Found in Silence

by Lisa Sorbe

  At the time, I didn’t want to be a mother. I didn’t want to be much of anything other than the one thing I no longer was – Julian’s wife.

  “Grandma’s out of town.” My voice is snappy, sort of like my mood. I inhale, exhale. “But we’re going home and you can see her tomorrow, alright? And wait until you see the car we’re riding in. It’s so cool, and I got you your very own chauffer, too. Isn’t that neat?”

  She just looks up at me, eyes droopy. She doesn’t care about a cool car or a chauffer. She’s a kid. A sick kid who wants her mother.

  No. Wait. She doesn’t want her mother. She wants her grandmother – who’s more of a mother to her than her real one.

  I don’t feel shame when I think this. Because shame is beyond me. Shame is my past, not my present. And certainly not my future. I am who I am. We are who we are. My relationship with my daughter is the way it is. And I’m good with that.

  I am.

  I am.

  I am.

  I am…

  “Woah.” Mary Jo’s voice rips into my thoughts. Thoughts that were spiraling somewhere I didn’t want them to go. I’d hug her if I was that sort of person. But I’m not.

  You’re a cold bitch, Jen Malone.

  “That is a cool car.” She’s standing just outside of her front door, arms wrapped around her waist and staring down the walk at the Charger. Miles is leaning against the door, and when he sees us, he waves. Mary Jo swallows, gives a nervous little squeak, and offers a quick wave back. “Is that your boyfriend?”

  I roll my eyes as I urge Emilia through the door. “God, no.”

  Mary Jo’s sigh is dreamy. “He’s cute.”

  I don’t respond.

  “You feel better, Emilia,” she says, ruffling my daughter’s dark hair.

  Emilia offers a weak little wave. “’Bye, MJ.”

  And suddenly I notice how soft her voice is. She’s usually loud – so loud I cringe when she speaks, my muscles tensing from the back of my head all the way down to my shoulders. But now, her words are barely above a whisper.

  I’m almost halfway down the walk when a thought hits me. “Shit – I mean, shoot,” I say, turning around. “I forgot to pay you. My purse is in the car. Give me a sec and I’ll –”

  But Mary Jo is already shaking her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m watching Emilia next week, and Judy can just pay me then.” She smiles and slips back inside.

  As we approach the car, Miles steps aside and opens the door. His expression when he smiles down at Emilia is sweet, not the cold gaze of loathing I usually get from him.

  Emilia stops and looks up at me, her eyes questioning. “Who’s that?” she loud whispers.

  “No one,” I say, moving her along, “I mean, that’s just…”

  But Miles has already squatted down, forearm resting on one knee. “I’m Miles.” He amps his smile up a notch and I notice that, at full wattage, it’s actually a pretty killer one. “And you must be…” He taps his fingers to his lips, discreetly studying her Disney pajamas. “Snow White?”

  And… I’ve just lost my daughter.

  Emilia beams, as much as a sick child suffering from the stomach flu can, and looks up at me. Because of her deep blue eyes, raven hair, and red lips, my brother jokingly started referring to her as Snow White a few years back, cementing that Disney princess as her favorite Disney princess of all time. Not kidding. I once tried to put her in an Ariel sweater dress and she threw a fit.

  I place my hand on her head. Is it my imagination, or is she starting to feel too warm? “This is Emilia. And this,” I wave toward Miles, “is your chauffer for the evening.”

  Miles grins and hops up. He drops into a deep bow, eliciting a small smile from Emilia. He swings his arm toward the car, where he’s tucked the blanket into the crevice of the back seat. And I don’t know where he got it or why he had it in his trunk, but he’s even propped a pillow along the opposite side of the bench. “Ladies first.”

  Emilia bites her lip and climbs in. “What’s a chofer?”

  “A chauffer,” Miles says, poking his head in after her, “is someone who drives you anywhere you want to go.” He reaches in and re-adjusts the blanket around her. “You comfortable back here, Snow?”

