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To Keri 2.0
CHAPTER
One
You might be wondering why I would let you, a complete stranger, read parts of my diary. Maybe it’s the “bus-rider syndrome,” in which people, for unknown reasons, share with total strangers the most intimate details of their lives. Maybe, but I think it’s simpler than that. I think our desire to be understood is stronger than our fear of exposure.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
How did I get here?
I once heard someone describe her life as a car with four flat tires. I would be happy with that. If my life were a metaphorical car, it would be in much worse shape—wheels stolen, windshield smashed, and dirt poured into its gas tank. I’d say that the demolition of my life happened in a matter of months, but that’s not really true. It had been happening for the last three years of my marriage. I was just oblivious.
You probably read about the horror of my life in the newspaper or somewhere online. It’s one of those tragic stories that people love to wring their hands over and feign sympathy about as they lustfully share the sordid details—like describing a car accident they witnessed.
Before the truth popped out like a festering pustule (excuse the gross simile, it just seems fitting), my life seemed idyllic on the surface. I own a thriving—and exhausting—catering company called Just Desserts. (We do more than desserts. The woman I inherited the business from started by baking birthday and wedding cakes, and the name stuck.)
My husband of nine years, Clive, whom, by the way, I was madly in love with, was a partner in a prominent Salt Lake City law firm and a city councilman going on almost four years. I went through the whole campaign thing with him twice, speaking to women’s groups, holding babies, the whole shebang. It wasn’t really my thing, I’ve always been more of an introvert, but it was his and I loved him and believed in supporting my husband. Unlike me, Clive was a natural at public life. Everyone loved him. He had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the room. I think that’s what initially drew my heart to him—the way he made me feel seen.
Less than a year ago, Clive’s name had been placed on the short list of potential Salt Lake City mayoral candidates for next year’s election. One newspaper poll even showed him leading, and lobbyists and politicos began circling him like bees at a picnic. At least they were. No one’s calling now. That ship didn’t sail, it sunk. Just like our marriage.
I’ve learned that the things that derail our lives are usually the things that blindside us when we’re worrying about something else—like stressing over being late to a hair appointment and then, on the way there, getting T-boned by a garbage truck running a red light.
My garbage truck came via a phone call at nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning. Clive was out of town. I had just gotten home from a Pilates class and was getting ready for work when the phone rang. The caller ID said Deseret News, the local newspaper. I assumed the call had something to do with our subscription or my catering business, as the paper would call every now and then for a food article. Last Halloween they had me do a bit on “Cooking for Ghouls,” sharing my favorite chili and breadstick recipe.
I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Walther?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Karl Fahver, the political editor for the Deseret News. I’m calling to see if you’d like to comment on your husband’s arrest this morning.”
My heart stopped. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t know that your husband was arrested this morning?”
“My husband’s away on a business trip. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. Your husband was arrested for bigamy.”
“Bigamy? As in, more than one wife?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My mind spun like that beach-ball-looking thing on your computer when you’re waiting for something to happen. Or maybe I was just in shock. “That’s ridiculous. I’m his only wife. Are you sure you have the right person?”
The reporter hesitated. When he spoke again, there was a hint of sympathy in his voice. “According to the police report, your husband has a second family in Colorado.”
Just then my call waiting beeped. It was Clive. “My husband’s on the other line. I need to get this . . .”
“Mrs. Walther—”
I hung up, bringing up Clive’s call. “Is it true?” I asked.
Clive didn’t answer.
“Clive . . .”
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“You wanted me to hear from you that you have another wife?” I started crying. “How could you do this?!”
Nothing.
“Answer me!”
“What do you want me to say, Maggie?”
“Say it’s not true! Say, ‘I’d never do this to the woman who supported me through everything.’ How about, ‘I’d never do this to you because I love you’?” There was another long pause. I couldn’t stop crying. Finally, I said, “Say something, please.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to go.” He hung up.
I collapsed on the floor and sobbed.
According to the article in the afternoon’s paper, my husband had another wife and two children in Thornton, Colorado. I saw a picture of the other woman. She was short, with a round face, a tattoo of a rose on her shoulder, and badly dyed blond hair.
After the story went viral, a malicious site popped up showing a picture of me next to the “other wife” and asking people to vote which one was hotter. There were more than twelve thousand votes. I won, 87 percent to 13 percent. I’m sorry I know that. It should have at least preserved my ego a little, but it only made me angrier. Clive could at least have had the decency to cheat on me with a swimsuit model—someone no one would really expect a normal woman to compete with. One that would have people saying, “I can see him doing that,” instead of “His wife must have been awful to live with.”
