Divorce

The dress arrived today. The website advertised it as "sweet cantaloupe" but I'd call it "electric tangerine". It's pretty, though. Not bad as far as bridesmaids dresses go. Brides always claim, as they reveal their choice, that you'll be sure to get loads of wear out of this particular dress. I've never re-worn a bridesmaid dress and I doubt this one will be the first. It's pretty, like I said, but I live in New York City… where the hell am I ever going to wear "electric cantaloupe"?

But it's a nice dress. It fits with the theme of an August wedding under a pavilion on the lake in Texas. It fits with the couple. It will fit me, I hope…

I call the bride, to tell her I've received the dress. She asks me what I think of this menu: roasted garlic chicken, mashed red potatoes, steamed asparagus… It sounds good to me. We talk about the wedding a lot these days. And the marriage. She tells me she's scared; afraid she won't be a good wife, mother, and partner. She's scared she'll screw it up. I tell her of course she will, and so will he, but if they mean what they say when they pledge those forever vows, the strength of that commitment will carry them through the screw-ups. I believe this, and so my words are sincere. I tell her this with conviction.

Around five o'clock I arrive, ring the bell, get buzzed in, press the up arrow for the elevator. On my brief ride to the 5th floor I try to prepare myself. I'm not exactly sure what it looks like, when divorce hits a home, but I try to prepare nonetheless.

Apparently it looks like a collection of subtleties. Kate is shockingly thin. Too thin. She wears the trauma on her body like an extra skin. There are spaces on shelves. The PlayStation 360 is missing. All photos of him have vanished. There is less clutter in the hall; empty slots in the shoe tree. No beer in the fridge, but a half a dozen half-full bottles of wine on the counter. The kids seem okay. Perhaps Aaron is a bit more mellow, a bit harder to send into hysterical giggles. Or maybe I'm imagining it, over thinking things. I tend to do that.

Then it's bedtime, and we always pray at bedtime. I ask him if he wants to pray, and he says he wants me to. He always says he wants me to. I then ask him what he wants me to pray about; who he wants me to pray for. This is also a part of our ritual. He'll name the usuals – Mama, Dadda, Sissy – and often adds someone else like Batman or Speed Racer. Once he asked me to thank God for "Mama, Dadda, Sissy, and chocolate". Which of course I did, with genuine gratitude of my own. Tonight he asks me to pray for the usuals, but mid-prayer, when I get to "Dadda", he interrupts.

Pray for Dadda, he says.

I brace myself. What do you want me to pray for Dadda about, Aaron?

He's at work, the little voice in the dark says.

Has he been at work a long time? My throat starts to close up.

Yeah.

And you miss him?

Yeah… but one day I might get to have a sleepover with him. His nightlight-lit face brightens when he says this. Hope.

I continue the prayer, grateful that the Lighting McQueen nightlight doesn't give off enough light for him to see my twisted face. And I pray for Dadda. In a faltering voice I ask Jesus to be close to him, to be his best friend. And I pray that Aaron will get to have a sleepover with his Dadda soon.

Amen.

I love you Jesus, Amen. He completes his part of the prayer. Then, God is everywhere in the world.

Yes… ?

So he is close to Dadda. And close to me too.

You're right, Aaron. He is. I believe this, and so my words are sincere. I tell him this with conviction.

I'm done now. Have to get out of the room before I lose it. I tuck him in, plant a kiss on his forehead, and bolt for the door. I spend the next hour crying on the sofa in the living room. Kate comes home after one, drunk.

I share a cigarette with the cab driver on the way home. Before bed I check my voicemail. It's the bride: Call me when you have a minute. I want to talk to you about the bridesmaids bouquets.