Unhinge

  My hand shakes as I wave the picture in Dr. Calloway’s face. “What is this?”

  Dr. Calloway stands. She snatches the picture out of my hands. When she gets a good look, her face goes pale. “I don’t know how this got in there.”

  I know that this is the photo that makes everyone assume Wes is dead. Can I blame them? The clothes are the same ones he always wears when he visits me, but in the picture his white shirt has tears in it. The sleeve of his jacket is torn, hanging off his arm. One of his shoes is off.

  “Why would you have that?”

  “Victoria, I’ve looked at this stack of pictures a handful of times. I’ve never seen this before.”

  “It’s not him.” Rapidly, I shake my head. “It’s not Wes. That’s not him.”

  Dr. Calloway nods and slowly walks around her desk. “Just take a few deep breaths.”

  “He’s doing this to me. He set this up!”

  “Who?”

  “WES!” I scream out his name so loudly, my ears start to ring.

  “Just take a few deep breaths,” Dr. Calloway repeats.

  Doesn’t she see that I’m so far past the point of deep breaths? I hunch over, my hands resting on my knees, and gasp for air. I see the pictures in perfect order and the crazy part is that it makes sense. It fits. But there’s not a single part of me that wants to admit that maybe everyone is right.

  Maybe my husband has been dead all this time and I’ve been talking to the ghost of him.

  Maybe I really do belong at Fairfax.

  The pictures are a distant thought, but the wheels of the past are set into motion. I’m not eased slowly into the memories, as I usually am. This time they hit me so hard I fall to my knees and drop my face into my hands.

  October 2014

  For the past month, I’d been living with my mother. It was a temporary living situation until everything with Wes and me was figured out. I’d been back to the house once and that was during the day, while Wes was at work, so I could pack up my clothes.

  I saw Sinclair frequently, but we weren’t living together; there was a big part of me that was terrified of what Wes would do to Sinclair if he had the chance.

  I shuddered at the thought.

  My heart was still this fragile thing, slowly trying to piece itself together, but I loved Sinclair. He knew the basic facts, but he didn’t know why. It was bad enough that I had to face the truth of my relationship with Wes; why would I have wanted to share that with the world? I felt embarrassed¸ humiliated.

  Every day Wes called me begging to talk. Every day I pressed IGNORE, because I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t get sucked back down into his life, even if I couldn’t completely ignore it.

  As much as I wanted to hide beneath my covers and avoid everything, I had to face reality.

  I stared down at the screen for a second longer and pressed CALL.

  It rang twice before he picked up.

  “Victoria? Victoria?” Wes sounded out of breath, as if he had run to get to the phone.

  I took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

  —

  In my mind, I saw this conversation going south. All I saw was Wes getting angry.

  In fact, I was counting on it. That’s why I wanted to break up during dinner. In public. With witnesses. I picked out a restaurant that he took me to frequently when we were still in love. It had good memories. There had been so much darkness in our relationship since then that I just wanted to hang on to a small piece of good.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Wes rushed to say. He kissed the crown of my head, a gesture he used to make all the time in the beginning of our marriage, but rarely now.

  “It’s fine.”

  Wes didn’t offer an explanation for being late and I didn’t ask; I already knew the answer. Work.

  He sat down across from me, scanning the menu with focused concentration. The waiter got our order and there were no more distractions.

  We looked at each other. He gave me a wide smile and asked me about my day, seeming genuinely interested in what I had to say. It was disarming.

  But that was his MO: a long stretch of kindness and short bursts of anger. If I kept that fact in the forefront of my mind, I could get through this.

  “Victoria, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  Before I replied I downed the rest of my wine. My hands were shaking. I laced my fingers together and waited.

  The first course arrived.

  Now or never, I told myself. You have to tell him.

  “I can’t live like this,” I blurted out.

  The truth can do one of three things: free you, break you, or complete you.

  I hovered among the three, just waiting for Wes’s reaction. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and frowned. Confusion was written across his face. “Like what?”

  “This. Right now.” I gestured at the space between us. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  I braced myself for an outburst. Violence. But instead I was met with silence. It was unnerving and threw me off guard. Maybe I was making a mistake. Maybe things could go back to normal. Maybe…

  No, my mind whispered fiercely. You have to do this.

  Swallowing my nerves, I said very quietly, “I want a divorce.”

  The words were just as painful to say as I thought they would be.

  Wes dropped his fork. His hand moved across the table for my hand. I tensed, but at the last second he pulled away, looking like a man at war with himself. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered gruffly.

  I didn’t reply, just carefully tracked every move he made.

  “Where did this even come from?” he asked.

  His shoulders drooped in defeat and he hung his head, staring blindly at his food. He said nothing and the conversations at other tables drifted around me. On some level, I think he knew this was bound to happen.

  Ignoring the others around us, he reached out for my hand. I pulled back at the same time. Only our fingertips touched.

  “I love you. I thought everything was perfect between us.”

  At that, I frowned. “Perfect?”