  She runs her fingers over the blanket’s felt, offers up a weak smile, and nods. Then, “Momma?”

  Miles steps back so I can peek in. “Yes?”

  “Are you gonna ride back here with me?”

  I wasn’t planning to. Hadn’t given it much thought, really. And then I think about something I’m shocked I didn’t think about before. Drawing back, I turn to Miles. There’s actual worry in my voice, a disgust that practically makes me want to gag. “What if she gets sick on the way?”

  Miles mistakenly thinks I’m showing concern for his car – which I’m not, the concern is for me – and winks. “Then you, Princess, can clean it up.”

  “Mom? Momma?” Emilia. She sounds so small, so fragile.

  There’s no way out of this.

  “Yes, I’m coming. Slide over.”

  I stick a foot in the back and climb in. Miles starts to shut the door behind me when he pauses, bends down, and looks me in the eye. “Besides,” he says, his voice so low only I can hear, “seeing you covered in vomit would be the cherry – the cherry – on my night.”

  I don’t have time to check my expression. The shock that slides over my features is like an avalanche, crumbling my façade of indifference and giving him the exact reaction he wants.

  He whistles as he shuts the door.

  I’m not sure if Julian was ever really faithful to me. But of all his girls, I was the one he liked best. The one he married. So that counted for something.

  Our relationship started the day we met – my first day of college, which also happened to be my first day in his class. I entered his studio, knowing next to nothing about him and annoyed I had to take sculpting in the first place when, at the time, all I wanted to do was paint. Sculpting was my brother’s bag, not mine. My high school guidance counselor, who pitched a tent in his pants anytime I went into see him, let me take whatever classes I wanted. But my college guidance counselor – a hippie with long gray hair and a hideous collection of tie-dyed skirts – was a woman. And not beguiled by flattery. She was an adamant believer that an artist should be well-rounded and, against my wishes, signed me up for Intro to Sculpting with the promise it would “broaden my horizons.” As I sat fuming in her office, she lectured me that the thing I resisted the most was probably the thing I needed the most.

  Turns out the old hag was right.

  I needed Julian from the very start.

  As someone who put herself first before anyone else, I suddenly found myself rearranging my life to fit Julian’s schedule. I was captivated by him – his intensity, his looks, his passion. It wasn’t long before I grew to love sculpting – although whether it was due to the craft itself or Julian’s attention, I’m still not sure. I ignored all other disciplines, focusing instead on the art of wooing Julian Kinraid.

  I still remember the first time I laid eyes on him. He stomped into the studio, covered in sweat and clay from his current project, and informed us all that since we were taking time away from his art we’d better be prepared to give him our best. “Or,” he said, somehow making eye contact with each and every one of us at once, “your asses can get the fuck out right now.” His eyes lingered on me the longest.

  I loved how forceful he was, how confident he felt in his very skin. He said what he wanted to say with no thought of how it affected those around him. I related to him in that aspect, and it seemed I’d finally found someone worthy enough of my attention. For the first time in my life, I had a crush – a swoon-worthy, heart fluttering, lost-to-everything-but-him school-girl crush.

  He was ten years older than me, but I didn’t care. That just made him all the more appealing.

  The first time I kissed my professor was two weeks later. I’d just turned eighteen and,
as a birthday present, my older roommate scored me a fake ID so we could go clubbing. A group of us got dolled up and hit the bars with the sort of enthusiasm one only has when young and set free for the first time. It wasn’t until the last bar of the evening – a dimly lit pub with deep leather booths and mahogany furnishings polished to a shine – that we ran into Julian. He was with a few friends who, after a quiet word from him, swept my friends out to the club next door to dance. I was just moving to leave with them when I felt his hand encircle my wrist. His grip was firm, the heat from his touch burning as he pulled me down next to him in the booth. I sunk back in the plush leather, relishing the feel of his body next to mine. He was wearing a black button-up with black slacks and black, square-toed boots. All of that with his black hair, black beard, and black eyes, and he looked every part the devil I knew he was.

