“What the hell, Solène? Where are you? Where the fuck have you been?” He was panicked, incensed. I could not recall ever hearing him so angry.
“I’m here. At home. I had the phone off. What’s wrong?”
“You didn’t think to check in after you landed? You couldn’t send a message or anything?”
I was quiet. My head pounding, my face swollen, my mind scrambled. Had I done something wrong?
“You cannot … Fuck…” His voice was quaking. “You cannot just fall off the face of the fucking earth like that. You can’t. I don’t know if something’s happened to you. I don’t know if you’ve done something. I don’t know if there are fans outside of your house. I don’t know anything. You can’t just fucking disappear.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t feel like dealing.”
“Well, you have to deal … with me,” he said, and I realized he was crying. “Look, we’re in this together, and as it is, I feel responsible. And if I can’t reach you, I don’t know if you’ve gone and done something completely stupid or if you’re hurt … You’re six thousand fucking miles away. You got on that plane emotional and then you just … disappeared. You can’t do that to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
He was quiet for a moment, his breath heavy in the receiver. “Call Lulit,” he said finally. “She’s on her way over there. Call her and tell her you’re okay.”
“You called Lulit?”
“Just call her,” he said. “And call me back.”
“Okay … I’m sorry.”
“I love you. Don’t do that again.”
*
As much as I’d hoped to, I could not avoid the inevitable. The humiliation, the disgrace awaiting me at what I assumed would be every turn. It started with Lulit, who was relieved but not terribly warm when I reached her on the phone.
“I just want to know that you’re okay.”
“I’m okay. I mean, I haven’t turned on my computer yet or listened to any messages, but I’m okay.”
“Call me if you need anything,” she said.
“I will. And thank you, for getting out of your bed on a Sunday morning to do a wellness check.”
“Your boyfriend was very insistent. I told him you were not the suicidal type, but he would not take no for an answer…” She drifted off, and then: “I think he loves you.”
“I know,” I said. I imagined she wanted to ask what my plan was, what I was thinking, how much longer could I let this go on. But she bit her tongue. And that, for Lulit, was no small thing.
*
My mother, who could not hold her tongue, lectured me in rapid-fire French. She used words I’d never heard from her mouth, and I’d heard quite a bit. She closed her tirade with her customary “Je t’adore avec tout mon c?ur.” But telling your daughter “I love you with all my heart” is much less effective after just having called her “une pute.”
*
Amara checked in to make certain I was not falling apart. To assure me the photos were not that bad. “They’re blurry. You can’t see your face. You can’t really see his. You can’t see any detail.” And then, finally, to make me laugh: “It could have been so much worse, Solène. You could have been the one going down, and he could have been the president.”
*
The brief levity she had brought to the situation died the second Daniel and Isabelle arrived. My daughter could barely look at me. She walked in tan and taller and beautiful, and she would not look at me. Worse yet, she would not mention it.
“Was Hawaii amazing?”
She nodded, fiddling with her backpack. We were in the entry, Daniel still retrieving bags from the car.
“Was Eva’s dress nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you do your hair yourself?” I reached out to tuck a wayward lock behind her ear, and she tensed.
“They did it at the Four Seasons. I’m going to my room.”
“Okay … Okay.”
Daniel summoned me outside once he’d brought in the luggage. And we stood there, beside the BMW, the relentless California sun glaring, mocking, like a joke. Just once I wanted the weather here to not be perfect. Just once I wanted it to mirror my mood.
“Congratulations,” I said.
He nodded, slow. “Thanks.” His hair was lighter, almost blond, the lines around his blue eyes soft. He looked rested.
“So you’re married again?”
“I’m married again.” He was twisting the shiny platinum band on his finger with his left thumb. It was narrower than the one I’d placed there. The moment still clear. The invitation mounted in a frame.
“I didn’t bring you out here to discuss this—”
“I know you didn’t.”
“This is appalling, Solène. This is so … fucked up. I don’t think you realize how big a deal this is—”
“I do.”
“I know it’s not my place to tell you how to live your life, but I’m still Isabelle’s father. And when you do dumb shit like this, it has consequences.”
“‘Dumb shit’? Is that what it is?”
I watched him stew for a second. His thumb flicking his ring.
It grated on me. That no one would question him moving on. Him marrying and impregnating someone more than ten years his junior. Because that’s what divorced men in their forties did. His stock was still rising. His power still intact.
Daniel had become more desirable, and I somehow less so. As if time were paced differently for each of us.
“Do you really think this is in the best interest of Isabelle?” He’d put it out there. Best interest. It was a legal term, and there was no mistaking his use of it.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m not threatening you, I’m just saying…”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I think she’s been through enough.”
“And you’re pinning that all on me. You’re pinning the divorce on me. You’re pinning Eva and your baby and your marriage on me.”
“None of this would have happened, Solène, if—”
“If what? If I’d just stayed home and been happy? Fuck you, Daniel.”
For a moment he did not say anything, just stood there, staring out toward the street, the hikers in the distance. “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you. I’m sorry our family wasn’t enough.” It hit. Hard.
“Figure out what you’re going to do about this guy, before it destroys your relationship with your daughter.”
*
It was a miserable week. I tried to focus all my energy on the Ulla Finnsdottir show that was opening on Saturday, but it was not easy. Not with the barrage of social media. The 423 new friend requests on Facebook from people I did not know, many of whom appeared to be twenty-something boys. The numerous vile messages on Twitter: Why r u still around bitch? I thought you’d be gone by now. It’s January.
skanky whore cunt. Aren’t you someone’s mother? Act like it.
Why don’t you just kill yourself and save us the hassle?
Stop fucking with Simon’s boyfriend.