Just Breathe

by Susan Wiggs

  “Can I get you something to drink?” the receptionist offered.

  “No, thank you,” said Sarah. “I’m fine.”

  “Ms. Shafter should only be a few minutes longer.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.” The tall casement window was surrounded by gingerbread molding. Some of the glass panes were original, judging by their slightly brittle, wavy quality. Birdie’s law office occupied one of the historic buildings of downtown Glenmuir. Since Sarah had moved away, the main square had barely changed. It was a cluster of Victorian and carpenter Gothic wood frame buildings, some original, some knockoffs, the old ones built by nineteenth-century settlers who had come to fish the abundant waters of the secluded bay. A few local B and Bs attracted tourists from the Bay area, including May’s Cottage, a private beach retreat that belonged to Sarah’s great-aunt. The snug white bungalow was so popular as a vacation rental that it booked up months in advance. Most tourists, however, found the town remote and strange, hanging on the edge of nowhere, and they let the locals be.

  When not festooned in fog, the area around Tomales Bay had a clarity of light she had never seen anywhere else in the world. The intense blue of the sky was reflected in the water. The placid water in turn mirrored the wooded wilderness that surrounded the bay. It looked exactly as it had five hundred years ago, when Sir Francis Drake had sailed in on his soon-to-be-legendary Golden Hind, to be greeted by painted members of the Miwok tribe.

  Sarah smoothed her hands down her tailored blazer, feeling overdressed in her Chicago outfit. People around here tended to dress in organic fibers and homely, supremely comfortable shoes. She didn’t really own anything like that anymore. Jack liked her to dress like a Neiman Marcus catalog model, even when she protested that she worked at home, alone.

  When they were first married, she liked to draw at her drafting table wearing a faded University of Chicago sweat suit and thick wool socks, her hair held back with a clip. “It helps me be creative,” she had once told him.

  “You can be creative in a sweater and slacks,” he replied, and gave her a three-hundred-dollar cashmere cardigan set to make his point.

  She gritted her teeth and focused on the bay in the distance. A seaplane came in for a landing, the lawn-mower whine of its engine briefly filling the air. Sometimes the aircraft brought tourists to town but most of them came to pick up fresh oysters and transport them, still alive, to big-city restaurants. There was a boat out today, its full sails pulling it toward the horizon. Closer in, she could see the harvest skiffs her father used to take out three hundred sixty-four days a year, until he’d handed the business over to his son. Sarah’s brother Kyle was as conventional as she was odd, and he’d been perfectly content to take over the family business. Meanwhile, their father had traded his cultivation trays for a 1965 poppy-red Mustang GT convertible in dire need of restoration. He lavished attention on the car, which seemed to occupy a permanent berth in Glenn Mounger’s auto body garage.

  A woman came in, breathless, and headed straight for the water cooler. Her athletic body was encased in gleaming black-and-yellow spandex. The chest-hugging top was covered with sponsors’ logos. The stripe up the side of her skintight shorts read Trek. She wore an aerodynamic helmet and wraparound shades. In cup-heeled cycling shoes, her walk was stiff-legged, the toes pointing up.

  She drank six cone-shaped cups at the water cooler and finally turned to Sarah. “Sorry about that. I used up my hydration pack.”

  “Oh.” Sarah was at a loss. “I hate when that happens.”

  “Birdie Shafter,” the woman said, taking off the helmet and shades. A riot of black hair and a supermodel face were revealed. “You’re Sarah Moon.”

  Sarah covered her surprise. Somehow, she’d expected Birdie to have changed more from high school. “That’s right.”

  “I’m training for a triathlon, so my schedule is pretty crazy these days.” She held open a door marked with the nameplate Bernadette Bonner Shafter, Attorney at Law.

  Sarah stepped into the office.

  “Give me two minutes,” Birdie said.

  “Take five,” Sarah offered.

  “You’re a peach.” She ducked through a side door. Sarah heard the sound of running water.

