Repairing damage from a breakup
Acurious thing about a divorce, considered to be the second most stressful thing that can happen in a person’s life, is that it doesn’t just happen to the unhappy uncouple. It happens to other people too: the kids, if there are children from the union, and family and friends who have invested their lives in you as a married entity.
That can cause a lot of guilt. It has for me. The realization of how much it disappoints others, hurts them, disrupts their lives, can be paralyzing. The only antidote I found, and keep finding, is faith that the truth sets you and everyone else free. It can also cause awkwardness in places you expect and places you don’t.
The holidays have been interesting in this regard. I assumed everyone in my extended family knew, since we live in a small town where everyone is connected, if not kin, and people talk. So much talk happens that I have learned things even I didn’t know about my own situation. Were they my students, and the assignment fantasy fiction, I’d be impressed with the rumor mill’s creativity.
Imagine my surprise when all the females in my family got together to celebrate someone’s birthday—an aunt I dearly love but rarely see— and she asked me questions about my husband that revealed she had no clue about the divorce. “Is he retiring this year?” “What are his plans?”
I shot a glance across the table at my mother, who I would have expected to inform my aunt. Mom blinked back at me with an expression part apologetic and part humor. She shrugged. Then she averted her eyes to focus on her meal like a cat suddenly engrossed in a plate of canary.
“Um, yes. He is going to retire.” “Why? How old is he?”
“54.”
“Are you the same age?” “No. I am 51.” “What’s he going to do?”
“Um. I don’t exactly know.”
The conversation went on like this till I remembered I have agency and know how to communicate and can change the subject if need be. So I did. When we all finished eating, Heathcliff not-so-subtly suggested I ride with my aunt to the mall, our next destination.
With just us in the car, my aunt told me about the joys of recently taking up painting, because she is incredibly cool like that, and then I ruined everything by telling her I was getting a divorce. It was really sad. Because she was sad. And that made me sad.
She loves me, my kids, and Stone. She bought into the vision of us as the nearly perfect Christian family long ago. She believed in us. She knows marriage is hard, having been married herself for 40 years so far. She had questions. Advice. Thoughts. Lots of thoughts.
At some point in the exchange I willed myself to remember that this thing that has been happening to me and in me for years just happened to her all at once. Like the difference between a terminal disease that takes your loved one by inches and a brain aneurysm that blindsides you. It was a terrible shock. And because I love and respect her, I listened as she processed it. You can love and respect someone and fundamentally disagree with some of the things they say and believe.
My aunt demonstrated this to me when we got out of the car and walked into Dillard’s.
“I want to buy you some perfume,” she said.
“Oh no. You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to, though. Something special.”
“It is your birthday, remember?” She waved my question away. “What do you wear? Do you have a favorite?”
“Oh, I like different ones.” “Fragrance is like music—very specific. You have to find the one that is perfect for you.”
I didn’t tell her I found that once in France but they didn’t sell it at Dillard’s or anywhere else around here.
“Come on, pick out anything you want.”
She led me around to all the counters where I sprayed and smelled everything they had. I could not decide. I felt the beginning of a headache tugging at my temples.
The last counter was Chanel. My aunt showed me Chanel Chance and Mademoiselle and told me her favorite was Chanel No. 5. She knew the story of Coco Chanel. “She was an amazing woman. Brave. Changed everything about fragrance and fashion.”
I told her I like that one too. But there were no small bottles. While I wasn’t looking, she bought me the biggest bottle they had.
She thrust it into my hands. “A little perk. Something to make you feel good. Now we have the same favorite fragrance.”
Bergamot. Sandalwood. Jasmine. Vanilla. Rose. Lemon. Moss. Bourbon. There’s a reason Chanel No. 5 is classic. Like love; like friendship. Like family. It is not always possible. Nor, in my experience, is it easy. But there can be magic in the mixing of disparate things.