Picture Imperfect

by Lea Santos

  Maybe she repulsed Deanne.

  Maybe Deanne would be thrilled to know Paloma wanted out.

  Maybe this whole thing was some cruel twist of destiny.

  She sniffled against Teddy’s soft hair.

  “¿Qué pasó?” Gia asked Emie, her worried gaze on Paloma. She reached back and pulled her sleek black mane into a ponytail, securing it with the spare band that always seemed to be on her wrist when it wasn’t in her hair.

  “Ah, Paloma stubbed her, uh, toe.” Emie’s words were light, but she told Gia so much more with her eyes. “Can you take the boys outside while Iris and I tend to her?” Iris, meanwhile, spoke in low, urgent Spanish to Torien, who nodded with understanding.

  Gia grabbed Pep around the neck. “Did one of you guys kick your mother in the toe?”

  Pep laughed and squirmed. “No, Auntie Gia. Stop.”

  Gia moved toward Paloma and scooped up the younger boy as well. “Come on, Teddy my man. Let’s go outside.”

  “It’s rainin’,” Teddy reminded them, in a tone that clearly said he thought the grown women in the house were more than a little dense.

  Gia looked momentarily stumped.

  Torien stepped forward. “I need some things from the garden store. Perhaps you boys would like to come along?”

  Gia set Teddy and Pep down in the archway. “Great idea. And I happen to know there’s an ice cream shop right next to your Auntie Toro’s favorite garden store.”

  As always, Gia had the magic touch with the boys. They bounced and clapped their hands at the prospect of yet more sugar.

  “Not too much,” Paloma said, her voice dispirited and wan. “They just had cookies.”

  “We all did, and they were great,” Gia said, patting her flat abdomen. “But Mama’s the boss. Just two scoops instead of three, guys.”

  “Gia,” Emie scolded, playfully.

  Gia gave Emie a quick air kiss, then winked.

  Teddy took Auntie Torien’s hand and grinned way up at her. Pep followed suit, entwining his fingers with Auntie Gia’s. In a wave of excited little-boy chatter and a cacophony of footfalls, they headed toward the back of the house where Gia always parked her truck.

  Paloma stared unseeing at the gleaming hardwood floor until she heard the back door slam. The house fell silent but for the tick of the grandfather clock Gia’s mentor, Mr. Fuentes, had given her and Emie as a housewarming gift.

  Paloma released a long breath and wished she could fall asleep there.

  Wake up later and find out it had all been a bad dream.

  “Talk, Pea,” Iris said gently.

  Paloma hated that she’d broken down, especially in front of her sons. She didn’t even know how to start. “I’m fat,” she mumbled. “I’m fat and ugly.”

  “Hey,” Iris said, settling cross-legged on the floor in front of Paloma. “Stop that. You are neither fat nor ugly, and what does that superficial bullshit have to do with anything anyway?”

  “Iris’s right.” Emie indicated the distended middle of her normally pixie-thin figure. “Besides, this right here is what you’d call fat.”

  Paloma rolled her eyes. “You’re pregnant, Em. That doesn’t count. But the point is, I’m through.”

  Iris and Emie waited for more.

  Paloma gulped back her misery. She tucked her naturally curly hair behind her ears and felt the wet ends drip against her upper back. “I packed Deanne’s stuff today.” The grandfather clock chimed once; to Paloma it sounded like the punctuation at the end of a sentence.

  Divorced.

  Period.

  “That much we got, thanks to Pep fronting you, as little boys will. And?” Emie prompted.

  “And I’m asking her to leave.” Paloma swallowed. She squeezed her eyes closed. “For good.”

  Emie and Iris remained hold-your-breath silent so long, Paloma finally opened her eyes and searched their faces for some reaction. “Did you hear me?”

  “Oh, honey, yes. We did, but—” Emie said, the expression in her intelligent brown eyes sincerely distraught. She moved closer and smoothed her hand over Paloma’s hair. “That’s such a big step. Maybe you just need some time apart to work things out.”

  “No. I’m tired of trying to keep things together. I’m killing myself to make life perfect for everyone but me, and it isn’t even working.” A short laugh devoid of any bit of humor escaped Paloma’s lips. “Trust me, it’s over.”

