Divorce Is Murder

by Elka Ray

  Moving so fast I didn’t see it coming, Tonya pulled down my swim bottoms and jumped, leaving me on full display. Skinny, bone white, nearly hairless.

  Shock and humiliation took my breath away. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. I couldn’t save myself, as frozen as an ice sculpture.

  The sound of laughter snapped me out of my trance. “I told you she’s eight years old!” cried Tonya. Another shriek of mean laughter. “Helloooo, puberty?”

  I collapsed into the lake.

  “Clean up in aisle three,” says a loud metallic voice. “We need a cleanup in aisle three, please.”

  Without thinking, I glance down, relieved to see fitted black pants and a crisp cotton shirt instead of slack spandex. I exhale. Why, after all those years, can that memory still make my cheeks burn? It shouldn’t matter. And compared to what Tonya did later, that morning in the lake was nothing. And yet . . . I feel nauseous just thinking about it.

  Glancing back, I see Chantelle watching me through narrowed eyes. Oh no. She’s recognized me. “Huh. I don’t believe it!” Beneath bleached floppy bangs, she makes a sour face. “Toby Parsons?”

  I swallow hard. Parsons is my dad’s surname. I had it legally changed to my mom’s maiden name when I turned nineteen. Since he left us, I didn’t want to be saddled with his name. “It’s Toby Wong now,” I say. “But yes, it’s me.” I fight the urge to drop my shopping basket and run. “How’s it going, Chantelle?”

  She looks me up and down. “You look the same.”

  I know this isn’t a compliment but pretend to smile. “Thanks.” Nobody could say the same for her. Back at camp, she was tall but thin, with straggly brown hair and bad highlights. She’s now five-ten and solid, with thick, muscly limbs and no waist, like a former weight-lifter gone to seed, her hair flat in front and shaved in back. Her neck has gotten thick. Unchanged are her calculating blue eyes and square chin, plus her horsy teeth, now framed by too bright lipstick. She’s also the same odd orangey color I remember so well— both she and Tonya were addicted to fake tanner.

  “Toby Wong?” she says. Her eyebrows—much too dark for her fried blonde hair—knit together. She’s obviously trying to figure out where she’s heard that name before. Then she gets it. Her scarlet lips fall open. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh.” She wrinkles her big nose like I smell. “Did Josh actually hire you?”

  “He did.” I wonder how she knew. Have she and Josh stayed in touch? Or is she still friends with Tonya?

  Chantelle snorts. “I don’t believe it!”

  The line moves slowly. I shuffle forward. I’m only buying tampons, a Caramilk bar, and a box of Cheerios, but the express line looked even crazier than this one.

  “Why’d he hire you?” asks Chantelle. The woman who’s standing between us, an older lady reading the National Enquirer, peers over her bifocals with a curious look on her face.

  “I don’t know,” I admit, then can’t help adding: “Why do you care?”

  “Tonya’s my best friend,” says Chantelle in a wounded voice, like it’s totally obvious. Or maybe it is—they were thick as thieves back at camp, after all.

  The woman between us folds up her tabloid. I guess we’re more entertaining.

  “D’you know where Tonya’s gone?” I ask Chantelle, and her mouth tightens. She studies the candy display, some rows of worried Ws etched into her forehead. Is she anxious for her friend? I think of Josh’s nonchalance this morning, his assertion that Tonya’s fine, just off partying someplace. As her best friend, wouldn’t Chantelle know? Is there more to the story?

  Chantelle flicks her bangs out of her eyes. “Why don’t you ask Josh?” she says, her voice rising in pitch. “Ask him why Tonya would feel the need to get away, why she’d had it up to here”—she chops at her throat—“with this place.” She tosses her head, causing her dangly earrings to jangle. “Ask him about all those nights he left his wife alone and went fishing with Alana Mapplebee.” The word “fishing” is accompanied by the same gesture of ironic quotation marks I saw Josh use earlier today, no doubt a mannerism adopted from Tonya. “If she went back to L.A., who could blame her?” says Chantelle.

  I keep quiet. I shouldn’t be discussing any of this with Chantelle Orker—or anyone else. Josh is my client. Was he lying when he claimed he’d been faithful? When I don’t respond to Chantelle, she bares her teeth at me. She looks like an enraged palomino mule that might charge: all teeth, mane, and muscles.

