The Change Room

by Karen Connelly

The Change Room

  THE TALL GUY WITH THE GOATEE STARTED IT. VAS-Y, Shar thought, smiling underwater as he began to match her, stroke for stroke. Go for it, buddy. He was in the lane right next to hers and worked hard to pull in front. He was a big splasher; she pulled to the far side of her lane to avoid his turbulence.

  She let him go but stayed right there at his feet. Goatee was one of the tall fit guys. True: they could swim faster than her. In the short run. She took in a deep gulp of air and pushed forward, so he could feel her there and see her when he flip-turned in the deep end of the pool.

  They swam like that for three lengths, then four, her forward stroke hand sometimes in line with his feet, sometimes reaching up to his waist. He thought she was trying to catch up with him. She wasn’t. She was just tiring him out. The tall ones were fast swimmers but they didn’t have her endurance. She knew she would pass him at the next flip-turn, and she did. Au revoir! She pushed away from the pool wall and glanced under her arm before breaching the surface. The tall guy had stopped in the deep end, ostensibly stretching his legs underwater, but Shar knew better. She had beaten him at his own race.

  It wasn’t the first time.

  She kept swimming fast lengths now, her shoulders and lungs burning. It was strange to think of how afraid she’d been of water for a while. The year right after Marseilles had been the worst, back in Vancouver. More than water, she was terrified of boats. She couldn’t approach a dock or marina without having a panic attack or a crying jag. So she had started to practise, often in the company of Emma, a lesbian friend from the queer support group on campus. She told Emma that as a child she’d been stuck in the hold of a sailboat during a bad storm; it had left her with a phobia she was determined to resolve. Every week they went down to the False Creek Marina, and slowly moved a little closer, until Shar could walk down the dock and step onto Emma’s family boat. It took another six months before she could drink a cup of tea in the galley. More than a year later, Shar boarded a twenty-four-foot sailboat to accompany Benoît on a day trip up the Georgia Strait.

  She finished her last length and, not even glancing at the guy with the goatee, pulled herself out of the water and walked into the change room.

  —

  When she came away from the showers, the fat goddess lady was putting on her makeup. Janet was still there, too, rubbing her long wet hair with a towel. Because Janet was friends with Eliza, Shar was always careful to keep conversation with her to a minimum. If Janet and Eliza were both in the change room, Shar might engage in some polite chit-chat, but that was all.

  Coming up behind the goddess lady, Shar met her eyes in the mirror and recognized the complicity in her little smile. At least she hoped that’s what it was. Shar smiled back, grabbed her towel and briskly rubbed herself down. The woman said, “Good swim? You’re still breathing hard!”

  “Yes. I was racing that tall guy.”

  “Did you beat him?” Her voice was full of innuendo.

  “Not exactly. But I outlasted him.”

  “Honey, I am sure you did!” She brayed loudly. “You are such a good swimmer. Have you seen this woman swim, Janet?”

  Janet pulled up her light cotton pants and murmured, “I have.” She did not sound impressed.

  The goddess lady went on. “Eliza told me that you used to swim competitively?”

  Shar nodded. “When I was a kid. I quit when I was about fourteen.” She was putting on her bra. “Didn’t like the bossy coaches. Still love swimming though.” She put one leg then the other into her jeans and yanked them up. The sooner she got out of the change room, the better.

  In a sugary, knowing voice, the woman went on, “Where is Eliza these days? She hasn’t come swimming forever.”

  Hoping Janet would respond, Shar pulled her T-shirt over her head. But Janet said nothing. Shar tucked in her shirt, fastened the button on her jeans and glanced up again. Both women appeared to be waiting for her to answer.

  Shar blinked at them, all innocence. “Maybe she’s not feeling well?”

  Without missing a beat, the goddess lady said, “I bet she has spring fever, ha-ha-ha!”

  Janet didn’t laugh; Shar bent down to pull on her socks, her boots. When she stood back up, Janet was walking out of the change room. She did not say goodbye.

