HOW TO MURDER A MARRIAGE Read online

  I must admit, it’s difficult to argue with the facts—everyone in the cabin wearing one of these neck braces is fast asleep. The rest of us, while we may look far cooler, endlessly shift in a futile quest for slumber in our torturously uncomfortable seats. I cringe at the ragged, wheezy breathing of an older gentleman across the aisle. I’m worried he may put himself into cardiac arrest as he labors to blow up a larger such pillow that, when fully inflated, his whole head, chest, and arms disappear into, straightjacket style. I look over at him later and wonder if he may be dead inside there. Who would know?

  Sleep and I have a precarious relationship at the best of times. My circadian rhythm is averse to time clocks. I resign myself to the fact that I’m not going to be catching any z’s on this flight. My daughter drifts off, her head resting against my shoulder, a position I find blissful.

  I boot up my offline MacBook, see a response from Lillian’s husband. Wish I hadn’t.

  Dear Ex-Whisperer,

  No counselors. No divorce. No dating gurus. Watch your back.

  Eyes on you

  Point taken. And no more replies from me.

  * * *

  Twelve hours later, my daughter and I have enjoyed a delicious dinner of chana masala with fresh baked naan and a spicy aloo gobi at a neighborhood Indian restaurant in the East End. We’ve picked up groceries to feed her perpetually starving brothers and unpacked our bags in our charming Airbnb. My three little boys will arrive shortly, and then the festivities and the chaos shall ensue. So exciting. Ella showers and I pour a coffee and squeeze in one last bit of work time before I unplug completely and focus on family time.

  Dear Ex-Whisperer,

  My BF cheated on me three years ago. I forgave him, but he said he couldn’t deal with the guilt, so he broke off with me. I’ve been in therapy ever since, but I just can’t move on. His Insta and Facebook blow up with pics of all the bitches he’s messing with. It makes me killer angry, and I comment on all his posts to let him know how I feel. Like you always say, open communication is super important in a committed love relationship. My therapist says I shouldn’t be on his social media at all, and I swear I was going to unfollow him anyway, even before he took out the restraining order.

  My question to you is, how long should you wait for the love of your life to realize that you are the love of his life? I think I would wait forever but forever is a long time. I need some of your Ex-Whispering expertise.

  Btw you’re awesome, Ex-Whisperer! I have all your Gal Guides books. You’ve been through so much. How do you keep it together and stay so strong? What’s your secret? : )

  Sincerely,

  Prisoner of My Past

  Either my books suck, or Prisoner hasn’t gotten around to actually reading them yet. I’ll choose to believe the latter. My mandate is to always tell the truth. I succeed in varying degrees. I adore my readers, but the batty ones can be a challenge How do I gently tell Prisoner that her ex-boyfriend is a loser, and she is a nut-bar in a delusional one-sided relationship without risking pushing her over some possibly dangerous edge? How do I let her know that in the present moment, at least, I am not the pillar of strength she imagines me to be? A bare-it-all level of honesty is my usual MO. My audience seems to appreciate my candor. It can be too much for some, but those followers disappear quickly.

  I open the large casement window in the living room of our rented flat and lean out of it. It’s dark now, and a patchy fog conceals slick cobblestones on the ancient street below.

  Dear Prisoner,

  True story. This is how I am currently coping with my present circumstances…

  I am standing on a window ledge, ten floors up. I can hear the sounds of the traffic below but can’t bring myself to look down. The Pilates has paid off. My butt and thighs actually fit on the sill, which is probably only twelve inches deep. My fingertips are sore from digging them into the rough lines of mortar between the bricks. It’s all I can find to hold on to. The biting wind is pinning me against the cold blocks, and for now, it’s the only thing keeping curvy me from becoming flattened me.