  And he was big, so big – I felt the power radiate off him and cling to me. To crush or protect, it didn’t matter. And I didn’t care.

  Back then, I foolishly believed I could handle him.

  When he asked what we were celebrating and I told him it was my birthday and that I’d just turned eighteen, something in his eyes shifted. A flicker, a release of sorts. Like a dam had broken, and everything in his soul came spilling out for me to see. His hands, those powerful tools he used to twist and grind and force form into art, reached up and cupped my face. “Finally,” he murmured.

  And then he kissed me.

  Emilia’s flu lasted a full twenty-four hours.

  Twenty-four hours of vomit and tears and round-the-clock care. I napped in a chair by her bed, my feet propped up on an ottoman and my check resting on my shoulder, causing a kink in my neck that lasted for days. My parents decided to extend their stay in Des Moines, leaving me and Emilia alone throughout the weekend. When my father called to tell me, I admit I acted a bit like my five-year old daughter – expressing my irritation and begging them to come home with a bitter whine in my voice and a stomp of my foot. I needed help with Emilia, and my parents were just… abandoning me.

  It’s no secret that I’m a daddy’s girl. And while he usually gives in when I ask for something, this time he didn’t.

  For the first time in my life, I felt the full effect of being a single parent. An exhaustion I hadn’t experienced since Emilia was born hovered around the edges of my vision, blurring reality and making my movements seem thick and gummy. I couldn’t concentrate, I didn’t shower. And later, when I felt the first bit of queasy unease ripple through my own stomach and my parents still weren’t home, I cursed my ex-husband.

  Emilia was well on the mend by the time my parents returned, leaving me the only sick person in the house. My mom walked through the door, took one look at me, and sent me to bed along with one of the glasses of flat ginger ale I’d been coaxing Emilia to drink all weekend. I slept for a good twelve hours straight, a deep and sweaty sleep where I dreamed I was stuck in a windowless room with a door that would shrink every time I tried to go through it.

  Now, it’s my first day out of bed and I’m ravenous. My mom brought over a fresh batch of her homemade chicken noodle soup sometime during night, and I know I’ve kicked the flu because I’m craving it before my head even leaves the pillow. I shuffle my way into the guest house’s tiny kitchen, pour a bowl, and sip on a glass of ginger ale while waiting for the microwave to do its thing. When I plunge my spoon into the thick noodles and swallow my first bite, I moan. It tastes amazing, although it’s not something I usually indulge in because of the carbs. (That shit will go straight to your thighs.) But as I’ve probably dropped more than a few pounds over the course of the last four days, I’m willing to risk it. I continue to shovel in bite after bite while sitting at my small kitchen table and checking my phone for messages. There are a few from people I could care less about, none from Victoria (not that I’m shocked), and one from Braden (of which I am shocked to see) apologizing for his cousin’s behavior. Seems even he knows Trevor’s a douche. Again, I wonder what Victoria sees in that guy. And then, remembering my past, realize we can all be a little blinded when it comes to love. Or, at the very least, lust.

  I’m still not sure if what Julian and I had was love or lust. It couldn’t have been love. Otherwise we’d still be together, right?

  And with this question on my mind, I do something I haven’t done in years.

  I google my ex-husband.

  Maybe it’s the dehydration. Or the fact that I’ve been shut away from the world for close to a week and reality seems so far away it can’t possibly hurt me. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I acted like a real honest to goodness mother to my daughter. Our daughter.

  Whatever the reason, when the first image of him pops up on my screen, my breath catches. I haven’t looked at a photo of him in ages. Granted, I see Emilia’s face every day. And while she has my trademark blue eyes, the rest of her is all him – the bridge of her forehead, the slope of her nose, the shape of her chin.

  Sometimes, when she catches me off guard, seeing her is like a punch to the gut.

