove it!”

  “But the statistics don’t say anything about love.”

  “You’re cynical, and that’s sad.”

  “Well, you’re out of touch, Diane. And that’s pathetic.”

  Lucky for me, when you’re a mom in an age where the technology that pulls the strings of our lives changes with the seasons, you get called “out of touch” every single day, both literally and figuratively. A knife slicing through soft butter. It’s no big deal.

  I dragged my boring, out-of-touch woman’s carcass over to the restaurant where Charlotte was waiting for me. Charlotte, my sweet, soon-to-be veterinarian of a daughter, almost too smart to be my offspring, had been checking in on me even more frequently since her father left. Tender and devoted, my daughter would save the whole world if she could. In fact, I suspect she wanted to be a veterinarian because animals are easier to handle. With just a little love and care, animals offer themselves up like the gullible to a guru — the difference being the only thing you get in return is affection.

  Contrary to habit, when the server galloped over to take my order, I asked for a big glass of white wine. I needed to re-centre myself so I could play the mom keeping her head above water.

  “Hi, Mom!”

  “Hi sweetie! How did your exams go?”

  “Uh . . . the term hasn’t started.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. I’m a bit out of it. So, how are things?”

  “Great.”

  “Have you spoken to your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Day before yesterday, I think.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Good, good.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I’d devised an agenda that I followed to the letter whenever I saw the kids: I’d ask about school or work, Jacques, their love life, upcoming projects. This way, I don’t forget anything and give the impression that we can discuss anything, even him, without it being awkward. The first few times I’d even written the list on my hand.

  “I stopped by the house before coming over. I see you demolished your bed frame.”

  “I had to break it into pieces to fit it through the door.”

  “We could have taken it apart.”

  “Bah. It would have been too complicated. The sledgehammer did the job.”

  “Did you buy another one?”

  “Not yet.”

  Somewhere in a tiny compartment at the back of my brain, the notion that I should wait to ask Jacques before choosi
ng a new one germinated.

  “What was the rush to get rid of it?”

  “ . . . ”

  “I thought maybe we could go shopping?”

  “Do you need something?”

  “No, Mom, just to look around. Whenever’s good for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s always fun to buy something new when you’re feeling down, right?”

  “You’re feeling down?”

  “Mom . . . ”

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I take the afternoon off? Are you free?”

  * * *

  The girl selling me jeans was wearing her own much too tight. Though she must have started with two cheeks now there was only one, divided by a seam that struggled to contain her considerable flab. I was observing, not judging.

  She wanted me to try on a bunch of skinny jeans, made out of some kind of stretchy fabric similar to leggings that barely hides the contours of a woman’s crotch and does absolutely nothing for her figure. Charlotte, who was standing behind the salesgirl, mimed a big “time out” each time she disapproved. My ideal pair was still the sexy comfort Levis ads of the 80s promised. A little out of touch for sure.

  In the fitting-room mirror, under the cruel fluorescence of neon lighting, my gaze “lucidified” by the two glasses of white from lunch, I beheld my body in all its disgrace. Despite the weight I’d lost in the past few weeks, my legs appeared heavy, soft and ill-suited to support a body. My wrinkled shirt crept up over the equally soft bulge of my belly. My breasts, too small to make an impression or be described as voluptuous, wisely stayed under the fabric. Every part of me said boring: my chubby limbs, my thin, limp hair, my eyes ringed with dark circles, my beige clothing, and the natural tones of my foundation. No wonder a man like Jacques ended up tired of me; lassitude had carved a niche into every cell of my being.

  I crumpled to the floor, lying on the grime of all those who had been there before me. I couldn’t get up, couldn’t talk. Pain nailed me to the ground, as if gravity had suddenly tripled in force. From under the door I could see the feet of people going about their everyday lives, and I envied them. If I couldn’t stand out in life, maybe I could stand out in death: I’d never heard of someone struck down by the weight of their ugliness, their lifeless body discovered inside a fitting room.