Autopsy of a Boring Wife Read online

  Once Charlotte realized I wasn’t coming out or answering her, she slid underneath the door to find me, crawling on her hands and knees so she wouldn’t scrape her spine. She curled up next to me and took me into her big, I’m-all-grown-up arms without saying a word. My Charlotte. My baby. In her silence I could hear the “It’ll be okay, Mom,” and “I love you, Mom.” She was hardly breathing, as if she, too, wanted to disappear. She had dived alongside me into the quicksand, demanding nothing. It made me want to dig in my heels.

  “How’re you doing on sizes in there?”

  “Great!”

  “What do you think of the skinny jeans?”

  “They’re great, too!”

  And just as quickly as I had been levelled, I started to laugh like a madwoman. My whole body shook. And the more I tried to hold back my laughter, the harder I laughed. It was contagious. Charlotte started in, too. So beautiful. Two women on their knees, one half-naked, clutching each other on the dirty fitting-room floor, tears streaming down their faces. Truly, so beautiful.

  “Remember how, when you were little, you’d always accidentally lock yourself in public washrooms?”

  “Yes!”

  “Every time I’d tell you not to lock the door, but you’d do it anyway!”

  “I know. And I could never unlock it afterwards. I’m not sure why. I think I would just panic.”

  “So I would crawl underneath the stall.”

  “One time there wasn’t enough room underneath, so you went over top.”

  “Really?”

  “At the Château Laurier. You were wearing a dress, and you weren’t too happy.”

  “Oh my gosh — yeah, I remember.”

  We emerged fifteen minutes later, faces stained with dried tears, still shaking with laughter from all the memories that had come flooding back. The salesgirl kept such a straight face we were convinced the entire chain had banned smiling completely. But I got it; there was nothing to laugh about when jeans made by the hands of exploited Bangladeshi workers cost nearly $200 a pair simply to make a pack of bourgeoisie with a sick conscience feel chic. And nothing to laugh about when, claiming I didn’t have a choice, I bought them.

  * * *

  When she noticed I hadn’t come back after lunch, Claudine texted me a few times. She absolutely had to tell me something very important and wanted me to call her back.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  “But that’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  “No, you wanted to tell me how to start thinking of Jacques as an asshole.”

  “No, no, that’s not it.”

  “Can you just tell me?”

  “Never mind, it’s a bad idea.”

  “I want to know. Shoot.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Private investigator.”

  “Private investigator? What do you think a P.I. could possibly tell me? That my husband ran off with a tramp?”

  “That’s what I said, it’s not a good idea.”

  “But you thought it might help anyway.”

  “Yeah. Because sometimes when we could really use a pick-me-up, it’s nice to find out that things didn’t always go the way we think they did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Arrrgh . . . I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

  “Well, you didn’t, so out with it!”

  “You think Jacques is a saint, but I doubt he is.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Statistics aren’t in his favour.”

  “Who cares about statistics?”

  “Well . . . ”

  “Spit it out, Claudine!”

  “How long was he dating Charlene before he left you?”

  “Jacques and I must have gone over it about ten times, and I bet I told you just as many times.”

  “He told you what he wanted you to hear.”

  “But he left me for her! How does that change anything now?”

  “What if he was seeing her for two years before he left you?”

  “Oh, come on — it was a new thing! Or relatively new. Charlene had only been at the office six months when he left.”

  “Okay. But even if it was new with her, which would surprise me, but okay, what if before her . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Do you think it’s the first time he’s done something like this?”

  “ . . . ”

  “An investigator won’t change the past. It’s just to turn things around, and for you to stop thinking he’s such a saint.”

  “ . . . ”

  “Diane?”

  “ . . . ”

  “DIANE?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “No, don’t. There’s no point. Drop it. Just forget it.”

  “You know something I don’t.”

  “No, I swear. It’s just that the whole story is so cliché! It’s just to see if Jacques, just overnight . . . you know, I never managed a final count of all the students Philippe slept with?”

  “I feel like such an idiot.”

  “No, don’t! Just forget it.”

  “I guess you have a name for me? Someone you’d recommend?”

  “Do you want the good news now? It’s actually a great idea — and why I really called. It’s not about something you lost, but about something you never had. Something you might be able to do now!”

  “Hmm . . . ”

  “Something you could never do with Jacques.”

  “I don’t know what that could be, apart from sleeping with other guys.”

  “You’re forgetting something important. You used to talk to me about it all the time . . . ”

  “I’m stumped.”

  “No idea?

  “Come on, Claudine.”

  “That’s what Cloclo is here for!”

  “Okay lady, fill me in.”

  “You’ll finally be able to . . . French kiss!”