  Silence.

  Clock ticks.

  Sadness.

  “God, Pea. I don’t know what to say,” Emie whispered.

  “Me, neither,” Iris added. “You and Dee have always been, like…the perfect couple.”

  Paloma ran her hands over her chilled upper arms. Her now-dry eyes stung from all the crying. “You know, what the hell? Truth is, Deanne left me long ago. She just forgot to take her physical presence along. I’m just finalizing the split.”

  “Wow. I had…no idea.” Emie cleared her throat. “I mean, have you two talked about it?”

  Paloma shook her head, slowly, exhausted from the misery. “Not really. We stopped talking a long time ago, too. Lovely when the sordid truth comes out, huh?”

  “Pea,” Iris said, reaching out to hold Paloma’s hands. “I’m so sorry. But I do understand. Yes, we knew you’d been unhappy, even with you putting on a happy face. Trust me, that much was clear.”

  Startled, Paloma blinked. “And here I thought I’d been hiding it well.”

  “We know you better than that,” Iris said. “We’ve known you forever.”

  “True.” A pause. “That’s both cool and it sucks.”

  “When will you tell her?” asked Emie, absentmindedly stroking the mound of her baby-swollen belly.

  “When she gets home from work tonight, whenever the hell that is.” Paloma gestured to the matching duffel bags slumped against the hall closet door, and her chin quivered. “I brought overnight bags for the boys, if that’s okay. I don’t want them to hear—”

  “Of course,” Emie said. “Don’t give it another thought.”

  A mournful silence ensued. Paloma leaned her head against the newel post on the stairway. “You know what yesterday was?”

  Emie’s eyes widened and she furrowed her fingers into the new spiky-pixie hairstyle that perfectly complemented her gamine features. “No, sorry. I’m pregnant. I can’t remember my own name at this point.”

  Iris sucked in a breath. “Damn Deanne,” she muttered, anger brightening her cheeks.

  Paloma nodded, her tone flat. Defeated. “Yep. August thirty-first. Our fourteenth anniversary. And it passed just like any other unimportant day.”

  “Oh, Paloma,” Emie said on an exhale. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Paloma said, her resolve returning. “But, trust me, it’ll never happen again.”

  *

  Dee Vargas heaved her black canvas work bag into the trunk of her prized Chevelle and waved good-bye to a couple of shift-mates in the fenced parking lot of the Denver Police District Four substation on Clay Street. The rain-dampened cement lent a chalky, raw smell to the air and washed her skin in goose bumps. She reached for a wadded jean jacket and shrugged into it, her motions slowed by exhaustion. Swing shift had been slammed with calls right out of the chute and straight until end of watch. Bar fights, domestics, traffic altercations—why couldn’t people get along these days?

  She shut the trunk, then lowered herself into the driver’s seat of the pristine restored 1970 muscle car. Off duty, at last. She closed her eyes. God, she was tired. All this overtime might be padding their family savings and making her look good for the upcoming sergeants’ promotion, but damn. It was killing her. She just wanted to go home and veg out.

  Good luck with that goal.

  An elusive but distracting presence in the form of unspoken tension seemed to have invaded their home life like an occupying force. Paloma had withdrawn into a dangerous kind of quiet in the past…Jesus, had it been a year already? More? T
hey never fought, but it was as if Paloma gently boiled just below the surface. Never having had a good role model as far as committed relationships were concerned, Dee figured she’d best just shut up until it blew over—whatever it was.

  Dee moved uncomfortably through the motions of living, always feeling like she’d made some grave misstep where her wife was concerned. Small talk didn’t work, because Paloma didn’t go for it. Neither did sex, if Dee even remembered correctly. She didn’t dare initiate sex when Paloma’s GO AWAY vibes flashed so incredibly strong. Instead, Dee threw herself into work, hoping the extra household money would melt the ice that had seemed to form around Paloma’s heart where their relationship was concerned.

  God, she didn’t know what else to do.

  The thought of facing that radiating tension made Dee hesitate to turn the key in the ignition, and that made her one hell of a shitty partner. But why wasn’t Paloma the affectionate, easygoing woman Deanne used to know? Instead, Paloma remained polite, in a tight-lipped, conspicuously silent kind of way that made Dee’s heart pound with trepidation.

