Picture Imperfect

by Lea Santos

  Deanne stood utterly still, horror and disbelief blanching her face as she clearly tried to grasp—or deny—the meaning of Paloma’s words. “What? What’s over?”

  “Us! You and me, D. The farce our marriage has become.”

  Realization transformed Deanne’s features into something Paloma would never push from her mind, no matter how hard she tried.

  “No, Paloma. Please. Don’t say—”

  “Damnit! Listen to me. Hear me. For once, I need you to—”

  “I’m right here,” Deanne said, her tone soothing. “I want to hear you. Every word.”

  Paloma clenched her hands, shoring her resolve. “I can’t continue playing the role of happily ever after when everything’s so wrong between us. It has to…end.”

  Unshed tears sprung to Deanne’s widened eyes. Her chest rose and fell with harsh breaths. “So, that’s it? Just like that, you blindside me? For God’s sake, if things have gone so unbelievably wrong, why haven’t we talked about it?”

  Silence.

  “We can make this better.” She moved toward Paloma and gripped her arms with desperate intensity. “It’s always been you and me, Punky. How can you say it’s over, like it never meant a thing? How?”

  “I have to do this. Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming,” Paloma said, her voice raw.

  “But that’s the thing. I didn’t see it.” Her thumbs moved in circles on Paloma’s arms. “Clearly, we’re out of sync, but in my mind, we’re destined to be together, beyond everything.”

  Silence.

  Deanne pushed out a frustrated sound. “You never told me anything was wrong.”

  “Seriously? I shouldn’t have had to tell you. If we’re so damn destined to be together, you should’ve seen. You should’ve known. You should’ve tried, for God’s sake.” Paloma shook off Deanne’s hold and, again, moved away. Gripping the edge of the door, Paloma turned and set her jaw. “P-please, I don’t want to run this thing in circles. Just…go.”

  Deanne gaped as if Paloma had lost her mind. “Are you fucking kidding me? I won’t ‘just go.’ This is our family we’re talking about. If there are problems, we’ll fix them. If I’ve done something wrong, I’ll make up for it. I won’t give up—”

  “Listen. I don’t have the energy to argue, and I’m not kidding,” Paloma said, losing her steam. “You should have been home hours ago. We could’ve talked then. But I’m exhausted and I’m so angry I’m shaking. I don’t want to talk to you now. Go, please. At least respect my wishes enough to give me some time and space.”

  Deanne stared at Paloma from the living room, the shadows carving deep hollows in her tear-moistened cheeks. Her throat moved over a wave of soul-deep pain. With a sharp exhale, at last, she snatched up the suitcases.

  “You win, Paloma. I’ll leave. For tonight.” Grim determination tightened the skin around her eyes. “But this is not over. We are not ‘over.’ Not by any stretch of the imagination. You,” Deanne said, her voice cracking, “you are my wife.”

  Chapter Two

  Written on Deanne Vargas’s crumpled cocktail napkin from dinner, Wednesday, September 5.

  TO DO:

  Wash and wax car

  Laundry

  Look for apartment

  Ask Ruben if I can stay a little longer

  Talk to Paloma about the kids. About everything

  Punkybean. Why?

  For the millionth time since she’d stormed out of her home a few days earlier, Dee lay wide-eyed on her brother Ruben’s lumpy hide-a-bed and asked herself why she hadn’t done more to change Paloma’s mind that night. Why she hadn’t argued more.

  Pleaded more.

  Apologized more. Until she was hoarse.

  Why she hadn’t cried, bargained, refused.

  But she hadn’t. Period. Instead, angered or dumbfounded by Paloma’s demands—Dee wasn’t sure which—she’d gathered the suitcases Paloma had packed, brushing aside the wilted bouquet that was, admittedly, a pathetic gesture of apology for a missed anniversary, and left.

  She’d fucking left.

  Ruben welcomed her to stay without asking questions, which was just what Deanne needed. She still hadn’t told her brother what was up, and Ruben knew enough about Deanne’s private personality not to probe.