  —

  A few minutes later, Shar, too, walked out into the warm May air. Spring fever. Why did the woman have to be so obvious? She strode across the newly green park toward Dupont Street; she had a lecture at the Institute at ten and had to hurry. Eliza definitely did not have spring fever. She had the diametrical opposite, the chill of the chastised spouse.

  Shar was glad that Eliza had told Andrew. Of course she was. But Eliza had done it in the worst possible way, without any forethought or planning. Shar shook her head and muttered aloud, “Right after sex, too. Mon Dieu. Civilians.” Yet she realized that the only way Eliza could have told her husband the truth was exactly the way she had done it: accidentally.

  “Yes. Yes!” Shar muttered. “I’m glad she told him.” And she was. But she was also grumpy. She hadn’t seen Eliza for six weeks. They had spoken several times on the phone; Eliza had emailed her a few times, explaining that she and Andrew were talking about their relationship, what the affair meant to their marriage, et cetera, et cetera, all the right and necessary conversations. Shar emailed back messages of support and affection. She knew that these heart-to-hearts would probably lead to the end: not of the marriage, but of her relationship with Eliza.

  She stopped for a red light; the cars began rushing past and she stepped back from the curb. It wasn’t so difficult to retreat to her usual position of non-attachment. She wasn’t in love. She was not. But she loved having sex with her. They were an excellent fit. Eliza wanted sex to turn her inside out; turning a lover inside out was Shar’s specialty. And Eliza could flip the energy around and take control.

  The light turned green; she hurried across the street, thinking of something Benoît had said on the phone the night before. Shar had been trying to explain why she was so attracted to Eliza. Benoît asked how much the attraction arose from the fact that Eliza was married to a man.

  “Why would that make her more attractive?”

  “She is more forbidden to you.”

  “Come on, I’m used to the forbidden. A married woman hardly strikes me as a forbidden lover. I’ve been a queer sex-worker for most of my adult life, remember?”

  “But you’re anxious about becoming a therapist. You’ve been worried about it for years. Maybe Eliza is some kind of substitute for the clients you’ve already said goodbye to?”

  “What an astute question. You should be the psychologist.”

  “I’m learning at the feet of a master,” he said. “Er, mistress. It’s just a thought. Do you still have your Toronto clients?”

  “Just one. And he is very occasional. Every six weeks. Then one in Ottawa.”

  “You mean, besides me?”

  “Okay, two in Ottawa as well. Sorry, I don’t count you as a client anymore.” She had already asked him this, but wanted to hear him say it again. “And you will refuse my resignation, isn’t that so?”

  “Indeed I will. Please do not resign from the company. We need French-English translators more than ever now.” He was joking; though he paid her every month, she had never worked as a translator.

  They were quiet for a moment, thinking about their long unorthodox relationship. Shar said, “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s perfect.”

  “You’ve become sentimental.”

  “Of course. I’m a grandfather, it’s natural. So…what will you do about Eliza?”

  “Meet her husband. I hope, anyway. I suggested she invite me to dinner.”

  Benoît laughed. “Shar! You are too much.”

  “That’s the most civilized way to manage an affair, isn’t it? Meet the husband.”

  “Aïe aïe aïe! I’m glad you never told me that you wanted to meet
my wife.” Benoît was still married to his first and only wife.

  “That’s because you and I never had an affair.”

  “Ah, I see. That’s the beauty of a professional relationship. Everything is so clear.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed.

  —

  She arrived at the Klippert Institute for Sexual Therapy and Research and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the four-storey brick building. Since the last year of her undergrad degree, she had known that she would come to study here. Now she was almost finished her one-year postgrad program. At the beginning of June, she would begin a full-time counselling practicum at a queer-focused sexual health clinic downtown. She had already visited the clinic, met the counsellors, the nurses, the consulting doctors. Because of her master’s work—on sex workers and client intimacy—and her queer orientation, the Institute director had recommended her specifically for the summer practicum. The pay would be low, but if they offered her a full-time position and salary in the fall, she would accept it. And she would tell her last two clients that she was retiring.