  My polished toenails curl over the stone ledge. I chose Don’t Ya Wanna Kiss Me pink at my pedicure last week but am now realizing it was a bad call. I almost chose Pretty Prussian Princess blue. I’m thinking that when I jump perhaps this wind is going to propel me through open French doors in the building across the street and blow me into the arms of a Pretty Prussian Prince. The nail polish color would have been an icebreaker, but still, he will whisk me away, and we will live happily ever after.

  Or maybe when the wind dies down and I float off this window ledge, I will land on a trampoline that well-muscled, heroic firefighters have fashioned from freshly pressed bedsheets, and I will bounce off it into the arms of a bare-chested Mr. January, and he will whisk me away, and we will live happily ever after.

  I give my head a shake to rid it of these mindless myths. Charmless princes and non-superheroes have contributed to my landing here on the edge of my world and could land me head over heels on the unforgiving pavers below.

  All at once, a thought that has never before occurred to me in my nearly fifty years comes crashing in on my frazzled mind, and suddenly I get it. Eureka. It’s not about falling in love with the love of my life. It’s about falling in love with my life. I have to fall in love with me. Truly, madly, deeply. I have had an epiphany. I don’t want to die. I look down at the street. There is no trampoline to catch my fall, just worn cobblestones that have seen their share of spilled blood and guts and won’t have a care about the likes of my remains trickling over them and dripping into their putrid sewers. Damn it, how the hell do I get myself off this ledge?

  Affectionately yours,

  The Ex-Whisperer

  I hit Delete.

  Alright, somewhat true, a little embellished. What good story isn’t? Perhaps a bit TMI. Will rewrite.

  Ella yells out, “Mom what are you doing hanging out the window? It’s freezing in here. Can you close it, please? Tea’s ready and The Great British Bake Off is starting.” My impatient daughter has set us up with Scottish shortbread and rosemary, sea salt, and olive oil popcorn, on the couch in front of the TV for the evening while we wait for the boys to arrive.

  Okay, so I wasn’t exactly standing on the ledge ten stories up, but I was leaning pretty far out of our third-floor window, and I was also up on my toes. Technically my entire upper body was outside of the building, and that can be very dangerous. The point is I could have climbed out onto the narrow ledge, and my butt and thighs may have fit on it. I could have chosen to end it all. But I chose life instead. And The Great British Bake Off—I chose that too. It is a strangely calming hour of television. Highly recommend.

  I am inspired. I am determined. I am born again. I know what I need to do now; I need to fall in love with me and create a new life for myself—the life of my dreams. I shall eat chocolate and shortbread to celebrate. The hell with disappointing partners. And to hell with thin thighs.

  I close and lock the window. I hate heights.

  Dear Prisoner,

  The secret to keeping things together is not keeping things together when they (situations and people) are clearly beyond repair. We have to know when to give up the ghost.

  You need to accept the fact that your ex is not the love of your life. How can you know for sure? Because he doesn’t love you. Not because he doesn’t yet know you exist, but because he has been in a relationship with you and cheated on you and ended it and moved on with other partners. He’s also enlisted the legal authorities to make sure you stay out of his life.

  You’re right. Forever is a long time, and that is exactly how long you could spend in jail if you don’t stop futilely trying to keep this long-dead (as in flesh-eating-zombies-stage) relationship going. Forever is also the length of time your current therapist is hoping you will require treatment for. I’d advise that you also dump your therapist and find a new one since, after three years, you’re still hung up on thi
s jerk ex who used your heart for batting practice.

  I don’t care if your ex-boyfriend has redeeming sexual qualities or cute dimples. Remember that he cheated on you? Remember that he made you crazy while you were together and continues to make you crazy while you are apart? Remember that you are a beautiful goddess who deserves a life of love and happiness, and that this wanker is not capable of providing you with either? He’s certainly not worth doing jail time for. Three years is enough of a sentence served. You’re released on parole. Go make yourself happy so that a good man can find you.

  Affectionately yours,

  The Ex-Whisperer

  I hit Post.