  Now, here Dee lay, unable to sleep without the familiar rhythm of Paloma’s breathing beside her and knowing she didn’t want to go on breathing herself if the only woman she’d ever loved was no longer in her life.

  She threw a forearm over her eyes and tried to rid her mind of that awful picture of Paloma, her back pressed against the wall, peering up like a cornered doe on day one of deer season. Her dusky skin flushed with anger, disillusionment spiking the thick lashes into wet points around her huge brown eyes.

  Dee had wanted to comb her fingers through Paloma’s sleep-tossed auburn curls and kiss the trembles from her full lips. But she hadn’t. Though her mind reared up with disbelief at Paloma’s words, every nonverbal cue told Deanne that Paloma was beyond being convinced.

  How could I have screwed up so badly?

  With a vicious exhale, Dee turned to the side, punched the red-headed stepchild of a pillow she’d been sentenced to use, and tried to get comfortable, a futile pursuit. The metal support bar beneath the thin mattress cut into her thigh like a dull sword, and the basement felt dank and miserable. No offense to her brother, but it just wasn’t home.

  She glanced at the illuminated red digits of the borrowed alarm clock and scowled at the late hour. But, Jesus Christ, her wife had kicked her to the curb. Sleep was about last on her priority list.

  As a young woman, Deanne had sworn she would be a better parent and partner than her father had been to her mother. Victor Vargas had callously left his wife with five young kids to support. Because of him, Mom had to work three jobs just to make ends meet. Dear ol’ Dad had always valued “a good time” more than he’d valued his own family.

  Good time Victor.

  Life of the party.

  Just one more beer…

  None of it had slipped by Deanne’s quiet observation.

  Watching Mom drag home late at night, bone weary from working, working, working, had fired young Deanne’s determination. Mom had never complained. Not once. But that hadn’t mattered; in fact, it hardened the steel of Deanne’s resolve. She vowed that when she committed to a partner, she would do everything in her power to show her wife how much she cared by working extra hard. She’d be the kind of provider her father had never even considered being, and she’d take care of Mom, too.

  And that’s exactly what Deanne had done—worked so hard she barely had a spare moment to think. Now Mom was enjoying her retirement, Paloma was able to be a full-time mother to Pep and Teddy as she’d wanted, all on Deanne’s salary and extra-duty income. It had never mattered that Dee had no free time, that she often missed social events to work overtime, that she had to schedule in sex…when she scheduled it in at all. She had proven that sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree, and that was worth every bit of sacrifice. Deanne might have shared the man’s blood, but she was nothing, absolutely nothing like Victor Vargas.

  She’d been proud of that until a few days ago.

  Why hadn’t it worked? Why had all her back-breaking efforts only succeeded in driving her wife and family away? More importantly, what could she do about it? Because no matter what it took, Deanne would not lose Paloma and the boys to some failure she couldn’t even wrap her brain around. God help her, she couldn’t bear to consider it.

  *

  “This is absurd,” Paloma groused at Emie as they powerwalked through Washington Park the next morning. Emie had recently begun a sabbatical from the private university where she was a genetics researcher and professor, so she could devote a full year to her and Gia’s first baby. Since Deanne had left a few days earlier, Emie and Paloma had met every morning after the boys were off to school to get their sweat on. Iris joined them when she could, though her
impending commitment ceremony plans and work kept her very busy.

  “What’s absurd?”

  Paloma wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “You are seven months pregnant, yet I’m doing ninety-nine percent of the huffing and puffing.”

  Emie swung her lean arms in the exaggerated but controlled manner she’d learned during a recent powerwalking seminar. A quick chuckle pulled dimples into her fine-boned cheeks. “It’s your short legs. Plus, I’ve been doing it longer.” She gave Paloma an encouraging smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

  This particular morning, the park teemed with walkers, runners, and in-line skaters, thanks to summer’s lovely weather hanging on with the tenacity of a pit bull terrier. As she struggled to regulate her breathing and keep the stinging sweat from her eyes, Paloma bucked the trend and wished the days would cool off.