  Despite Birdie’s unconventional appearance, the law office was all business. The array of framed diplomas and certificates did its job of instilling confidence in the client. Birdie had earned her bachelor’s at USC and her law degree from San Diego State. She had numerous credentials displayed, and gold embossed stickers designated her a summa graduate from both schools. The State of California Bar Association empowered her as a member in good standing.

  Dark wooden built-in shelves provided a wall of fame. Either Birdie was star-struck or she ran in exalted circles. She had pictures of herself with the Governator and Diane Feinstein, Lance Armstrong and Brandi Chastain. There was a shot of her with Francis Ford Coppola in front of his winery and another with Robin Williams with the Coast highway in the background.

  The photographs propped on the big tiger oak desk were more personal. There were shots of the Bonner Flower Farm, which Sarah recalled had been founded by Birdie’s counterculture parents. Another photo showed Birdie and her husband, Ellison Shafter, whom Sarah’s father said was a pilot for United.

  There was also a picture of Birdie’s brother, Will. Either it was an old photo, or he hadn’t changed a bit. In Sarah’s head, Shirl’s voice asked, Why should you change if you’re already perfect?

  Of all the people Sarah remembered from high school, she remembered Will Bonner best. This was ironic, since he had probably never known her name. The framed photo triggered a flood of memories she didn’t know she had. Standing there in the unfamiliar office, the antique pine plank floor creaking beneath her feet, she was surprised to discover old resentments festering in secret beneath the surface. Her life with Jack had formed a gloss over the past. Maybe that was why she’d married him. He took her away from people like this.

  Now that he was out of the picture, there was nothing standing between her and old memories, and she fell into the past like Alice down the rabbit hole, grasping at stray roots on her way to the bottom.

  She scowled in hostility at the picture of Will Bonner. He grinned right back at her. He had been in the same grade as Sarah, but unlike her, he was the epitome of high school perfection—a top-ranked athlete, blessed by all-American good looks. He had jet-black hair and the same twinkling eyes that used to make her knees melt when he looked at her. Not that he ever actually looked at her. Embarrassed by her futile and utterly predictable crush, Sarah had fought back the only way she knew how. In the underground comic book she self-published in high school on an old mimeograph machine in the basement, she’d depicted Will Bonner as a vain, bull-witted, steroid-abusing poster boy. He probably hadn’t noticed her biting satire, either, but it had made her feel...not better...but vindicated. More in control.

  No doubt he wasn’t aware that she had sat in front of him in Honors English all four years, or that she made sketch after sketch of him, telling herself she needed the studies for her underground comics. Bonner had treated her as if she were a piece of furniture.

  The years since high school had brought about at least one huge change, Sarah observed. In the picture, he was holding a dark-haired child whose face was buried against his burly shoulder. Some guys looked awkward with kids, like contestants on Fear Factor. Others, like Will Bonner, looked at ease and natural, approachable.

  Under different circumstances, Sarah might be filled with questions about her high school obsession. Not now, though. Now, she had to explain her situation to Birdie and figure out what to do next.

  Pulling her gaze away from the array of photos, she forced herself to wait quietly. The shock of leaving Jack had still not completely subsided, and that was probably a good thing, because it kept her numb. She was like a s
oldier with a limb blown off, staring uncomprehendingly at empty space. Later, she supposed, the pain would come. And it would be like nothing she’d ever felt before.

  There was a fee schedule posted on the wall, like the specials menu of a restaurant, or a list of services at a beauty parlor, only it covered legal matters rather than hairstyles—family law, immigration, wills and probate, elder law. Sarah tamped back a feeling of apprehension. Could she even afford a lawyer? She suspected that none of her transactions would be simple. Or cheap.

  She couldn’t let money—or a lack thereof—stand in her way, though. She had to reinvent her life. Starting now.

  “Thanks for waiting.” Birdie stepped into the office. She had shed the cycling getup and donned a more familiar look—unbleached cotton, Dansko clogs, no makeup and an open, guileless expression of earnestness. On Birdie, the look didn’t seem contrived. She wore the natural style well, as though she had invented it.