At the moment, Clive’s out on bail, living with his parents in Heber, Utah. I doubt with his connections that he’ll ever see the inside of a cell—unless he ends up with a judge he’s crossed somewhere back—but either way, I’m feeling like I’m under house arrest, afraid to go out in public, even to shop for groceries. I’m afraid to see strangers gape at me.
The other day I went to the nearby food mart to pick up something to eat when I noticed a woman following me. At first I told myself that I was imagining things, until she followed me across seven rows at the supermarket, videoing me with her phone.
This too will pass, right? I know that pretty much all news is temporary. Scandals are like waves that crash on the beach, then quietly retreat in foam, but when it’s about you, it seems like there is no other news. It feels like every spotlight is on you as the public watches from the gallery like voyeurs, their faces darkened and entertained by the drama of your life.
Obviously, I’ve thought this over too much. The thing is, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’m just compulsive enough that I suppose I would have continued down my crazy spiral until I self-destructed or until something else unexpected turned up. Fortunately, it did. Actually, someone. A stranger. A
nd he came at Christmas.
CHAPTER
Two
Was I a fool to trust him? I suppose the last people to think themselves fools are fools.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 9
The story of my stranger began on a subfreezing November morning, the aftermath of a series of local blizzards. I was sitting alone near the window of the Grounds for Coffee. Not surprisingly, the coffee shop wasn’t as busy as usual. The latest blizzard had dropped a blanket over the city, and the usual traffic warning went out: Don’t leave the house unless necessary. I had no idea why Carina, my business assistant and best friend—my only friend—had been so insistent at meeting at the coffee shop this morning. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, even though I’d said it at least four times. I hadn’t left my house for nearly a week. I looked like it. No makeup. My unwashed, unbrushed hair was mostly concealed beneath a baseball cap.
The shop had its usual blend of clientele—as eclectic and caffeinated as their concoctions. I was the only one sitting alone, so I leafed through the newspaper to hide my awkwardness. I turned to the local section of the paper only to see a haggard-looking mug shot of Clive. It seemed that every time there was a discussion about the mayoral race or a vote of the city council, Clive’s picture would be dragged up. The article du jour was about the woman the mayor had nominated to fill my husband’s position.
Honestly, I couldn’t tell you what’s worse—the betrayal, the public humiliation, or the question that was on everyone’s mind: “How did you not know that your husband had another family?”
They just didn’t understand. Some people have husbands who come home from work, grab a beer, and watch TV all night. These people are not married to a politician or anyone in the public spotlight. Every night there’s an event, an Elks club gathering or a women’s political caucus. If I hadn’t put my foot down, he’d have been gone every night and weekend.
Or maybe I really was just as dumb as everyone thought.
I knew he was cheating on me; I just thought it was with his career. Politics had always been his second wife. I mean, he didn’t even have time for me. How could he possibly have time for another wife and family?
Looking back, I realized there were clues. My last birthday he gave me a leather miniskirt. When I looked surprised, he said, “But that’s what you asked for.” It wasn’t something I had or ever would have asked for.
Another time, before going to bed, he called me Jen, which, incidentally, is half the name of the other woman. Jennifer. It is also the name of one of the other council members, so it was easy for him to explain it away, and for me to brush it off. I just chalked it all up to his overtaxed brain and schedule. I wish I had been more suspicious. But then, there’s a lot of things I wish I had done differently.
CHAPTER
Three
Carina thinks I need to change my environment to something more cheerful, like switching the song on the radio. To me it feels more like putting an ice cube in the microwave.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
Carina walked into the coffee shop about fifteen minutes late, escorted by a flurry of snow. She wore red leather gloves, a thick parka, and a red wool scarf with a matching beret strategically placed over her perfectly trimmed blond hair. She always dressed as if everyone was looking at her, and I suppose they were, probably because she dressed like everyone was looking at her. And she was pretty. Although she was seven years younger than me, people often said we looked alike, or asked if we were sisters. I doubt anyone would now. The contrast between our grooming made me feel self-conscious.
She looked around the room until she found me, then walked over, unpeeling her scarf as she walked. “Hi, love. Sorry I’m late. The roads were horrific.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I passed three accidents and at least a dozen cars off the road.”
“I was almost one of them,” I said.
“That’s because my washing machine’s bigger than your Fiat.”
“No, that’s because we should have stayed home.”