  * * *

  My three fabulous sons, Heath, my eldest, and Leon and Miles, my twins, finally arrive to join my daughter and me for a great weekend of food and fun, museums and pubs. In the four-bedroom apartment I have rented, the kids choose to all bunk in one room, dragging mattresses onto the floor and sharing beds. I dearly love that some things never change.

  The five of us speak most days and FaceTime often, but I needed a real live fix right now. I needed to have all my offspring under one roof where I could see and smell and touch them. I am very grateful for this time, and I love these rare chances I get to spoil them.

  In the kitchen on the lower floor of our flat, I prepare vegetarian antipasto, with plates of tomato bruschetta splashed with a balsamic glaze creamy burrata with peach and heirloom tomatoes, sliced melons and mozzarella drizzled with strawberry fig vinaigrette, and set out bowls of spicy marinated olives, huge hunks of salty parmesan and pecorino and a large loaf of crusty bread. As fast as I lay the long trays of food on the long dining table, eight not-so-little hands swipe and devour the offerings. Have to admit, I still derive enormous joy from feeding my babes. Everyone is speaking at once, overtop of everyone else. There is just too much catching up to do. There always is. Regardless of how often we talk on the phone, sharing in person is different. Raucous bursts of laughter drown out the delta blues my eldest has belting from an iPad. I love the sights and sounds and smells of love.

  My computer has been turned off for hours, and I intend to keep it off for the entire weekend. Unfortunately, my phone is not on silent, and I can hear the relentless pings of my ever-growing, overflowing inbox. I open two bottles of Merlot and empty one of them into five goblets. Then, before I take a seat at the table, I make the momentous mistake of discreetly peeking at my emails just in case there is some emergency. You know how it is, the road to hell is paved with checking your emails.

  I see one from Lillian’s husband, and I can’t help myself. I start down that road. Hello, Hell.

  Dear Ex-Whisperer,

  Where the hell is my wife? She didn’t come home last night. She’s gone because you put evil ideas in her head. I know you know where Lillian is, and you’re gonna tell me. Be seeing you soon. Promise.

  Eyes on you

  Chapter Three

  Why did I open the door to this shit show? I’d kick my own ass if I were flexible enough. Does Lillian’s disturbed husband actually think I could or would tell him his wife’s whereabouts? I hope she’s fled to one of the shelters I recommended. I hope to God she doesn’t cave and return home to this menace. Unfortunately, this psychopath is now apparently looking to track me down, too. Another one. I suppose he’ll have to take a number and get in line.

  I’ve ruined for myself this precious evening with my children. I paste on a smile and try to focus on the ten conversations happening at once, which is challenging at the best of times, but at this moment, it’s proving impossible to distract my amygdala. That tiny almond-shaped mass of nuclei has broken the in-case-of-emergency glass and pressed the panic button in my brain. My defenses are down, to begin with. I’ve gone twenty-four hours without sleep, and I’m pretty sure I’m experiencing the onset of full-fledged delirium. I down my glass of Merlot, pour another, and attempt to rationalize, forgetting that alcohol is not exactly known for its rationalizing powers. The kids notice I’m off as they always do.

  Heath is on it. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  All four of them stop talking over one another. The eating comes to an abrupt halt mid-mouthful. They turn to stare at me and through me. Inspecting me for signs of distress. The matriarch is not allowed to falter. Ever.

  “Nothing.” I take another gulp of wine.

  There’s no unringing the alarm bells now. The kids won’t have it.

  “No, really. I’m great.” Forced smile.

  Miles, my scientist, is matter-of-fact as always. “That’s your fake smile, Mom.”

  The accusatory looks fly from all four detectives.

  I lift my wine glass to hide my mouth behind it. “It’s definitely not.” I suck at fake, but I try again for the children’s sake. The fake smile of all fake smiles stretches across my lips. Damn my crummy acting skills.

  The kids laugh, albeit somewhat nervously, at my feeble attempt to fool them. Eight perfect eyebrows are knitted with unease.

