Crossing Paths

chapter 3

The wedding was nothing but a dream for Jessabelle. Everything, from top to bottom, was beyond perfection. It was an Autumn wedding in the late afternoon. The area faced the breathtaking sunset. At the end of each seated aisle, jasmine-scented candles hung from naked tree branches. Spread down the aisle were white leaves, as far as the eyes could see, slightly moist so they wouldn’t c***k when you stepped on them. The gold chandeliers were covering the entire area, the altar was decorated with the most beautiful white lilies she had ever seen and most of all Alex was looking like a treat with his fitted black tuxedo and his perfectly combed hair was just giving him the desired look.

What a wonderful day it was for an outdoor wedding: warm, but not terribly so. The early October sun peeked out occasionally. A pleasant breeze from the north rustled in the surrounding shrubs, cooling the guests and family members as they took their seats on either side of the walk leading to the gazebo. Sweet strains of classical music drifted through the crowd.

To the left, were rows of cars glittering in the sun. A stretched Lincoln stood alone, decked out in ribbons and twisted coils of streamers, ready to whisk the groom and bride away. 'Just Married' was painted across the dark rear window. As Jessabelle was standing there, she thought to herself how perfect and lovely everything was. The smell of fresh-cut flowers filled the air.

The music stopped, and all heads turned to face the far end of the walk. The opening to the bridal chorus started to play. Down the aisle, she came. Jessabelle couldn’t help but feel extremely overwhelmed. She had no idea if she was loving the shenanigans or if was it just because she hadn’t seen anything extravagant like this wedding. The confusing thoughts were consuming her. She slowly walked toward Alex; her eyes lowered to the ground. She was scared of looking him directly in the eyes because she had seen how he was staring at her. She chose to wear a white wedding dress made from heavy silk satin, making her one of the first women in her family to wear white for their wedding. She wore a strapless wedding gown with embroidery on her bodice. Rhinestones and pearl beads were sewn on her gown. She also wore a two-tier veil, with a matching crystal headpiece. She held a French rose silk bouquet. Her mom held her left arm and smiled at her as they reached the bottom step. There awaiting her was the pastor and her husband-to-be. Alex was stunning. He wore a black, single-breasted, satin tuxedo with a white-wing collar shirt.

The music faded, and the clergyman stepped up to the microphone, Bible in hand. He smiled at the assembly. "Cherished family members and honored guests, I would like to thank each of you for coming out this afternoon," he said. The sound carried well from the small speakers to either side of the podium. The pastor placed the Bible down before him. "Let us begin by offering thanks to the Lord on this wonderful day." Everyone bowed their heads and he prayed.

After the prayer was over, the preacher led them through their vows. It was now time for the exchange of rings. An adorable little boy dressed in a blue tuxedo walked up and handed Alex a ring. He slipped it on Jessabelle's finger. The pastor smiled and turned to Jessabelle. He repeated the question and received the same reply. The crowd watched her take his ring from a small girl dressed in pink and place it on his finger. "By the power vested unto me, I now proclaim you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride." He did so, placing his hands on her shoulders. The pastor held up his hands, bringing the crowd to their feet.

Alex and Jessabelle left the gazebo, arms linked, with identical smiles on their faces. The best man, maid of honor, and the groomsmen and bridesmaids followed suit, falling in behind them. They stopped near the end of the walk, forming the start of the receiving line. The family and guests filed down, pausing for hugs and kisses and congratulating the young couple. Jessabelle then turned around and threw her bouquet of rose silk flowers behind her. The women collided with each other as they tried to catch it. Then Alex and Jessabelle ran to the Lincoln that waited for them. Both of their faces were blushed. They were so quick to get away. Alex tried not to step on Jessabelle's long white train that dragged the ground as they ran. As they reached the decorated Lincoln, Alex jumped in the driver's seat and Jessabelle in the passenger's seat. He took off as if he was in the Indy 500, ready to win a race. The ribbons and twisted coils and streamers whisked in the wind behind them. The wedding had turned out delightful.

When you marry or attend a wedding, at least in America, the legal dimensions of what’s happening are inconspicuous. Marriage is a celebration of the commitment two people can buy from each other with love between them; the contract is confetti. You put it in a folder somewhere and forget it exists. However, this was not the case with Alex and Jessabelle.

But when Alex and Jessabelle’s marriage broke down, the legal contract became urgently significant. The vows were already undone; they lived in separate homes for months. That sheet of paper they glanced at every few weeks was the last knot of their shared life of two years. Marriage started with rings and passed hors d’oeuvres and ended with a ream of pages. Some were to be signed and some only initiated – two years of friendship and a contract erased by a ballpoint pen.

The couple’s divorce seemed amicable enough so far. That night, Alex and Jessabelle are divvying their stuff following the settlement negotiated by their lawyers. There was no neutral party present to referee; the aggrieved trusted themselves alone with each other. Jessabelle started the episode across the street, as far from the house as people had seen her. If the house was the center of gravity for this marriage, it was telling that Jessabelle kept enlarging her orbit. The journey home was getting longer. Soon, the same route wouldn’t even be a journey home.