  Her stomach clutched at the thought. Don’t be afraid, she said to herself. It’s just a new life. She pulled open the glass door and walked inside.

  36

  The Good News

  ELIZA SAT ON THE FLOOR BESIDE THE SOFA, PLUCKED the remote off Andrew’s chest and killed the TV.

  He rubbed his face with his hands and groaned. “Couldn’t it be brunch?”

  “No.”

  “Not enough time has passed.”

  “We’ve been talking about it for two months.”

  “Is that all? It feels like an eternity.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Eliza. I think I’m too old for this.” He addressed the ceiling first, incredulously. “What has my life become?” And then stared down his supine body at his wife: “She wants to meet me?”

  “Of course. We’ve talked about it. Several times.”

  “Can we do it another weekend?”

  “You know how my weekends are from now on. Even for the weddings that Kiki manages, I still have to be available in case of unforeseen disaster. Too many people are getting married.”

  “Fucking idiots.”

  “Andrew!”

  “Brave souls, I meant. Just a slip of the tongue.” He shook his head. “If Shar really cares about our relationship, why doesn’t she babysit the boys while you and I go out for dinner?” They both laughed.

  When the laughter petered out, he added, “I’m kidding.”

  “I know.”

  The boys sat in the back seat, uncha­racte­risti­cally silent and well-behaved. Andrew glanced at them in the rear-view mirror. At least Jake was no longer sniffling; he’d cried when they left Eliza behind at the house. Marcus, whom he could see in the mirror, slumped on the back seat and stared out the window like a sad orphan.

  Andrew didn’t blame them for being out of sorts; though he and Eliza had never once argued in front of them about the affair, he knew the boys could feel the ground shifting beneath their small feet. Both of them had become clingy, especially Jake. He didn’t want to let Eliza out of his sight. This trip away from her, on a Saturday morning, was especially unwelcome.

  “Boys! Come on! Grandma and Grandpa are excited that you’re coming to spend the night. They’ve got a new movie and everything.”

  Marcus said, “We’ve probably already seen it.”

  “No, it’s still out in the theatre. Someone gave them a special copy. And…” He had raised his voice too high, so the manufactured excitement sounded fake even to him. “Grandma’s made her fudge and ice-cream cake!”

  Jake immediately rejoined, “But Mom’s been working on her special cake forever! And you guys are going to eat it all without us!” Marcus merely shrugged, and turned his head to the window again.

  Andrew deepened his voice to announce, “I solemnly promise to save my sons a piece of that cake. Okay? I bet your mom planned to do that anyway. She loves it when you guys eat her special treats.”

  Jake was not going to let it go. “Then why are you sending us away?”

  “Jacob, it’s just this afternoon and one night. I’m coming to get you again tomorrow.”

  Marcus caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. “But what if you don’t come to get us?”

  “Of course I’ll come, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Maybe something will happen. Maybe you’ll…die. Like Mom’s dad. The grandpa we never met.”

  Andrew gripped the steering wheel more tightly, trying not to let any anger seep into his voice. This was her fault. She’d caused all this fear and anxiety. He took a deep breath. “That’s very unlikely. Your other grandpa died in a car accident because the roads were really bad. Covered in ice. But look at this beautiful day! The sky is blue, summer is almost here. Plus, I’m an excellent driver.”

  Marcus said, “But what if you’re so mad at Mom that you get divorced?”

  Andrew burst out laughing, from the shock of the words or the unexpected relief of hearing them spoken. When had the boys heard him sounding angry? For the last two months? At the moment, he didn’t feel angry at all, just knocked open, winded by his love for his children. “I’ve told you guys, and Mom has told you, that we’ve been going through a hard time. That doesn’t mean we’re going to get divorced. We still love each other and we love both of you. Don’t be afraid of losing us when we get mad at each other.”

  Jake said, “But Mom’s not mad. You’re mad.”

  Andrew gave a thoughtful half nod. “The good news is, I’m not mad anymore.” He smiled. “That’s why we’re having a little dinner together.”

  Jake asked, “So you’re going to make up and be friends again?”