  Leon always masks worry with anger. “What the hell Mom? Why are you trying to hide you’re upset? We know you’re not okay.”

  Ella’s eyes are saucers of concern. “What happened, Mom? Just tell us.”

  Heath jumps to the conclusion we all leap to when one of us is out of sorts. “Did you get some weird junk from Dick?”

  Years ago, shortly after our separation, when the children stopped communicating with their father, they began calling him by his first name, but they spit the word Dick out as an insult. Sadly, very little healing has taken place in this fractured family. Dick isn’t interested in repairing relationships—he’s too busy exacting retribution. He’s the superstar of sore losers. Dick had always been a workaholic, but if I had taken even the smallest spoonful of the same medicine I prescribe to my readers; I would’ve known that nobody spends that much time at the office. After I packed him up and put him out, the receipts I found for massage parlors and dinners for two at romantic restaurants, to which I wasn’t invited, were the damning evidence that dismantled my denial. Adding insult to injury, my son’s friend sent him copies of explicit emails she found on her mother’s computer, sent by—my son’s father. The verdict was unanimous—guilty on all counts.

  I had been conned by a master manipulator, but I was a member of an elite club. Hundreds of North American investors had put up millions to fund the Italian film company Dick was forming. He was able to convince savvy businesspeople that he was bringing back the spaghetti western, and he had signed co-production contracts from producers in Palermo to prove it. It worked for him for a while until it didn’t anymore. Like all Ponzi schemes, his house of cards collapsed eventually. My world came tumbling down around me when Dick’s shady business endeavors exploded in my face. I learned about it in the headlines along with the rest of the country. I tortured myself trying to figure out how I could be that stupid—how anyone could be that stupid—but I came to the conclusion it wasn’t that I was not smart, it’s that Dick was smarter—than everyone. Or at least more cunning, I suppose there’s a difference. The investors accused Dick of stealing millions for himself although I never found the money trail and it wasn’t for a lack of looking. He’s not in jail—he blamed the failure on the suspect Sicilian cinema. Both policing and bookkeeping are basically nonexistent in Sicily—it’s as easy to bury a few bodies and get away with it as it is to bury a few million.

  The kicker that almost did me in for good came long after Dick was gone. After four years of battling it out in divorce court, the judge awarded me the matrimonial home and a million dollars in lump-sum support. By the time the house was transferred into my name, Dick had declared bankruptcy and booked it back to Italy. It was then that the many liens against my home were brought to my attention by the wake of vultures who circled above waiting to feed on my carcass since Dick’s delinquent ass was nowhere to be found. Eight hundred and seventy-two thousand dollars of liens were filed before Dick was protected by insolvency, leaving me holdi
ng the bag. The executions were made by Dick’s investors and their law firms for unpaid costs, by the Canadian Government for ten years of his unpaid income tax, and even by some of his own brothers for personal loans he’d skipped out on. For crying out loud there were even claims by two of Dick’s ten divorce lawyers he stiffed for fifty thousand bucks. The whole thing stank, but my having to pay Dick’s divorce lawyers for him stunk the most.

  I was determined to hold on to my house—I wasn’t going to let Dick rob me of that dream, too. Through Herculean effort, I made it work for a while. I was Sally Field in Places in the Heart near killing myself trying to bring the cotton in on time to save the farm. Unfortunately, my story didn’t have a Hollywood ending. I make good money from my books, but the weight of having to pay off my ex’s crushing debts while carrying the expenses of a big house on my own eventually took its toll. If I wanted to have the disposable income I needed to visit the kids overseas, help them with their student loans, and do all the things I love to do—like eat, I had to let go of my home. For a time, it felt as if Dick had won, but after a while, I understood there aren’t any winners in divorce. There are only those who move on in life and those who stay mired in the muck. Fuck muck. One thing I pride myself on is never making the same mistake twice. The mistakes I do make are usually monumental and often extremely costly, but I definitely learn from them. I’d never again give up my home or lose anything else because of a man.