  I face forward and dig my iPhone out of my purse. I try to read the news but can’t concentrate, too aware of Chantelle’s hostile presence behind me. I put the phone away.

  As well as being alarmingly old and slow, the man in front of me seems to be stocking up for Armageddon. There are so many cans in his cart it’s a wonder it hasn’t buckled. Behind me, Chantelle continues to rant. I’m still trying to figure out where I’ve heard the name Alana Mapplebee.

  Finally, it’s my turn at the till. I hand over my basket. The cashier has trouble reading the barcode on the tampons and has to call for a price check. When I look back, Chantelle is still glaring at me. The old lady with the National Enquirer is giving me a dirty look too. Some people just hate lawyers. I’ve grabbed my bag and am turning to go when Chantelle calls out: “Toby! You think you know Josh. He’s so handsome and charming, so successful.” She wags an orange finger my way. “But you have no idea! None! That’s how sociopaths operate.” Her voice is a hiss. “They suck you in and suck you dry!”

  Supermarkets are always cold, and yet again, I left my jacket in the car. But it’s not the temperature in here that makes me shiver. It’s the bitterness in Chantelle’s small eyes. If Tonya’s best friend hates Josh that much, imagine how Tonya must feel. As a kid, she was a bad enemy to have. In this divorce, there’s no way she’ll fight fair. Am I really up to opposing Tonya?

  It’s almost dark as I walk to my car, the parking lot still full of vehicles but with few people about. High overhead, the lights shine dull orange. The wind is up. A white plastic bag swept up from behind a parked van swoops into my path. I jump, then feel ridiculous. It’s just a bag! But meeting Chantelle has left me shaky. As I unlock my car I think of Quinn’s advice not to take Josh on as a client. Was she right? Or is it high time I faced all of this?

  I’m about to pull out of my parking slot when a blue truck cuts me off, forcing me to slam on the brakes. My seatbelt digs into my neck. I catch a glimpse of Chantelle at the truck’s wheel, that snarl still on her face.

  My heart pounds. For a moment, I just stay where I am, composing myself. My hands feel sweaty on the wheel.

  If seeing Chantelle has affected me this badly, how will I feel when I meet Tonya? I hate that her bullying left such deep marks. I’m better than this, stronger than this, smarter than this. I know all of this. So why can’t I feel it?

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  IN THE CARDS

  My mom’s door, which is usually open, is locked. After ringing the bell, I survey her brightly spotted lawn. No doubt to her neighbors’ chagrin, my mother thinks dandelions look “cheerful.” I push the bell again, unable to suppress a ripple of worry. Why isn’t she answering? Then I hear her yelling for me to hold my horses, she’s coming.

  Seeing me, my mom smiles. “Toby!” she exclaims, as though my arrival is a huge surprise instead of something we confirmed yesterday. “I was just out back, cutting parsley for the potatoes.” She steps forward and hugs me. I’m still wearing my lawyering clothes: black heels, a black pantsuit, and a pink cotton blouse. I remove my jacket.

  “I thought we could eat on the deck,” says my mom, as I follow her into the small kitchen. “It’s so rare that it’s warm enough.” Most evenings, even in the summer, a cold wind whips in from the ocean, which lies about two blocks away. But tonight, the air is still enough to feel humid.

  While my mom mixes the salad dressing I surreptitiously watch her. Before my dad left, my mother worked part-time as an accountan
t and dressed in pastel sweaters and ballet flats. She was the ultimate Asian tiger mother, driving me to endless tennis, violin, and French lessons, all of which stopped when my orthodontist dad took up with a shapely red-haired dental hygienist. The way some traumatized people find God, my mom found New Age mumbo jumbo. Yoga and astrology were her entry drugs, followed by reiki, color therapy, and aura repair. Her closet filled with gypsy skirts and our house could have passed for a crystal shop. All the energy she’d put into being the perfect wife went into chanting and balancing her chakras. Worst of all, she began dabbling in the occult— tarot, numerology, palmistry. She even had a real crystal ball. It was mortifying.

  Thankfully, she ditched the worst of the gypsy garb years ago, but to my never-ending embarrassment, has spent the past nineteen years earning her living as a fortune teller. Even after all this time, I have trouble telling people. I look around her cramped kitchen. “Can I help?” I ask.