  Yet the sight of her, looking so sincere and inoffensive, gave Sarah second thoughts. What had become of the meanest girl in school? Had she gone soft, just when Sarah needed a hard-ass? She needed a lawyer who would protect her interests through this process—she couldn’t quite bring herself to use the D-word yet—not Mother Earth.

  “No problem,” Sarah said. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”

  “I’m glad I could work you in.”

  A soft burble from the intercom box interrupted her. “Sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Shafter,” said the receptionist, “but there’s a deadline attached to this. It’s Wayne Booth of Coastal Timber.”

  Sarah moved toward the door, but Birdie waved her back, covered the receiver mouthpiece and said, “I won’t be a minute.” Then her posture changed. She stood straighter, held her shoulders back. “Wayne, I’ve already given you my client’s answer. If that’s your best and final offer, then we’ll let a judge do better.” She paused, and an angry voice crackled at her. “I understand perfectly, but I’m not sure you do. We’re not playing a game here...”

  Sarah watched as the earth mother turned into a corporate dominatrix, chewing out the legal counsel of a major timber company, getting her way and then gently setting down the phone. When she turned her attention back to Sarah, she looked serene and unflappable, as though the exchange had never happened. Sarah knew she’d found the right lawyer after all. The mean girl had figured out how to harness her powers.

  They shook hands and took their seats, Sarah in a comfortable upholstered chair and Birdie at her desk. Sarah took a deep breath and plunged right in. “I just got here from Chicago. I’ve left my husband.”

  Birdie nodded, her expression turning soft with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

  Sarah couldn’t speak. Birdie pushed a box of tissues closer to her but Sarah ignored them. She twisted her wedding set around and around her ring finger. She really should take it off, but it was from Harry Winston, three carats total weight, and she couldn’t think of a safe place to keep it.

  “Is this a recent development?” Birdie asked.

  Sarah nodded. “As of last Friday.” The clock in her car had read 5:13 when she had peeled away from Shamrock Downs and Jack and Mimi Lightfoot and everything she’d ever believed about her life. How many women knew the precise moment their marriage cracked apart?

  “Are you safe?” Birdie asked her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need to know if you’re safe. Is he violent? Have you ever had an incident of domestic abuse?”

  “Oh.” Sarah deflated against the back of the chair. “Oh, God, no. Nothing like that.” In truth, she felt as though a violent act had been committed against her, but it wasn’t the sort you could report to the police. “He was unfaithful.”

  Birdie sent her a matter-of-fact look. “You should get tested, then.”

  Sarah regarded her blankly, uncomprehendingly. Tested. Then it dawned on her. Tested for STDs. For HIV, even. Son of a bitch. “I, er, yes, of course. You’re right.” A cold ball of fear formed in her gut. The realization that he’d put her in physical danger added fresh horror to the betrayal. “Sorry. That didn’t occur to me until now. I still can’t believe Jack did this.”

  “Jack.” Birdie opened the laptop on her desk. “I’m going to make some notes here, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. This is all new to me.”

  “Take your time. So your husband’s legal name...?”

  “John James Daly,” Sarah supplied. “I kept my maiden name after we married.”

  “And that was...”

  “We’ve been married five years as of last June—2003. I met him when I was in college—University of Chicago—and married him right after graduation.”

  Birdie nodded. “The Bay Beacon ran a beautiful picture and did a little piece about it.”

  Sarah was surprised Birdie had noticed the picture and remembered it, but perhaps that had more to do with the uneventfulness of small-town life than to Sarah’s importance. The twice-weekly local paper had always kept readers abreast of small matters—weddings and births, tides and the weather, roadwork and school sports. When she was in high school, Sarah had submitted some editorial cartoons to the Bay Beacon, but the paper’s editor had declared them too edgy and controversial. Ironically, her drawings had poked fun at big-city developers vying for the chance to build shopping malls and condos right next to America’s most pristine national seashore.