  “Everything was stressful because of work and you not being able to get pregnant—”

  “This has nothing to do with work or pregnancy,” I quickly cut in. “At the beginning I might have thought that. But, no, this has everything to do with how you treat me.”

  “I treat you fine. I give you everything, Victoria. A few fights and you’re ready to walk away? Come on now. I love you.” He said it sadly, looking like a man devastated.

  This is what he does. Don’t buy it. Not for a second.

  He was going to tell me how sorry he was, how much he loved me, but I knew a tiger couldn’t change its stripes.

  “Are you trying to make me believe that you have no love inside you to fight for us?” he challenged.

  Only a small hint of frustration seeped into his words. Considering the magnitude of our conversation, he wasn’t even close to reacting the way I had expected him to.

  “Of course I have love for you. But it’s not enough anymore.”

  My reply threw him off. He sat back in his seat, staring at me with his “lawyer gaze,” the one where he shrewdly picks apart a person and tries to call their bluff. He could keep looking, he could dig deep into me until he reached my marrow, but he’d find nothing but the truth.

  Very carefully, I thought over my words. “Neither one of us is happy anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? Everything is perfect between us.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. I was starting to feel like I was in the Twilight Zone. Was he delusional? I leaned in slowly and lowered my voice. “Nothing about us is perfect.”

  “Then that’s the problem, because I see a relationship that’s strained. But I love my wife enough to stick it out.”

  “Stick it out?” My voice went up an octave, earning the gazes of people around us. “That’s all I’ve been doing for a year!”

>   “A year?” Wes snorted. “And now you’re magically asking me to buy in to this idea that you’re unhappy?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking you to do.”

  “Un-fucking-believable.”

  “I didn’t reach this point suddenly. It’s impossible to forget the years we’ve been together and the memories we have.”

  “If it’s impossible, then stay with me.”

  His hand reached out and this time I hesitated, because it would have been so easy for me to give in—to shrug my shoulders and agreeably say okay.

  I dropped my hand into my lap. “I can’t, Wes. If I stay with you, then I stay with pain. I stay with abuse.”

  “There’s no abuse. Just moments where I lose my temper.”

  “And that right there is exactly why I can’t be with you anymore.”

  The imploring expression disappeared, replaced by a coldness that I’d expected. To me it seemed like the reality of the situation was finally sinking in for him. There was no amount of “sorrys” to bring us back to where we once were.

  “Is there someone else?” he asked, a biting tone in his words.

  For so long I had agonized over whether I should tell the truth, but I was also extremely aware that Wes would use that against me and it would put me in a bad light. Never him.

  I sat up straight and looked him in the eye. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters. Why can’t you answer the question? ‘Yes, I’m with someone else.’ ‘No, I’m not with someone else.’ Two easy responses.”

  “You’re going to sit there and give me the third degree, yet you’ve been seeing someone on the side.”

  Wes slammed his hands on the table. “I told you that I’m not seeing her!”

  Conversations around us died. I could feel the stares. Wes looked around and instantly lowered his voice. “If you want to divorce, get a divorce. I can’t stop you….”

  I waited; he was getting ready to deliver a blow. “But I’m not going to make this easy.” His brusque tone was what I expected yet it still managed to give me chills.

  As Wes asked for the check, I stayed in my seat. Not because I had to. Not because I was scared. Not because I was sad. I stayed because I knew this would be the very last meal we would ever share as Mr. and Mrs. Donovan.

  We walked out of the restaurant together, saying nothing. The silence was unbearable, masking unsaid words that the two of us were just dying to hurl at each other.

  We left in separate cars. I watched him take a right and peel out of the parking lot, toward the direction of our house.

  I took a left.

  I drove toward Sinclair.

  October 2014

  No one in good conscience wants to get a divorce.

  You don’t plan your wedding and go through all the work, thinking to yourself, Oh, I can’t wait for the divorce. That’ll be even better! That’s like building your hopes and dreams with glass and letting them fall in the middle of a rock quarry.

  But I knew what I had to do. My heart was a completely different story. It was attached to the former version of Wes—the one that promised me everything and molded my dreams of the happily ever after.

  “Why are you scared? You’re much braver than you think,” Sinclair had whispered in my ear that morning.

  I needed to remember his words. I needed to capture them all and bottle them up to use in moments like this.

  “Are you ready to do this?” Renee asked.

  It had been a week since I told Wes I wanted a divorce and now I was in Richmond, about a two-hour drive away. I did that on purpose. I wanted my lawyer to have no clue who my husband was. If I chose a lawyer from McLean or Falls Church, I could just see them balking and running away.

  Sighing loudly, I unbuckled my seatbelt and nodded at Renee. “I’m ready.”

  This was a fairly busy area, with a parade of large buildings lining the road. Most parking spots were filled. People walking down the streets kept their heads down, eyes glued to their cellphones. No one noticed me. No one cared and I slowly felt the tension leaving my body. Lately I felt like there was a huge sign over my head, along with a flash blinker that said: Look at me! I failed my marriage!

