The Breakup (18 page)

Anna nodded sympathetically. “Listen. I’ve been on every diet known to man. Slim•Fast. Jenny Craig. Nutrisystem. Low carb.
No carb. Cabbage soup until it was coming out of my ears. And I’ve joined and rejoined and spent so much time at Weight Watchers
I could have worked there if I hadn’t been so fat. And those weigh-ins! I’d do anything to knock off a few ounces. I’d take
off my wedding band, my belt. Gosh, I even pulled out a tampon once. None of those things worked for me, not in the long run.
There’s only one thing that kept the weight off.” I looked into Anna’s lovely face and waited for her to continue. “Abstinence.”

“What? You stopped having sex?” I was horrified.

“No, not that kind of abstinence.” Anna laughed. “I mean, I abstained from all the foods that I loved a little too much. Chocolate,
cookies, cake . . . frozen cookie dough, you know what I mean.”

I sure did.

“I haven’t had any of that stuff in six years, not even cake on my own birthday!”

I stared at her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s a miracle,” she said, smiling. “But that’s what the Overeaters Anonymous program promises, you know. Miracles. We’ve
got a saying. ‘It works if you work it.’ ”

I felt panicky. I knew I’d stumbled onto the Big Answer to my Big Fat Problem, but couldn’t imagine permanently parting ways
with my favorite foods.

’Til next time,

V

“Did you see the paper this morning?” It was my mother, and she was breathless. “Did you?”

“No, Mom, I’m still in bed.”

“Zoe Hayes is alive and well and living as a circus performer in Texas! She is a trapeze artist!”

It was 7:53. “That’s incredible. So she’s not dead?”

“No, no, no, she’s alive, Valerie. Just like your dream. You predicted this, honey, don’t you see?”

“How is it like my dream, Mom?”

“Remember? The perches? Hopping from perch to perch? And remember what it said on the X ray? It said Abilene. And that’s where
they found her. Abilene! Texas! She checked into the hospital after she broke her arm! The broken wing, Valerie. Don’t you
see?”

I ran outside in my pajamas and swiped the newspaper off the driveway. The headline:
ZOE HAYES ALIVE IN TEXAS
. Six paragraphs down: “Detectives credit the Hayes discovery to an e-mail tip sent by a local resident. In the e-mail, the
writer described what now appears to be a psychic dream which eventually lead detectives to target the region in and around
Abilene. ‘We looked into every lead that came across our desk, no matter how far-fetched,’ Detective Avila said. ‘This lead
happened to be the one that panned out.’ Hayes had checked into Abilene General Hospital for the treatment of a fractured
wrist, where she was recognized by an emergency room orderly. The injury was sustained during a rehearsal of her trapeze act.
Police have not released the identity of the person who sent the e-mail. A spokesperson for Zoe Hayes’s family confirmed that
the person who provided the information will be eligible for the reward money.”

The next call was from a detective, a man named
Michael Avila. He said he wants to stop by the house later to ask a few questions, “just to wrap up the investigation.” What
if I’m implicated somehow? What if the police think I knew all about Zoe Hayes’s transformation from radiography technician
to trapeze artist? I felt the blood drain to my feet. I was shaking. I had to calm myself. I searched the medicine cabinet
in the downstairs bathroom for Xanax, but all I could find was Tums. Then I remembered I had tucked one pill into the small
zippered compartment in my fake Kate Spade bag. I swallowed it dry.

I asked Lynette if she could take Pete for the night. “What’s wrong? You sound weird.” I thought about Lynette’s orderly,
uneventful life. I wasn’t ready to tell her that I was the unidentified woman who led police to Zoe Hayes. “I’m just tired,
that’s all. I could use a break.”

“Of course you could,” she responded. “Being a single mom’s gotta be a bitch.” The word sounded unnatural coming from her
chaste mouth. “We’d be glad to take Pete. I’ll stop by with Hunter to get him. Hey! Did you hear? They found Zoe Hayes. She’s
alive!”

“Yes. I heard.”

Lynette and Hunter appeared at my door just as Detective Avila pulled up. She arched an eyebrow at me, as if to say “So
this
is why you wanted Pete out of the house.” I decided I’d better set her straight. “Lynette, this is Detective Avila. He’s
here to ask me
a few questions.” Lynette looked at me quizzically. Behind the detective’s head, I mouthed, “I’ll tell you later.”

Lynette nodded and said, brightly, “C’mon boys. Who wants to make Rice Krispie Treats?”

Michael Avila reminded me of that hunky redheaded TV chef, the one who sounds like a cabdriver and looks like an Irish god.
We spent the first fifteen minutes discussing the Zoe Hayes case. Yes, I really dreamed it. No, I didn’t consider myself a
psychic. No, I didn’t mention the dream to anyone else except for my mother. We spent another hour talking about everything
besides the Zoe Hayes case. I imagined what our offspring would look like.