“No,” she said, unzipping her coat. “More time at home is the last thing you need right now.” She sat down. “That’s why I wanted to meet here. To get you out of your black hole of misery.”
“Into the blinding bright world of misery?” I lifted the newspaper to show her Clive’s picture.
“He looks wretched,” she said. She looked me over. “Speaking of which, how much weight have you lost?”
“Nice segue.”
“You look like a waif. You need to eat more. And you need to get out.”
I collapsed back into my chair. “I’m too tired to get out.”
“That’s depression, honey. And you’ll stay that way until you get out.”
“I don’t want to get out. I’m a pariah.”
Carina touched her coffee cup. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means I’m an untouchable. A social leper.”
Carina shook her head. “No, you’re not.”
“No one wants to be seen with me.”
“I do.”
“Besides you,” I said. “And you’re a poor judge of character.”
“I am not.”
I cocked my head to one side.
“Maybe in dating,” she relented. “And marriage.” Carina had been married twice, once to a man who had been married seven times before, the other to a guy who just left one day and never came back. She found out later that he was wanted for check fraud in eleven states. “You know what you need?”
“Cyanide pills?”
Carina frowned. “You need to get involved with something outside yourself. Like come back to work.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not ready for that yet.”
“Then at least change your environment. I drove by your house the other night and all the lights were out. It was only eight.”
“You should have just rung the doorbell.”
“I did.” She raised three fingers. “Three times.”
“I was sleeping. I’ve been sleeping weird hours lately. It’s like my body doesn’t know the difference between day and night. Did you know that during the winter months, beavers stay inside their lodges almost all the time? And since there are no light cues—like day or night—they develop their own circadian rhythm of twenty-nine-hour days.”
Carina stared at me for a moment, then said, “I don’t know if I’m more disturbed that you know this or that you’re telling me this.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I saw it on a documentary . . .”
“While you were holed up in your lodge,” she said.
“Yes, while I was holed up in my lodge. And I’m telling you this because it resonated with me. My circadian rhythm is off. I get up in the middle of the night and can’t sleep.”
Her gaze intensified. “You’re isolating. And identifying with beavers.”
I frowned. “I know.”
“Well, if you’re not going to leave your home, at least bring some life into it.”
“You want me to invite some other woodland creatures to join me?”
She grinned. “What I mean is that you need to shake things up. Right after my first divorce I read a book on breakups, and it suggested changing around your physical environment to help change your emotional environment. It was by Benjamin Hardy. It worked for me. Clean the house, buy new furniture, decorate. It’s Christmas, put some lights up or something. Do you even have a Christmas tree?”
“Having a tree would mean the holidays are coming.”
“The holidays are coming. Get a tree.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“To begin with, I don’t feel Christmasy.”
“Is that even a word?”
“It is now.”
“Well, you don’t feel Christmasy because you’re not acting Christmasy. It’s
a verb, not a noun.”
“Actually, it’s an adjective.”
“Don’t get grammatical on me. Bottom line, you’re alone. And loneliness is dangerous. Studies have shown it’s more hazardous to your health than smoking or being overweight. Especially during the holidays. There’s a reason so many people commit suicide during the holidays.”
“That’s a myth,” I said. “The suicide rate is highest in spring. It always has been.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “How did you know that?”
“I’m not considering suicide, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She continued to look at me doubtfully and I threw one hand up. “You brought it up, not me.”
Carina was quiet. After a moment she said, “Do you know the first thing you’re supposed to do if you’re lost in the woods?”
I looked at her blankly. “And you’re mocking me about the beaver lodge?”
“There’s a point to this.”
“I’m dying to see where you’re going with this.”
“First thing you do, you build a fire. Do you know why?”
“To keep warm.”
“No, to keep busy. To keep your mind from panicking. That’s what you need.”
“You think I should set fire to Clive’s car?”
“That’s what I’m talking about, Mag. No matter the conversation, you bring it back to him like a magnet. You’ve got to get out of that. It’s not about him, it’s about you. You need to reclaim your life.” Her voice softened. “Look, I understand why you want to isolate. I really do. But it’s not the answer. You need to show Clive that he can’t take away your life.”
“He did take away my life.”
“No, he took away your situation. You’re still here. Life isn’t through with you. You never know what’s around the corner.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She reached over and put her hand on mine. “This will pass, love. It’s okay that you’re lying low for now. No one can blame you for that. I just don’t want to see this crush your spirit.”
The Noel Stranger Page 1