  Across the street, directly in front of us, was a four-story brick building. On the second floor was Randall & Fernberg, P.C.

  Randall & Fernberg was a top-rated law firm. Their office was on the third floor. In the elevator, Renee and I were silent. I could feel her eyes flick toward me every few seconds. I felt sick to my stomach.

  As we stepped out of the elevator Renee held me back for a moment. Her hands settled on my shoulders and gently squeezed. “Everything will be fine.”

  I gave her a blunt nod and then we walked into the office. Decorated with dark furniture, white walls, and framed pictures of natural scenes, it was a typical office. The receptionist greeted us with a smile.

  “I have a one o’clock appointment with Mr. Randall,” I said quietly, as though Wes were hiding around the corner, ready to change my mind.

  The receptionist told me to sign in. I couldn’t get a firm grip on the pen, which made my signature look like wavy lines. “He’ll be with you shortly. You can take a seat.”

  The magazines stacked on the end tables were aging. In the corner, right in front of a window, were Styrofoam cups and a full pot of coffee. I couldn’t imagine anyone stepping into this office finding comfort in a good cup of coffee. I could barely concentrate on the magazine on my lap.

  I nudged Renee and pointed to the ceiling. “There’s a small water stain.”

  “Yeah, and your point is?”

  I leaned in. “My point is, why hasn’t it been fixed? Maybe this law firm is going down the drain. Maybe I should look for a new lawyer,” I hissed.

  “Okay. Relax. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. That means nothing. You picked a good lawyer.”

  “How do you know?”

  Renee shrugged and went back to flipping through her magazine. “I did my research too.”

  I had never consulted a lawyer and the only time I’d ever been to a law office was to visit Wes. Even then I didn’t pay attention to the people in the waiting room. Wes brought home cases but he never discussed them with me and I didn’t pry. I wished I had. How many people had Wes represented who were trying to leave an abusive relationship? This was Wes’s stomping ground. He knew the ins and outs of the law. How to win cases and where to really hit a person.

  I thought I had done everything I could to cover my bases, but in the back of my head I kept feeling like I was missing something. I wrung my hands together and stared at the clock on the wall. Time felt like it was frozen.

  It felt stuffy in there. Even though it was October, it was unusually hot out. Why didn’t they have the air-conditioning on? I felt like I was choking.

  I had gone to stand up when a short, stout man stopped next to the receptionist’s desk. He looked like he could be my grandfather, with gray hair and a face lined with wrinkles. He didn’t look like any cutthroat lawyer. He looked like he belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting.

  “Mrs. Donovan?” His eyes veered between Renee and me, unsure of which of us was her. I turned my head and nodded, smiling weakly. “Come with me,” he said. “I’m Mr. Randall.”

  Before I walked away, I turned back to Renee. She was still flipping through the glossy pages. She looked up at me. “What?”

  “Come on.”

  She lowered the magazine. “You want me to go with you?”

  “You didn’t come all the way here just to sit in the waiting room, did you?”

  She shrugged and grabbed her purse from the floor. Mr. Randall merely raised a brow as we walked through his doors.

  Whether it’s a therapist, lawyer, doctor, or businessman, they all have one thing in common: their offices. Those large, imposing desks. Degrees mounted on the wall. A couple of bookshelves. It is always the same.

  Mr. Randall’s office was no exception.


  He held out a hand. “Doug.”

  I shook his hand. “Victoria. This is my friend Renee.”

  “It’s great to meet you both. Please have a seat.”

  I sat down across from him. Renee took another chair, slightly to the side. Shafts of sunlight peeked through the blinds and made precise lines on the floor. I wanted nothing more than to be outside and miles away from this place. But I came this far. I had to finish this.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I want a divorce,” I rushed out. I expected to feel better, but the words had a bad taste. I wanted to vomit.

  He nodded his head, looking completely nonplussed. “All right. First, let’s get down the basic information.”

  I nodded hesitantly. I shot a glance at Renee but she was in the dark as much as me.

  “Full name?”

  “Victoria Isabel Donovan.”

  “Maiden name?”

  “Aldridge.”

  “Date of birth?”

  And so the questions continued. I answered each one, expecting my nerves to calm down, but that didn’t happen.

  “And what’s the name of your husband?”

  “Wesley Donovan.”

  Mr. Randall glanced up from his legal pad. He took off his glasses and sighed. “Well, this changes things.”

  “How so?” Renee asked, anger creeping into her words.

  Mr. Randall answered Renee’s question but kept his eyes on me. My hands curled around the edge of the chair. I already knew what he was going to say. “I know of your husband, Mrs. Donovan. He’s very…cutthroat in the courtroom.”

  Renee snorted underneath her breath.

  Mr. Randall shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “How many years have you been married?”

  “Two and a half.”

  “And is there any way that counseling will help you?”

  “No.”

  “Do the two of you have any children together?”