  “Seriously? That’s what this is about? I couldn’t care less about making out!”

  “Oh come on! Tongue! TONGUE! It’s been, what, twenty-five years? How many times did you tell me you missed doing it, you dreamed of it, but that Jacques never liked it with tongue?”

  “But that’s not a life goal!”

  “I’m not giving you a life goal. I’m giving you a good reason to get your ass in gear! You’re smart, you’re pretty . . . ”

  “Don’t even try. I just went shopping.”

  “No one looks good in a fitting room.”

  “I’m squishy.”

  “That won’t matter for kissing! Wear some compression tights until you get back in shape and everything will be hunky-dory!”

  “Pfff . . . ”

  “You’re beautiful, Diane, don’t doubt it. You’re so damn beautiful. I’d hate you if I didn’t like you so much.”

  “Don’t overdo it.”

  “Name one guy you’d French kiss. Quick! Without thinking!”

  “This is silly. I feel like I’m fourteen.”

  “You’re not far off, if we take away the twenty-five years you spent with Jacques.”

  “Twenty-eight: we’d been together for three years before we got married.”

  “Even worse! You’ve got to start somewhere! The French kiss is kind of like the one-metre diving board. You’ve got to practise on the lower one before you move up to ten metres.”

  “Weird analogy.”

  “I know. Come on, give me a name.”

  “I don’t feel like making out with anyone.”

  “A NAME!”

  “J.P.!”

  “You mean fourth-floor J.P.? In Accounting?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I d
on’t know, maybe you’re aiming too high. And I think he’s married. I’ll have to check.”

  “You asked me for a name!”

  “Of course, that’s great! Excellent! We’ll go with J.P. since he was the first one you came up with. Focus on him. And anyway, we’re only talking about French kissing.”

  “Oh right, real easy.”

  “Easier than you think, Diane. Much easier.”

  “It worries me a bit that you say that.”

  “If you only knew how right I am.”

  “I want the name of your detective.”

  “I’ve got a good shrink, too.”

  • • •

  * * *

  Charlotte was snuggled into her big fluffy blanket watching an episode of an American series that I just “had to see” on her computer. She must have said as much thirty times over the past couple of years. But I’d been so far behind since Six Feet Under that I gave up trying. Like I said, out of touch.

  “So, do you regret buying the jeans?”

  “No way, kiddo. I love them. If you say they look good on me, I’ll believe you.”

  “Well, it’s true!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re a knockout for your age, I’m telling you.”

  “For my age.”

  “You’re a knockout, period.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I swear.”

  “Have you been talking to Claudine?”

  “Claudine? No. Why?”

  “You sound like her.”

  “That’s because you’re beautiful. Everyone thinks so.”

  “Yeah . . . ”

  “Not yeah. Yes.”

  “Thanks, honey. You’re sweet. So, what do you think of Nautilus?”

  “Ugh. It costs an arm and a leg, and everyone who goes there thinks they’re so hot. You want to do bicep curls?”

  “Well, I should probably start doing something. It can’t hurt.”

  “What about jogging? You can jog anywhere, plus it’s free. And it’s really trendy.”

  I hate trendy.

  4

  In which I gauge the cost of words

  “How do you feel?”

  Claudine had reminded me over and over again before my first appointment: “You’ve got to be open, ready to bare it all, to face things head on. You can swear, you can cry, you can throw yourself on the ground and scream, but you’ve got to talk, you understand? It’ll be tough, you’ll feel like you’re going in circles, but that’s normal. The closer you get to the real knot, the tougher it’ll be. This lady, she’ll help you, but only if you help yourself. You’ve gotta help yourself. She’s not a cleaning woman, it’s not her job to polish your insides and make your ego shine. You’re gonna face all your demons and it’s gonna hurt.”

  I was supercharged when I arrived, ready to unpack all the vicissitudes of my soul on the couch of a perfect stranger, recipient of innumerable diplomas. I was so electrified that not even her resemblance to the disgraced Jian Ghomeshi’s lawyer could bring me down.

  “Like shit.”

  “What a picture.”

  “It’s the first word that came to me.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because that’s how I feel.”

  “Do you feel like that often, Mrs. Delaunais?”

  “Please, call me Diane.”

  It’s a nicety we get used to saying as we grow older, the occasions multiplying with alarming frequency. People have been addressing me by my last name for so long that I jump every time the cashier at the grocery store calls me “Diane” when she asks if I need a bag. I’d be completely grey by now if I didn’t dye my hair. The colour changed so quickly I could have given Marie-Antoinette a run for her money.

  “Do you often use that expression to describe how you’re feeling?”

  “No.”