  “I never saw the piece,” Sarah said. “We live—I mean, I lived—in Chicago.” She twisted the wedding set some more. “I wish I’d come back to visit more often than I did, but Jack never liked coming here, and time just seemed to slip by. I should have pushed harder. God, I feel like such a loser.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight.” Birdie folded her hands on top of the desk.

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t ever need to justify yourself to me. I’m not here to judge you or to hold you accountable or anything like that. I’m not going to criticize any choice you’ve made, insult you or divulge details about your personal life to strangers.”

  Sarah’s face burned with shame, because she knew exactly what Birdie was referring to. When Birdie was a senior in high school, she’d had a breast reduction. It was no secret; after all, she’d gone from having a triple D rack to wearing tank tops. Sarah had lampooned it in her underground comics. Why not poke fun at the meanest girl in the school? Now Sarah knotted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry about that stupid high school comic book.”

  “Don’t be. I thought it was funny.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, kind of. Back then, I tended to like anything that was about me. I was awful in high school, with or without the boobs. To be honest, I sort of liked the attention of being featured in the funny pages. It was a long time ago, Sarah. Let’s hope we’ve both moved on.”

  “I’m still drawing,” Sarah admitted. “I have a syndicated comic strip, but I get my inspiration from my own life these days, not other people’s.”

  “Good for you.” Birdie shook her head. “Some people spend their whole lives filled with regrets about stuff that went on in high school. I’ve always wondered why that is. It’s just four years. Four lousy years in a life that can span a century. Why do people get so fixated on those four little years?”

  “Good question,” Sarah said quietly.

  Birdie took a form from the printer on the credenza behind the desk. “This outlines the terms of our agreement. I want you to read it carefully and call me if you have any questions.”

  The sheet was covered with dense legalese, and Sarah’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted to do was wade through this. But she was on her own now, and she had to look out for herself. She studied the first paragraph, and her eyes started to glaze over. “Do you have a Reader’s Digest version of this?”

/>   “That’s as simple as it gets. Take all the time you need.” She waited while Sarah read over the document, seeing nothing questionable—other than the fact that this was going to cost a lot of money. She signed the agreement and dated it at the bottom. “Done,” she said.

  “Done. So let’s get started. Mind if I record this interview?”

  “I guess not. What are we going to talk about?”

  “I need the whole story. Everything from the beginning.”

  Sarah glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the wall. “Do you have other appointments this afternoon?”

  “I have all the time you need.”

  “He’s in Chicago,” she said. “Can I be here and, um, divorce him if he’s in Chicago?”

  “Yes.”

  Divorce him. It was the first time she’d actually said it aloud. The words came out of her yet she didn’t understand them. It sounded like a foreign phrase. She was mimicking random syllables in a strange tongue. Div Orsim. Divor Sim.

  “Yes,” she repeated, “I do want a divorce.” Then she felt sick. “That’s like saying I want to disembowel myself. That’s how it feels right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Birdie said. “It’s never easy. But one thing I can tell you is that even though the loss hurts, it also creates new space in your life, new possibilities.”

  Sarah fixed her gaze on a spot out the window, where the waters of Tomales Bay flowed past. “I never meant to stay in Chicago,” she said. “Never could get used to the god-awful weather there. After graduation, I planned to live in San Francisco or L.A., work for a paper while trying to get a comic strip into syndication.

  “Then I met Jack.” She swallowed, took a deep breath. “His whole family is in the construction business. He got a contract from the university to build a new wing for the commercial-art studio, and I was on the student advisory committee, with the job of supplying input for the designers.”

  She felt a smile turn her lips, but only briefly. “The students would feed them our pie-in-the-sky ideas and Jack would tell us why our plans wouldn’t work. I drew a series of satirical cartoons for the student paper about the situation. When Jack saw them, I thought he’d be furious. Instead, he asked me out.” She shut her eyes, wishing the memories were not so painful. But God, he’d been charming. Handsome and funny and kind. She had adored him from the start. Often, she’d wondered what he saw in her, but she didn’t dare ask. Maybe she should have asked. She opened her eyes and stared at her knotted-together fingers.