Perfect Strangers

46

I think for a moment, chewing the inside of my mouth. “Maybe I’ll say I hired a private detective. They could probably access medical files, right?”

“Illegally, in theory, yes. But that would cost you beaucoup bucks. In the many thousands. Do you really want to tell the guy who’s been spanking all your lady parts like they’re naughty kids that you blew the equivalent of a mortgage payment to hire some unethical gumshoe to dig into his private dirt?”

“Gumshoe? We’re in a forties noir movie now?”

“Don’t say anything to James about what you know,” replies Kelly, ignoring my interruption. “It’s the smartest move and the best one for you. You’re not responsible for his problems, so don’t grab them on.”

I know ‘grab’ means ‘take,’ but I’m too busy feeling offended to think her word choice is cute. “I’m not taking on anyone’s problems. I’m just talking about being honest.”

Kelly’s voice goes soft. “I know you, babe. You’re a caretaker and a huge softie. There’s nothing more irresistible to you than a lost cause. Remember that time you rescued all those feral kittens from the freeway underpass?”

“They were sick! If I didn’t rescue them, they would’ve died!”

“Instead, they lived—all eight of them—in your gorgeous house, tearing up the furniture and pissing on the carpet because you couldn’t bear to take them to the animal shelter, until Chris forced you to put them up for adoption. And let’s not forget the ostrich incident.”

Ah yes. The infamous ostrich incident.

A circus came into town once when my daughter was a newborn. I refused to go, because I can’t bear to see majestic animals like lions and elephants enslaved for human entertainment. But somehow one of the ostriches escaped…and wound up in my backyard.

I smuggled it into the garage and fed it bird seed and lettuce for a week, trying to figure out how and where to release it into the wild, until Chris came home from a business trip and found the thing contentedly nesting in a bed of his clothes that I’d made for it in a corner.

Startled, the ostrich charged. Chris claimed it tried to kill him, but I think he was exaggerating. In any case, he called animal control and they took the ostrich away.

Weeks later, I was still cleaning up feathers and piles of poop.

Kelly says, “My point is that James isn’t a stray who needs rescuing. And—forgive me—you’re in no shape to be taking care of anyone but yourself.”

We both know I haven’t exactly been excelling at that, either.

“Okay. I have to go now. My mental breakdown is calling.”

Kelly pauses before speaking again. “Don’t joke about that.”

My sigh is big and deep. “Oh, Kell, if I haven’t had one yet, I think I’m safe.”

“You never know. Fate has a dark sense of humor.”

“Great. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I love you, you know.”

I have to take a few breaths to clear the frog from my throat. “I know. I love you, too. You’re a good friend. Thanks for looking out for me.”

“That’s what friends are for, dummy. I’m gonna hang up now before our hormones snap into sync and we start sobbing. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Talk to you then.”

After I return the receiver to its cradle, I sit with my hand on the phone and stare out the window for a long time, trying to decide what to do.

I’m still sitting in the same position when the phone rings again. But this time when I pick up, it isn’t Kelly. It’s someone I haven’t spoken to in almost a year, who shouldn’t have this number, or even know I’m in Paris.

It’s my ex-husband, Chris.

17

T

he first thing

out of his mouth after I say hello is an abrupt and irritated, “What the hell are you doing in Paris?”

His voice is exactly the same upper-crusty New England voice it’s always been. The kind that suggests polo ponies and private social clubs and vacation “cottages” on Martha’s Vineyard. The slightly nasal Kennedy twang that comes across as rich and entitled, even when it’s cursing.

After a shocked pause, I answer evenly, “Why, hello there, Chris. So nice to hear you haven’t lost your charm and good humor since we last spoke.”

He bypasses my sarcasm and goes right back to barking questions. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out of the country?”

“Gee, let’s see. It could be because we’re not married anymore. Or because we haven’t communicated since the divorce was finalized. Or because, I don’t know, it’s none of your business?”

“You’re my wife,” comes the hard response. “Everything you do is my business.”

I remove the receiver from my ear and stare at it in confusion for several seconds. Maybe this is a dream. Did I have bourbon earlier? Am I face down on the bed right now, asleep and blissfully snoring?

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” I say after coming back on the line, “but as I recall, you signed the same paperwork I did. I’m very much no longer your wife.”

“Marriage is for life, no matter what the f*****g paperwork says.”

My eyes bulge to the point that I fear they might pop right out of their sockets. I’m in too much disbelief over what I’m hearing to muster any outrage. Instead, I start to laugh.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve obviously dialed the wrong number. The person you’re speaking to is single, and has been for a long time, and thinks you should seek immediate psychiatric intervention for this delusional episode you’re experiencing. And by the way, how did you get this number?”