  Because something was wrong.

  Something was horribly wrong.

  What had changed?

  Dee should ask. She knew that. But right now she just didn’t have the energy—and the plain truth? The idea of hearing the answer terrified her. She remembered feeling exactly like this around her mother, so afraid of hearing verbal confirmation that Mom was unhappy with her for this particular transgression or that one. So she’d walk on eggshells whenever she sensed something was wrong with Mom. Staying out of sight, deflecting verbal blows, and hoping to God things would get back to normal. As a coping mechanism, it wasn’t the best. But she didn’t know anything else, and it had always worked. Eventually Mom would transform magically back to her old self, and Dee would breathe a sigh of relief.

  Waiting out the storm, however, wasn’t working as well with Paloma.

  It wasn’t working at all.

  It had to be Dee; that was the rub.

  Something she’d done.

  Said.

  Something she hadn’t.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t figure out what on earth had gone awry. She worked hard—damn hard—and took care of Paloma and their sons in the only way she knew how. She grabbed as much off-duty work as she could find. Sure, Dee hadn’t told Paloma she was up for a promotion because it was still a gamble, and the thought of dealing with more of Paloma’s disappointment, as well as her own, if it didn’t happen was too much to bear on top of everything else. Plus, Dee rationalized, if she did get the promotion, maybe the pleasant surprise would bridge the mysterious chasm that had cracked between her and Paloma, repair the marriage she valued so…damn…so much.

  Rationalizing, Dee.

  She blew out a sigh. Who knew anymore? Who ever knew?

  Fatigued to the marrow of her bones, she dragged a palm down her face. Bottom line was, she loved her wife and sons with her whole heart and soul, with an intensity that shook her to the core. She loved her career, too, and it gave her great pride to provide a good life for their family. But lately, everything seemed to have spiraled out of her control and she couldn’t get a hand hold—which wasn’t her standard modus operandi. Surely nothing serious…

  Fellow officer Joe Gann rapped on Dee’s window, startling her from her glum thoughts. Dee glanced over, and Gann motioned for her to roll it down.

  Dee did. “What’s up, Gann?”

  “You okay?”

  “Just tired,” Deanne told him.

  “I hear that.” The tall, loose-limbed redhead jerked his thumb in the direction of an idling green Pathfinder carrying several of their other shift-mates. “We’re headin’ to Lucero’s for a few beers. You comin’?”

  The damp night chill swirled into Dee’s car and mingled with the fresh scent of the vinyl polish she’d rubbed into the dashboard the previous day. Hands wrapped around the steering wheel, she considered the invitation. Beer, wings, and mindless cop banter. Dee knew she should say no, but the stress of Paloma’s disconcerting demeanor made a no-pressure beer with her coworkers sound damned inviting. Really, what could it hurt?

  Dee rapped her thumbs against the wheel—ba-da-bum. “You know, that sounds good,” Dee told Joe. “I’ll follow you.”

  *

  Paloma woke with a start when she heard Deanne’s key in the lock. Her neck had stiffened while she’d dozed in the chair, and she winced as she straightened and stretched out the kinks. Paloma glanced at the anniversary clock on the mantel.

  Two hours late.

  Big surprise.

  So much for hashing things out.

  It was past one a.m., and now Paloma just wanted Deanne to leave.

  The front door opened and bonked into the suitcases Paloma had left in the foyer, which she could see from where she sat. Her heart thrummed. She heard the scrape of the heavy bags against the tile, followed by Deanne’s mumbled expletive.

  D-day.

  Paloma stood and crossed the room on wobbly legs, her gaze focused on the packed luggage, her throat unbearably tight. A strip of blue moonlight reached like an ominous tentacle into the otherwise dark hallway.

  Paloma watched, filled with tingly trepidation, as Deanne peered around the door. That same bluish light deepened Deanne’s short black hair and played light and shadow on the curve of her jaw, her regal cheekbone.

  Deanne’s breath caught at the exact moment she noticed the suitcases, and time froze.

  Suddenly dizzy, Paloma gripped the edge of the wall.

  Deanne flicked on the hall light, and her baffled gaze sought and found Paloma’s face, eyes troubled, cautious. “P?”