When Jessabelle arrived, the packing was finished, and Alex was on the phone with the movers. Jessabelle was on the phone with Ava, her niece, who was screaming about her dolls getting lost. Jessabelle knew her anger was normal because she had been dumping all her emotions on her for the past few months. Between Alex and Jessabelle, the mood was friendly. He called Jessabelle his wife; she called him honey. This was the liminal space Alex had lived in for the past six months since Jessabelle left, but he was determined that they sign the divorce papers that night before he’d headed to Europe for lectures.

But Jessabelle was distracted. Rather than affecting her trademark aloofness, she was too exhausted to care. She hadn’t read the contract; it doesn’t matter what the house is worth. ‘Take it all, Alex. Take whatever,’ she murmured to herself. He reminded her that American divorce was comparatively easy. She had been through this before and she could do this again, she was pretty confident in herself. She only asked for one thing. One single thing. No kids. But still, life doesn’t always go our way. Alex started talking about having kids since the start of the marriage and Jessabelle then knew what to do. If she could leave her love of life, she could easily get out of a contract marriage. That’s what she had been thinking for the past two weeks. If they were obtaining a Jewish gett, there would be a three-judge panel and performative declarations, the most important of which was this: ‘You are hereby permitted to all men.’ Vicious, perhaps, but Alex saw some “logic” to it. “You’re either in or you’re out, and if you’re out, there’s no going back,” he said.

Jessabelle flirtatiously asked if they could marry again, post-gett because that’s the kind of thing Jessabelle would ask. Her decision hadn’t changed. They were sitting beside each other on the plastic-wrapped green settee that they both want. They hugged, then they caressed, then they f****d. Everyone had fun, but it didn’t look like love. It looked like s*x. Not getting-back-together s*x, not good-bye s*x. Maybe it was primal: the last time their bodies will belong to each other. Jessabelle kissed Alex tenderly, and they got ready for a quick dinner before the movers arrive. Alex washed exclusively his groin with a handheld showerhead. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe it was symbolic. Jessabelle giggled as she slipped her heels back on. Maybe it was optimism, or maybe it was nothing.

Alex re-emerged with the divorce papers, and Jessabelle again refused to sign. The argument grew slippery. We don’t have the language for the end of love’s life cycle. We don’t have norms and rituals to match love’s beginning. But Jessabelle was done being philosophical. Her pain was her uncertainty. If she was not going to be married to Alex, she needed to be divorced from him. “Just sign the papers, please,” she murmured slowly. Her voice was full of frustration and desperation. She wanted this contract to end as soon as possible.

Jessabelle was surely done with all the hardships that had been dumped on her in the past few years. She wanted to get out of it all and start a new happy life. She couldn’t afford to lose more parts of herself. She already told Alex that she got fired earlier in the day.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Alex told her, but Jessabelle perceived something adversarial in the platitude. The accusation felt uncharitable but, turned out, she knew him a lot better than anyone else. Alex confessed that her sob story evoked nothing in him. He was not trying to be callous; the callousness was just there around his heart now. It had been accreting so slowly he was surprised by it. It was a cold admission, especially so soon after s*x, but that too, he said, was devoid of emotion for him. She could live without Alex. No, it’s more than that. She didn’t want to live with her.

Jessabelle lay awake in bed, watching the shadows flicker on her ceiling. In the place where there was now a pile of pillows, once lay her husband of six months. Although the divorce was Jessabelle’s idea, and the disintegration of their marriage was primarily her doing, she was having difficulties coping with the isolation of being newly single. Her friends supported her but sided with Alex on the matter. Same with her family and therapist. No one’s opinion varied. He was in the right. She was in the wrong.

Groaning at this thought, she turned onto her side and watched the curtains billow from the night air. The source of the moving shadows. She lay absentmindedly, watching night turn into dawn and turn into day until a single tear dripped onto her cheek. Before it could mark her pillow, she raised herself out of bed and let the teardrop fall to the floor. With quick movements, she opened the curtains and stared blankly at the colorful growing spring leaves.

The change had come. But the summer that follows change was fast approaching.

She left the bedroom and walked into the bright kitchen that was now solely hers. With shaking hands, she made a cup of coffee, threw on a scarf, and walked down to the weathered dock that Alex was supposed to repair before she ended their marriage with a final, climactic blow. A blow she still felt in her chest when the memory resurfaced.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let the dock move her in sideways undulations. The same breeze rustling her curtains was disturbing the surface of the lake. Crossing her legs, she guided herself into a meditative state with the affirmation: I can make my calm. Gradually, the breeze and jerky movements lost their strength as she focused her senses on the cup of warm coffee in her hands. She sat in a meditative state, mechanically drinking, until a forceful breeze hit her face and redirected her thoughts back to the day she asked for a divorce.

Alex was sitting on the bed, pleading with her to not give up on him. He had managed to stay in an open relationship with her for six months, at her request. He had dealt with her ‘artist’ turmoil, keeping her financially stable throughout various job losses, career changes, and creative paths. He had left behind his desire to be a father so that she could continue with her selfish ways. He had agreed to purchase a house in the middle of nowhere when she decided the city lifestyle was no longer her scene. He had loved her- still loved her- unconditionally, despite her reckless, affectless ways.