  When I discovered I was pregnant, he tried to tell me she wasn’t his. That I was just a slut who slept around and he had no intention of raising someone else’s child. Of course, even he knew that wasn’t true; the way the muscle in his jaw twitched revealed the lie in his accusation. Julian knew how enamored, how very devoted, I was to him. He just didn’t want kids. Period. He threatened a paternity test after delivery, and I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt like I was going insane. When I readily agreed to it, he stormed out of the house and I didn’t see him for a week.

  Intent on torturing myself, I scroll through the images, occasionally clicking on and skimming one of the articles gushing over his remarkable talent. Apparently, he hasn’t slowed down since we split; he’s pumping out new pieces right and left. A few blog posts briefly mention me, and I’m surprised to see I’m still on their radar. Then again, I am part of his past. I made him what he is.

  He looks older, of course, but age has only added to his appeal. The maturity reflects in his eyes, the gray that’s just beginning to feather in around his temples. More recent shots show his beard neat and trimmed whereas years ago he wore it full and wild. I notice he’s also started wearing glasses; back when we were married he always wore contacts. Judging by the photos, it appears a trail of women paraded in and out of his life over the years – blondes, mostly. But the most recent one, a dancer with the Joffrey Ballet, has been with him for just under a year. Her name is Alyona Smirnov, and the bitch looks a little like me – minus a few years. According to several websites, she has a brilliant career as a principle dancer with the company; there are almost as many photos of her splashed over the internet as Julian. A more recent article mentioned she hasn’t been taking on as many roles as she once did and speculates it’s due to her choosing to spend more time with her “true love.”

  I bet it is.

  Julian is still gorgeous. Handsome in a raw, rugged way. I can still see the devil in his eyes, read the arrogant sneer behind his megawatt smile. His life hasn’t stalled because we divorced. Not like mine has. Not like I let it. He’s moving on, still successful and, from the way it looks, becoming more so by the day.

  But me? I’m washing away into nothingness. A forgotten blip in his radar.

  I am beautiful.

  And I am…

  I am…

  I…

  …

  I am nothing.

  I’m sitting in The Lyon’s Den Café, a Jimmy Choo heel dangling from one foot and on my second week of job hunting when my phone beeps with a text from Victoria. It’s been three weeks since The Incident, and this is the first time she’s contacted me.

  Bitch. That’s it.

  Cunt I type back, one-upping her.

  Drinks this weekend?

  Fine, I reply. Ike’s. I don’t ask, I tell.

  She’s quick to respond. Duh.

  And just like that, we’r
e friends again. This is how it always goes. She gets mad at me for a couple weeks, then comes crawling back because I’m the cat’s meow and being seen with me enhances her image times a hundred.

  We have a love-hate relationship.

  I drop my phone on the table, turn my attention back to my laptop, and scowl. The responses from the job postings I’ve applied to have been wretched, at best. Most flat out rejected my resume, forwarding back some generic email claiming I wasn’t an appropriate fit for their company but they wished me the best of luck on my continued job search. Blah, blah, blah and fuck off, basically. The most recent response I clicked on this morning was pretty much the same – although this place added salt into the wound by suggesting I check out their ad for receptionist.

  Um, yeah. No thanks.

  I sigh and shut my lap top. Sip my chai tea and discreetly study the other patrons. Assess their attire, their ages, their potential careers… They all seem busy, noses nearly pressed to their phones or shoulders hunched over laptops, typing away like the survival of mankind depends on their work.

  I hate them. I hate them because they have success – or, at least, a success they’re working toward – and I don’t.

  Okay. Maybe I set my goals too high. Then again, I went to college. I have a degree. A four-year Bachelor’s from a highly respected school. I shouldn’t have to debase myself by accepting a demeaning entry level position that some uneducated schmuck could do. Granted, I haven’t exactly worked anywhere since… Well, since…

  Okay. So it’s been more than a few years since I’ve actually had a job. And my resume just might be a tiny bit weak.