  “You can whip the cream for dessert,” says my mom. “There’s a box in the fridge.” She hands me the electric mixer. “Don’t overdo it this time.” I nod. I make great butter.

  My mom’s hair, which fell out from all the chemo, is growing back in again. It used to be pure black but is now the color of a thundercloud. Both the color and the short style suit her. “I like your hair this way,” I say, as I pull the cream from the fridge. I can’t stop myself from asking how she’s feeling.

  “I feel good!” She opens the lid of a big pot and the smell of steaming corn pours out. I look around the kitchen, every detail familiar, from the checked curtains to the open-mouthed ceramic frog that holds the scouring pads. As I whip the cream, I wonder how many hours of my childhood were spent staring at that stupid frog while washing my mom’s mismatched dishes.

  Before my mom got sick I used to feel trapped in this house, as though time never moved. But since my mom’s illness, that feeling of being stuck in the past has been replaced by something scarier still— the fear that my mom, her home, and our future together could vanish as fast as her hair had fallen out.

  I set the whipped cream back into the fridge and the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I say, glad of the distraction. “It must be Quinnie.” Since I moved back to Victoria, Friday night dinners at my mom’s have become a ritual for the three of us, as Quinn’s husband, Bruce, who’s a cop, works the late shift.

  “Hey,” says Quinn, when I pull back the screen door. “Can you believe how hot it is?” Despite her light summer dress, she looks redcheeked and flustered. I take the bowl of blueberries she’s holding and lead her into the kitchen.

  “Perfect timing,” says my mother. She stands on tiptoes to peck Quinn on the cheek. “I hope you’re both hungry.”

  My mom has made grilled snapper, baked potatoes, green beans, steamed corn, and a tomato salad. “Ivy, it all looks amazing,” says Quinn.

  Armed with plates, cutlery, and bowls, we follow my mother onto the back porch. High overhead, a floatplane putters by. I inhale the familiar summer smells: freshly cut grass, petunias, gas from the neighbor’s barbecue. It’s a perfect evening, the tsk-tsk-tsk of the sprinkler taking me back to my childhood. I imagine Quinn and me in our underwear, running through the sprinkler.

  My mom lights some candles and takes a seat. Quinn maneuvers her belly under the table. I offer to fetch her an extra pillow and she thanks me.

  Quinn and my mom chat about pregnancy, the aches and pains, the indignity of it all. Since it’s a topic I know nothing about, I stay quiet and count the weeks since I moved back to the island. I know my mom feels guilty about my return, like I gave up some perfect life just because she got cancer. I think about Josh and how weird it is to see him again after all these years. And then Chantelle Orker. But Victoria is pretty small. Sooner or later, I’ll run into loads of people I knew from school or camp or gymnastics classes. I couldn’t wait to get away from most of them and haven’t kept in touch with anyone besides Quinn.

  Thoughts of people I haven’t missed lead to thoughts of Tonya, and how much I dread meeting her. Seeing Chantelle was bad enough. I know it’s childish but I can’t help but hope that Tonya stays missing—or moves back to L.A., pronto.

  Staring at my half-finished dinner, I am back at Camp Wik-wakee, the boys and girls on the old dock late at night, sitting crosslegged in a squashed circle. Overhead, the stars were bright but we didn’t notice them, all eyes fixed on an empty vodka bottle, which Josh had set to spinning on the dock between us.

  I blinked. The more times the bottle spun, the dizzier I felt. Each time it came my way I prayed it would stop. Stop! Stop! Pretty please with sugar on top! When it passed me I willed it to slide on. Go! Go! Go! My eyes hurt from staring at it.

  It went slower and slower until it was almost pointing my way. My heart leapt. Yesssss! And then it rolled on, a little to the left, the wooden boards of the dock just warped enough to prevent it from settling. I held my breath. Please let it be me.

  “Whoa! Nice one!” I heard various male voices making comments. All of them sounded jealous.

  I looked up at Josh only to wish I hadn’t. He wasn’t looking at me but at Tonya—the mouth of the bottle aimed right at her crotch, which was showcased in a pair of pink shorts so tight it’s a wonder she hadn’t lost her labia to gangrene.

  She smiled, first at Josh and then at me, a pointed, victorious sneer, punctuated by a mean giggle. Josh’s face, meanwhile, was inscrutable, or maybe I was just telling myself he didn’t look pleased. All the other guys looked like they’d kill to take his place.