He told all those things to her; yelled them at her. It was one of the only times where she saw him fight for himself. But it wasn’t for himself. It was for their marriage. So, she had to push him to it; push him in a hard way. Impulsively, she screamed at him that she would never be with a guy who would force her for kids.

His eyes were red from crying at that point, but she had never seen him look at her with such clear insight. It was as if a twenty-year veil had been wiped clean from the salty water dripping from his eyes and he could finally see truth again. The tears stopped, the sobs subsided, and he gave her one long icy look before leaving the house and their mutual lives behind him.

It was a premonition of the spring that was still to come.

A week later, she was notified that Alex had been served the divorce papers. As there were no kids involved, the relatively painless divorce was finalized by July. She took the house and her freedom, he took their dog and left with his reputation and savings intact.

As Alex was wealthy, her lawyer encouraged her to fight for more. But as she no longer cared for anything they had; she didn’t care to fight. She signed the papers and a month later returned from a yoga retreat to an emptier house. It was the same day she found the courage to listen to a voicemail that Alex had left on her phone. He was livid, calling her profane names and vowing to never speak to her again.

She didn’t blame him. The affair was her doing. He had rejected her until he finally gave in to her persistent advances. She was never one to back down from what she wanted.

And yet, she never understood the reasons behind her wants and needs. She might have gone for Alex because she cared for him, she might have gone for him because of the excitement an affair would bring to the trite reality of middle-aged complacency, or she might have gone for him because she knew it would be the catalyst for a divorce.

In any case, although she fought for her immediate desires, she had no long-term desires. Therefore, she had nothing meaningful to her name or legacy, and nothing meaningful to reach for.

At this, she placed the coffee cup down by her crossed legs and laughed. The breeze that was numbing her nose and cheeks began to numb her open mouth, traveling down her throat to her lungs. She wanted to numb the rest of her. Carelessly, and given those at the windows of their lakeside houses, she began to strip, removing all but her underwear. As she stood up and walked to the edge of the dock, she gave a sardonic chuckle, slid the remaining cotton fabric down her legs, and dove into the choppy water.

The chill entered her skin with a bitter welcome. Perhaps her spring had already come.

But even when you are parting amicably, going through the process of a divorce is sheer hell. Everything that was once done has to be undone. And undoing is mentally and physically exhausting. Every day leading up to that day she felt like she was ripping off another band-aid, having one extremely hard conversation after the next. The burn and the deep sting of knowing you are hurting someone you once were in love with, someone you expected would be your teammate for life, can bring even the strongest to their knees. So of course, she had been fully expecting to receive the news of her divorce being final and to feel like she wanted to put on her best little black dress, slide her perfectly pedicured feet into her highest heels, throw a party, dance, and pop bottles of champagne with her girlfriends to celebrate. But like her friend Yousseff once said, “Expectations are premeditated resentments.” Ain’t that the truth?

Instead of a party, she found herself feeling completely and unexpectedly broken. Instead of bottles of champagne, she sat surrounded by piles of wet, tear-soaked, and snotty tissues. There was no disco ball or dance music. There were no dresses or high heels. To say she was thrown for an emotional loop would be an understatement.

She remembered at one point standing up from that hard, wooden stool to get a glass of cold water. But as she walked to the sink, one hand navigating along her counter to hold her up, she found herself needing to just let her body slip down, her back against the cabinets, until her broken self touched down to the ground, and she laid on her cold kitchen floor in the fetal position, choking for air, a puddle of tears below her. The gravity of it all quite literally had pushed her to the lowest point.

Alexander Graham Bell said, “When one door closes, another opens, but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.”

Her tears were not tears of regret. They were tears of loss, an ending, such finality. She was not crying thinking, “What have I done?” OR “How do I fix this?” OR "How do I reopen that door?” She was crystal clear on this life-changing decision.

Her tears were tears of mourning. Mourning the end of two marriages that could have been perfect and everything that comes with that. Mourning the end of her married self, the loss of her identity as she had known it for what felt like a lifetime. With just one, simple e-mail and three short sentences, it had all ended. The door had been closed.

Ironically enough, April 15th, the day she received the e-mail, was also the day of her first date with her now-first ex-husband. The Universe sure has a funny way of showing up sometimes.

Thankfully, that morning, she found her strength and picked her broken self up off the cold kitchen floor, and in the hours, days, and weeks that followed, she began to see the new beginning in it all, the newly opened door. Behind that door were hope and happiness and a field of endless possibility where she would get to create her new space, her new story, her new amazing life, and her new version of her family.

And that was exactly what she started doing. Consciously and intentionally creating this one life she gets to live. Consciously and intentionally choosing happiness. Consciously and intentionally loving each gift of a day!

When life throws you for an emotional loop, when the gravity of a situation pushes you down, when you find yourself in a puddle of tears on a cold kitchen floor, there is an opportunity to get back up.