  She sighed and mirrored Emie’s arm motions, if a bit awkwardly. The weird swishy movements were hard to get used to. “Well, I hope all this effort pays off somehow, because it sucks.” She hadn’t been so out of breath since…well, frankly, since—damn.

  Unwelcome thoughts of making love with Deanne intruded into her unprepared imagination. Her stomach lifted, tightened. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself in her lithe high school body, though, not in this rounder, older, birthed-two-boys form in which Deanne had shown zippo interest for months.

  Or had it been years?

  Her chest tingled. If the “no pain, no gain” credo held merit, she should be in Olympic form soon, because, God knew, she hurt, and not entirely due to the exercise.

  Why, Dee? Why?

  They used to be so in sync, so absorbed, so in love. The first six years of their marriage had been carefree and idyllic. Passionate, too. Big time. Give them a flat surface and a modicum of privacy, and they were all over each other. Horizontal, vertical—it didn’t matter.

  Then Pep came along, and that intensity began to shift, so gradually that Paloma hardly noticed. When she compared now with then, though, the difference in their relationship was drastic. Why it had changed was what Paloma couldn’t quite figure out. Deanne had wanted the boys as much as she had. For God’s sake, Dee had implanted her own eggs in Paloma’s womb with detailed instructions from a midwife. The egg harvesting had been pretty strenuous and painful, but Dee wanted parts of both of them in the boys. After each implantation, they’d made love and cried—both times unbearably beautiful.

  Were the relationship changes Paloma’s fault? Had she accidentally gone from lover to mama, leaving Deanne in the lurch? Had Deanne fallen out of lust, then out of love, then into resigned complacency, like so many couples these days?

  “Hurry up, slowpoke. What’s up?”

  Paloma bit her lip, and stepped up her pace. “Sorry.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  The pause lasted just a touch too long, and Emie would catch it. Still, Paloma opted for the evasive answer. “Nothing important.”

  Emie stopped and turned toward Paloma, grasping her shoulders. “Pea,” she said, almost roughly, “it’s okay to think about your wife. Don’t lie to me.”

  “I-I’m not.”

  Emie huffed, but not unkindly. “Be real. I’m your best friend.”

  Paloma studied Emie’s worried expression before admitting defeat. “Okay, fine. I was thinking about her.”

  “Naturally. She’s the biggest part of your life, next to the boys, and it’s only been a few days. Nothing’s resolved. What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Emie squeezed her arms, then released them. “Give yourself time.”

  Paloma bit her lip. “She hasn’t even tried to talk me out of this.”

  Emie’s eyes widened. “Hang on. You want that?”

  “Well…no.” A tight pause. “I don’t know. I guess I’m completely petty and it just stings my ego that she hasn’t even tried.”

  “Pea.” Emie softened her tone. “You told Deanne to respect your wishes and leave. She left.”

  “That she did.”

  “Was it just a high school game? A ploy to get Deanne to beg for your forgiveness?”

  “Of course not. I…meant it,” Paloma finished weakly.

  Emie cocked her head to the side. “And surely Deanne knows you wouldn’t bluff about something so serious. That you wouldn’t play games when it comes to your family. She’s probably still reeling.”

  Paloma fought back the guilt.

  “You did ask her for time and space, you know.”

  Paloma grimaced. “You aren’t making me feel better.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emie gave her a quick hug, then held her at arm’s length and studied her. Without another word, Emie steered her to a bench dappled green and gold with sunlight through the fluttering leaves of the towering maple above. They sat.

  “Okay, spill. I could use a break anyway.” Emie rubbed the side of her abdomen, where the Amazing Kickboxing Baby, as she’d been dubbed, had been battering her for days. “Let’s establish a few facts.”

  “You’re such a scientist.”

  “Just shut up and answer. You still love Deanne.”

  It wasn’t a question, really. No sense lying. “Yeah, of course. She’s…everything. But so what? It takes more than just love.”

  “True. But love is a great basis. It makes almost every obstacle surmountable.”

  “Not this one.” Paloma leaned over and plucked a dandelion, twirling it absentmindedly between her thumb and forefinger. The tubular stem felt both sticky and hollow, much like her life. “I feel like a failure.” Embarrassment warmed her cheeks.