  “We’ve already made up.” He glanced into the mirror. “Did you hear that, Marcus?”

  “Yeah. Does that mean we can come home with you after visiting Grandma and Grandpa?”

  Before Andrew could answer, his phone began to ring on the seat beside him. He popped the microphone bud in his ear, swiped the screen with his fingertip and said, “Hello! What are you doing here?”

  —

  While smearing mustard paste onto the meat, Eliza realized that herb-encrusted rack of lamb was the wrong dish. How could she have forgotten? They’d eaten the same thing the night that Marcus had almost been hit by a car.

  She inhaled the heady aroma of Dijon and rosemary, not sure whether to keep going or to wash her hands and think up another meal. Besides a brown-rice pilaf, the side dishes were dandelion greens and a beet salad with feta and roasted pine nuts. Some warmed olives and roasted cherry tomatoes with basil on the table as a starter. It was a simple, delicious menu, nothing fussy.

  But the tidy criss-cross of bones beneath her hands seemed like a bad omen. What else could she make? Pasta? Eliza had never cooked for her lover before. Cod? Wild salmon? She didn’t want to run out at four o’clock and battle the weekend hordes at the market. And she couldn’t. She didn’t have time now to go shopping, clean up the kitchen, take a shower and fulfill her promise to Andrew: that they would have a preparatory drink together, just the two of them. Husband and wife would sit in the living room before their guest arrived at seven. It will be civilized and enjoyable, she thought, as something eel-like twisted in her stomach, then began to slowly snake up her throat.

  She thought of popping a Gravol for her nausea. But that might make her sleepy. Did a fine French red mix with Gravol? She’d researched the wine, read all the reviews and written down the name of it for Andrew; he would stop at the liquor store on his way home. Another reason why it was too late to switch to fish. She crushed more rosemary between her fingers, releasing its brisk, medicinal scent. “It will be fine,” she said to the meat under her fingers, and sprinkled on the extra rosemary. Every bone seemed to point at her. She flipped the rack over and continued sprinkling. “You will be delicious,” she intoned in a fortune teller’s voice. “We’ll be happy to eat you. Thank you for joining us.” The lamb th
ey’d eaten with Bruce and Corinne had come out of the freezer, but this one was fresh. She picked it up yesterday on her way home from work.

  An hour later, just as she was beginning to get anxious about where he was, Andrew came in humming, loose-limbed, as though he’d spent the afternoon in the sun instead of in the car. Eliza said, “What? You brought me flowers?” He was carrying a bouquet of not-bad corner-store gerberas and a full tote bag from the liquor store.

  “I would bring you flowers every day if you didn’t work in a flower shop. So, the boys were grumpy on the way out there, but we had a good talk. And my parents have been preparing for days. My mom likes to keep up that Miss Manners thing around us, but Marcus and Jake have her number. She’d do anything for them. You should have seen the baking!” He put the flowers down on the island. “She’s going to take them on a little horseback ride tomorrow at the crack of dawn. They barely waved goodbye to me.” He turned away to put the bottles down and hang the tote in the broom closet. “And I got your fancy wine, wife.”

  “Thank you,” she said, noticing that he had not once met her eye. “I know your parents love the boys, honey. We should go see them more often.” She gestured to the rack of lamb, the greens, the beets, peeled and draining on the counter. “Everything’s ready to go. The cake turned out beautifully.” He slipped past her, fleet-footed. From that faint air of escape about him, she knew that something had to be up with his family. Maybe Corinne had asked for more money. “Andrew…why are you being weird? What’s going on?”

  He had already made it to the living room. “This is a surprise, I know. And I’m sorry. But it can’t be helped.”

  Her voice was flat. “What?”

  “At least we have plenty of food. And last time, I said that when he was in town again, he would come—”

  “No!”

  “—to dinner and see the boys and—”

  “Martin is not invited to this dinner. No! He’s not coming.”

  Andrew was at the end of the hallway, about to round the corner and disappear upstairs. Instead, he lifted his hands in that faux-helpless gesture: What else could I do? “He called me from Ottawa.”