Perfect Strangers

36

“That’s not true! I distinctly remember asking your opinion on whether or not I should marry Chris.”

There’s a long pause, then Estelle says soberly, “No, doll, you didn’t. You would’ve fired me as your agent if you had.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, surprised.

There’s another long pause, which is so unlike Estelle it gives me an uneasy feeling. The woman normally has no filter.

“What I mean is that Christopher isn’t a good guy. And he certainly wasn’t good for you.”

That shocks me. Though Chris and I are divorced, I feel defensive of him. I’m upset and confused that she’d speak about him this way.

“Estelle, what are you talking about? We had our differences, like any couple, but we—”

“He abandoned you when you needed him most,” she cuts in, her voice hard.

I remember how alone I felt, sitting on that cold pew in the church by myself. How gutted and alone.

My voice shaking with emotion, I say, “Everyone deals with grief in their own way.”

Estelle’s voice softens. “Yes, they do. But a father who doesn’t show up to his own child’s funeral—”

I snap, “He couldn’t deal with it. That’s not unusual. The grief counselor said—”

“—or his child’s birth—”

“He wasn’t able to get away from work in time! You know she came early!”

“—who left his wife in a foreign country on their honeymoon—”

“For God’s sake, Estelle! He’s a diplomat! A war broke out! He was needed! I’m the one who said it was fine for him to go!”

In the wake of my angry outburst, we both fall silent. Estelle sighs heavily. Then she says, “Anything he did was fine with you. All his silences, all his absences, all the ways he didn’t meet your needs…all fine. Because you loved him.

“But he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve you.”

The hot prick of tears stings my eyes. My throat is so tight I can barely swallow a mouthful of bourbon, but I manage to choke it back. It burns a hollow path down to my stomach and sits there, angrily churning.

I speak through a clenched jaw. “Anyway. To answer your question, yes, I’m writing again. I’m writing quite a lot, actually. And it’s goddamn good. I’ll send you what I have soon. I have to go now. Thanks, Estelle. Bye.”

I click End, then throw the phone all the way across the room. It hits the wall with a clatter, splinters apart, then falls in pieces to the floor.

I leave it where it is and head out of the kitchen, swiping angrily at my watering eyes.

There’s a Juliet balcony off the living room with a small deck, just large enough for one person to stand on. I push the curtains aside and open the French doors, then step out and lean against the curved railing.

The sky is sullen with dark clouds. The bass rumble of thunder echoes somewhere off in the distance. The air is humid and fragrant with the sharp smell of ozone, all signs of a coming summer storm.

When the first drops begin to fall, I turn my face to the sky and close my eyes, letting the rain mingle with my tears.

“A father who doesn’t show up to his own child’s funeral.”

That one hurt the most. Of all the times Chris was absent, that time carved itself so deep into my heart the wounds are still as fresh as if they were slashed there yesterday.

My baby girl was gone, my soul was in ashes, and my man was nowhere to be found.

Everything crumbled after we lost her. We couldn’t talk anymore. We could barely meet each other’s eyes. The silences in the house would stretch on so long I’d sometimes wonder if we’d lost the ability to communicate. Group therapy was a horror, more painful than pouring acid on open cuts. All those stories of loss piled up on top of my own until I felt suffocated.

Marital counseling wasn’t much better. There was no way to make sense of such a senseless thing, and no amount of talking was going to help or change it.

Then, finally, after Chris packed his bags and moved out, I went to individual therapy on my own in one last ditch attempt to find peace with the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Or at least some sort of meaning.

But there’s no meaning to be found in violence. Murder is an end unto itself.

A moan jolts me out of the swamp of my memories. I open my eyes and look across the courtyard from where it came, at a window that was dark only moments before but now is illuminated.

Gigi and Gaspard are in their bedroom, doing what they do best.

I turn away and go inside, chugging the rest of the bourbon. Then I turn out all the lights and go to bed.

I wake up hours later knowing instinctively that something is wrong.

It’s that mother’s intuition. The heightened hearing. The sharper sense of smell. The finely-tuned antennae you never lose, even when your child has long since been ripped from your arms.

Heart pounding, I sit up in bed, my ears straining to hear any sound. I’m not sure if it was a sound that woke me, but I listen hard into the dark. My eyes slowly adjust until I can make out the edges of the dresser, the curved arm of the chair near the door.

And the tall figure of the man standing beside it.

I scream in terror, but he’s on me before I can jump out of bed. He grabs me and pins me beneath his heavy body, flattening me against the mattress as I struggle wildly underneath him.