  “It takes two to make a marriage work and two to make it fail. Don’t shoulder the whole burden.”

  Paloma pondered this imponderable. “Do you know…before Dee left, we hadn’t made love in more than six months?” It shamed her to say it, but maybe the first step toward recovery was admitting how tragically wrong things had gone.

  Emie startled, but capped it quickly. “Seriously? Why not?” She dug through her knapsack for two bottles of water, handing one to Paloma, who set it aside.

  “I don’t know. The honeymoon was truly over, I guess. And the idiotic thing is, I could handle that kind of sexual apathy from another woman, I think, but not from Deanne.” She lifted the dandelion beneath her chin and turned toward Emie. “Remember when we used to do this as kids, Em? If the yellow reflected on our skin, the girl-of-the-week was hot for us?”

  “Pea, cut it out.”

  Paloma leaned forward. “It’s not reflected anymore, is it? Look.” Her voice cracked on the demand.

  Emie reached out and gripped Paloma’s wrist. “Don’t do this.”

  “Why not?” Paloma pulled her wrist free and threw the dandelion aside, desperation welling inside her. “The girl is definitely not hot for me. I just don’t know why not.”

  Exasperation reddened Emie’s cheeks. “For God’s sake, that’s a silly kid’s game. Whatever the problems in your physical relationship, they have nothing to do with dandelions or with your sex appeal.” Emie raised a finger. “And don’t bother denying that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Then what? If not that, what else could it have been?”

  “I don’t know. Sexual desire ebbs and flows.”

  Paloma huffed. “Apparently ours just ebbs.”

  Emie chewed the inside of one cheek. “Did you initiate?”

  “I used to. All the time. One look at Deanne, and I wanted her right that second.” A long time ago, her mind said. Paloma crossed one foot over the opposite knee and fiddled with her shoelaces. “But not lately, I guess.” She liked to tell herself she’d stopped taking sexual charge when Deanne’s attention seemed to wane, because who wants to face a string of rejections? But what came first? The proverbial chicken or the egg?

  “Did you still want her that way, before—?”

  “Yes. God, yes.” Deanne Vargas was well and truly the love of her life. Other women simply didn’t blip on her radar. �
��But I don’t know if it showed. At least not…at the end.” Ugh. It sounded so final. The end. “I was just, I don’t know, so angry. So hurt.”

  “Well, what did Deanne say when you two talked about that?”

  “I didn’t really…ever bring it up.”

  “What?” Emie said, stunned.

  “Deanne wasn’t having sex either, you know.” Paloma pouted. “She should have known something was wrong. She should have asked. She could’ve brought it up.”

  Emie released a humorless bark of a laugh. “Honey, I hate to break this to you, but women—wives, especially—have a lot of really useful skills, but mind reading isn’t on that illustrious list. You have to communicate to make a relationship work.”

  “I know. Look, it’s too late. I tried to wait out this…rocky patch, but to be honest, things started to change back when Pep was born. I’ve grinned like the perfect, supportive partner and mom for way too long. I have to stand up for myself this time.”

  Emie lifted her hands in surrender. “Hey, I support you. I just want you to be happy. But I won’t lie—I can’t picture you with anyone but Deanne.”

  “Neither can I.” Poisonous worry burned in Paloma’s stomach. In truth, she and Deanne had gone from fine, to silent, to separated, without so much as one fight. Was that Paloma’s transgression? That she’d said nothing, that she’d allowed resentment to build, that she’d held everything in until the only word she knew to say was…good-bye?

  “Hey, chicadees.” Iris flashed her ubiquitous cover girl smile as she loped across the path toward them, a bundle of exuberance and joy and long limbs.

  “Hi, Iris,” Emie said.

  Paloma merely smiled. She’d never seen Iris as content as she’d been since she’d fallen in love with Torien and left modeling to start a nonprofit with her. Iris might have the looks for the runway, but she had the heart for good works. The serenity of having found her true station in life showed in her every movement. She positively glowed. Paloma envied Iris that.