  Muscling past the obstacles into the hall, Deanne stopped. She clutched a grocery store bouquet of flowers—red roses, pink carnations, and white daisies. The bouquet hung limply against her muscular thigh, forgotten.

  How fucking symbolic.

  Paloma couldn’t take her eyes off the blossoms, and eventually Deanne followed her line of scrutiny.

  As though she’d just realized they were in her hand, Deanne tentatively held them out to her. “Baby, I…I know I forgot our anniversary yesterday, and I’m so so…God, I’ve had so much on my mind, but that’s no excu—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Paloma said. “Just…set them down.”

  Deanne looked so crushed and contrite as she placed them carefully atop one of the suitcases, Paloma almost felt guilty.

  Almost.

  She lifted her chin and pushed away the twinges. Goddamnit, she had borne all the forgotten events, the disappointments, the unwanted changes in their relationship without a single word of complaint, just like she’d been raised to do. But she couldn’t placate Deanne any longer.

  Contrition or not, Paloma had reached her breaking point.

  “It does matter.” Deanne spread her arms then let them fall to her sides. “I know it does. I’m so sorry, Punkybean. I shouldn’t be so busy.”

  Paloma huffed, denying how her stomach swirled hearing that oh-so-familiar voice form the silly pet name Deanne been calling her since she was fifteen years old and addicted to designer jelly beans. Paloma’s gaze fell to the baggage, and her mind to the emotional valley between her and this woman she’d loved for…Jesus, for so long. She couldn’t look at Deanne. At her familiar strong shoulders, at her brown, smooth skin. Frankly, Paloma couldn’t look at Dee at all, at least, not without knives of pain slicing through her. Deanne was a beautiful woman. A beautiful person. But somewhere along the line, they’d splintered.

  Such a loss, this marriage.

  Such a goddamned loss.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Paloma said, choking on the words. “Believe me.”

  The night air from the open door billowed the hem of Paloma’s ankle-length robe.

  Deanne’s hesitance loomed long and thick.

  Paloma forced herself to look at her wife, just as Deanne glanced, again, at the baggage between them.

  “Ar
e you…going somewhere?” Deanne’s expression remained guarded.

  Silence. Thick and pain-laced and beyond awful.

  “No.” The weight of fourteen years of commitment settled on Paloma’s shoulders. “You are.” Her voice came out shaky, and she fought to steady it, squeezing her hands together in a painful knot.

  This wouldn’t get any easier.

  Just say it, Paloma.

  “The boys and I are staying here, in the house they’re used to. They need the stability.” They both held their breath through a stony pause. “You’re leaving.”

  Deanne’s brows dipped and her jaw slackened. She started forward but stopped when Paloma stepped back. “What are you talking about?” Deanne’s question sounded husky, incredulous. Bewildered and hurt.

  Having blurted the most difficult words, Paloma’s emotions tumbled down like the house of cards this relationship had become. She ached, she nearly keened, but no way in hell would she cry. She wrapped her arms around her middle, dug her fingers into the sides of her waist. “Damn you, Deanne. Damn you. I’ve loved you more than half my life. But I can’t handle being treated like a nobody any longer. No—it’s more than not being able to handle it. I won’t. I deserve more than that, and so do the boys.”

  Unstoppable this time, Deanne advanced on her until Paloma could see rain droplets glistening on her hair and skin. Back pressed against the wall, Paloma turned her face away from Dee’s nearness and closed her eyes. “A nobody? You think I treat you like a nobody?”

  Deanne gently pulled Paloma’s chin around and waited until Paloma looked at into her eyes. “Really? This is me, baby girl. You and me. How could you think—?”

  “Stop.” Paloma pushed Deanne’s hand away, an inhale pulling in the familiar pine, leather, and night-air essence of Deanne, despite Paloma’s attempt not to smell it. “Seriously…just stop. I have tried as much as I can, compromised as much as I’m willing to.” Tears threatened. “This is killing me, Dee, can’t you see that? But I have to do what I have to do for me.” She held a breath. “It’s…it’s over.” Paloma skirted past Deanne and retreated a few steps into the dark living room, as though the shadows would cloak her in safety.