  “Only since the separation?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  The first knot. Like trying to swallow soda crackers without water.

  “Because my husband doesn’t love me anymore.”

  “Does that make you feel less of a good person now?”

  “Maybe . . . yeah.”

  “What has changed, do you think?”

  “Oh, lots of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well . . . I feel ugly.”

  “In what sense?”

  “In every sense.”

  “Physically?”

  “And in other ways.”

  “Can you expand on that?”

  “It’s hard to put it into words.”

  “What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

  To be sure I was getting my money’s worth, I’d discreetly started the timer on my wristwatch and had promised myself I’d talk fast and answer quickly. We hadn’t even passed the seven-minute mark and already the words had slowed in my throat, like larva slowly crawling their way out. I had come in, certain I wouldn’t lose it; the session probably wouldn’t go as planned.

  “Skin. Saggy, pale skin.”

  “Is that new?”

  “No! Of course not . . . ”

  “So what’s different now?”

  “I can see myself better.”

  “Better?”

  “I can see all the details I glossed over before, the stuff that didn’t used to bother me. With age I’ve thickened everywhere, lost the spring in my step, my stomach is flabby, streaked with stretch marks, and my that’s-it flaps everywhere . . . ”

  “Your what?”

  “My ‘that’s-it’ — the skin that jiggles when you raise your arm to say, ‘That’s it!’ ”

  The therapist raised her arm and flexed it, curious to see how gravity was affecting her own triceps. It was tactless of her; she knew full well nothing would jiggle.

  “And before, you accepted yourself the way you were?”

  “I think so. At least, I thought it was normal to put on a bit of weight, for my body to change like everyone else’s.”

  “But you don’t think so now?”

  “No.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I just realized I’ve kind of dropped the ball.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve let myself go.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with the fact that Jacques left you for a younger woman?”

  “A much younger woman.”

  “Yes, much younger.”

  “Well . . . maybe.”

  “If Jacques had left you for a woman in her fifties who had your ‘flaws’ — let’s just call them that for the moment — would you be this hard on yourself?”

  I was only forty-eight. Rounding me up to the next decade robbed me of two precious years I wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Diplomacy, definitely not her strong suit.

  “I think that would have been even worse.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Because the problem would’ve been me — me as a person.”

  “But in this case . . . ”

  “It might just be about sex.”

  “Did you and Jacques ever talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “The reasons he decided to leave.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And?”

  “It’s complicated . . . ”

  “Was he not satisfied, sexually?”

  “No, I don’t think that was it. But you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see why a guy his age is with a thirty-year-old.”

  “What were his reasons?”

  “I don’t know why we’re talking about him. I came to talk about me.”

  “We’re trying to see w
hat’s gotten twisted in your own mirror.”

  Had the silence that followed not been costing me so much, I’d have let it go on longer. Much longer. Second knot, thirteenth minute. A knot sinking down my throat.

  “He told me that . . . that he . . . ”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I had to cut the sentence into pieces so I could get it out.

  “He told you he . . . ”

  “Wanted . . . ”

  “Uh-huh . . . ”

  “To be . . . ”

  “He told you he wanted to be . . . ”

  She was searching my eyes for the abscess to drain. It had formed somewhere in my soul and was threatening to infect it irredeemably. This woman knew it; she didn’t believe the story was just about sex.

  “Happy.”

  Jacques wanted to be happy.

  Jacques was no longer happy with me.

  Jacques could be happy with Her.

  Jacques wanted to be with her.

  Goddamn fucking logic.

  I spent the rest of the session crying like a baby, face buried in my hands. The gentle doctor, a true professional, patiently handed me a few tissues with aloe. I walked out with a blotchy face, but a well-moisturized nose.

  5

  In which I reveal my sixth toe

  I was born boring. The gene in question slipped into the double helix of my DNA during conception. I can’t dance; it’s impossible for me to follow any sort of beat. And it’s not about my hearing — my parents took me to a handful of specialists when I was young. My brain’s the culprit: it can detect sounds but can’t coordinate the movements to go with them. Unlike the rhythmically gifted, I am condemned to guesswork. Every time I move my feet, it’s to catch up to the tempo. I manage to keep the beat only by accident, and very rarely at that. I’m officially rhythmically challenged, which is unfortunately a disability you can’t see. I’d have preferred a sixth toe; at least then surgery is an option.

  It wasn’t a big deal when I was younger. I blended in with the mass of kids waving their arms every which way. My moves on the dance floor really astonished the crowd. People held their stomachs or covered their mouths as they laughed, my mom clapped to the beat to encourage me, and everyone was happy. Especially me. I always gave it my all, and life gave it right back. I miss that innocence.