  Tonya reached for Josh’s hand and led him down the dock, into the dark, her ass glowing like a nightlight in her microscopic pink shorts. Josh’s brother, Mike, kicked out at the empty bottle, sending it skidding across the dock. “This game is stupid,” he said, radiating jealousy like black smoke off a burning tire. The look-alike jocks, Brett and Brock, nodded in sullen unison. I guessed they were also hoping to wind up with Tonya. Pretty soon all the guys were checking their watches. Cries of “Get a room!” started up.

  Disappointment filled my belly. I bit my lip, bit down my self-pity. I told myself it was only for a few minutes. But I knew it wasn’t. Josh was gone, led away—and astray—by the camp’s queen bee. Faced with what she could give him, our kiss in the woods meant nothing to Josh. Nor did our subsequent walks and shy handholding, our whispered conversations, the time he held me behind the boathouse . . . I hung my head. I’d never felt such betrayal. Was this love? Every breath hurt.

  “I’m outta here,” muttered Mike, already staggering to his feet. I wanted to run away too, to be anywhere but sitting here, pretending to be okay. Was my agony visible?

  Way off in the dark, I could see Josh and Tonya, a single silhouette against the inky lake. My eyes went blurry. I’d never stood a chance. Why was I stupid enough to get my hopes up?

  I rub my eyes. “Toby?” says my mom.

  She obviously just asked me something. “I, ah, sorry . . .” I say.

  She lowers her fork. “I asked if you’ve met anyone yet,” she says, brightly.

  I try not to groan out loud. She asks this question every week. “This is Victoria, Mom,” I say. “All of the guys are either in university or in Depends. They don’t call this the town of the newly wed or nearly dead for nothing.” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. I shouldn’t be joking about death with my mother. I swig some wine, as if to dislodge the foot that’s stuck in my mouth.

  “Well, it’s not like you met an army of eligible men in Toronto either,” says Quinn matter-of-factly.

  “Geez, thanks Quinn.”

  My best friend laughs. I down the rest of my wine and reach for the bottle.

  “I’m glad you didn’t marry young like me,” says my mother. “But you’re in your mid-thirties, sweetie.”

  Thirty-three-and-a-half is early thirties. But I don’t bother correcting her. “I know, Mom,” I say, more defensively than I planned. “Don’t make it sound like I’m not interested in hav
ing a relationship.”

  “If you’re so interested why haven’t you been on a date in what, three years?” asks Quinn. I glare at her. How dare she gang up on me with my mother?

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Not as busy as Quinn,” says my mom. She laughs and pats Quinn’s massive belly.

  After we’ve eaten the blueberries and cream and cleared the table, I volunteer to do the dishes. Given that my mom cooked and Quinn’s heavily pregnant, there’s no way to avoid this chore. My mom’s dishwasher broke about a decade ago, and since she lives alone, it never seemed worth getting a new one.

  I’m elbow-deep in sudsy water when I hear Quinn ask my mom if she could do a reading for her. It’s mind-boggling how Quinn, who’s a scientist and the most down-to-earth person I know, could have any time for my mom’s delusions of clairvoyance. And yet not only does she love getting her cards read, but she’s perfectly happy to tell everyone about these sessions. Some of her colleagues—also scientists—are my mother’s clients. This just goes to show that even smart, rational people aren’t immune to New Age bullshit.

  I’m scrubbing the last pan when Quinn pops her head into the kitchen. She looks flushed and excited. “I had the best reading ever,” she says. “My destiny was The Sun, which signals love, great news, and fulfillment. And my final result was The World, which relates to accomplishment and a wonderful change . . .”

  She goes on like this for some minutes. I grit my teeth. Love? Big changes? Is my mother kidding? Of course Quinn’s life will be full of love and new experiences; she’s about to have her first baby!

  “You should do it,” says Quinn, as I carefully balance the final pan on the dish rack.

  Rather than admit to not listening, I make a noncommittal noise, which Quinn clearly takes for a yes. “Ivy!” she yells at my mom, who’s still in the living room. “Toby wants to do a reading!”

  “Really?” asks my mom, her voice surprised and delighted. She steps into the kitchen. “You want me to look at your cards, sweetie?”