He used the bathroom. I didn’t hear any buzzing, thank God.

“Well,” he said, reaching for his pad, “I should go now. I’m sure you’re anxious to eat dinner with your husband and son.”
He watched me with what looked like a hopeful smile.

“I’m in the process of getting a divorce. Any day now.”

“Really?” I thought he looked relieved, but I may have imagined it.

“Listen, Valerie, I’d appreciate it if you’d stick around for a while in case I have any more questions. And if there’s anything
you want to talk about, you can reach me on my cell phone, twenty-four/seven.” He handed me his card. I ran a finger over
the raised
letters of his name and then it came into my mind, as involuntary as a twitch: Val Avila. It had a nice ring to it. For him,
I’d change my name.

I know. I’m hopeless.

At 9
P
.
M
. there was a reporter and cameraman on my doorstep. Someone (probably my mother) had leaked my name to the media. Now I had
an excuse to call Michael Avila. I asked him if it was okay to talk to the press.

“Sure. Why not?” He paused as if he were about to say something, but didn’t go on. “Okay, then, you’ve got my number if you
need to reach me.”

“And you have mine. My number, I mean. You know, if
you
need to reach
me.
”

He didn’t say anything else, and I felt like a total jackass.

By 10
P
.
M
. I was still a jackass, but a famous one. I made the top story on the nightly news. Local woman’s ESP leads police to Zoe
Hayes, stay tuned.

I never made it to my first OA meeting. Maybe next week.

’Til next time,

V

Some version of the Zoe Hayes story has been on the front page almost every day, supplanting the usual
summer stories: Drought Likely To Affect Harvests. Market Street Closed For Repairs. County Fair Draws Hundreds.

Zoe Hayes won’t talk to the press, and no one in her family is granting interviews. An attorney working for the Hayes family
said that I was entitled to the reward money. At first I didn’t want to take it—it seemed so tacky, and besides, the woman
is alive— but Mom convinced me that I had no choice but to accept the reward. My bank statement came today. My mother is right.
I’ve decided, though, that after I pay off my bills and stash a little money away, I’m going to do something charitable with
the rest of it. Assuming there’s anything left.

’Til next time,

V

I’m scared to be alone in the house. I’m thinking of getting a watchdog. I should probably just sell the house. The problem
is, we’re in the best school district in the city, and there’s nothing for sale in our area right now, except for the Miller
house, but they don’t have a basement and I refuse to live in a house without a basement. Where would we go in case of a tornado?

I haven’t been able to sleep normally in weeks. My
shrink wants to put me on Ambien, but I really don’t want to take any more pills. My mother says I’ll be fine just as soon
as the divorce is final.

’Til next time,

V

Yet another phone call for Valerie Ryan, psychic. This time it was an assistant producer at
Good Morning America.
So far I’ve had calls from
People
magazine, the
Chicago Tribune,
and
The Today Show.
I know I should be excited (or at least amused) by this sudden celebrity, but I’m not. The attention is unwelcome. I have
no interest in being on TV, and not only because it will make me look fifteen pounds fatter. I wish these people would leave
me alone.

Roger called me and asked, “If you’re so psychic, why don’t you predict what I’m going to do to my girlfriend tonight?”

My old boss Cadence Bradley (aka Amazon.bitch) phoned too. I naively assumed she’d called to congratulate me. “I hear you’re
quite the celebrity,” she began, in a tone that suggested she hadn’t seen or read anything about me, but only heard this from
someone in the office. Cadence is the type of person who prides herself on an ability to remain unsullied by popular culture,
unreachable by its messengers.
She doesn’t watch TV (except PBS), doesn’t listen to radio (except NPR), and never goes to the movies (except art films).
She lives in our community but refuses to subscribe to the local paper.

“How are you, Cadence?” I asked.

“I’m calling to see that you do not mention your past affiliation with the Center,” she said. “We don’t want our organization
to be associated with any of your . . . paranormal experiences.”

’Til next time,

V

I just heard from a woman who says her husband has been missing since July 1993. She has his picture posted on milk cartons,
even went to a fortune teller she’d found in a tent at the Universal Studios fake Arabian village in Orlando. “The lady said
she was pretty sure Fred was the victim of spontaneous combustion,” the woman told me. “But I think he ran out on me.” She
said she read about me in the paper and I’m her last hope. I explained that I didn’t consider myself a psychic; even if I
did have a touch of ESP, I couldn’t marshall it on command. She thanked me extravagantly just for taking her number.

Someone else called to ask if I could help locate his lost bowling trophy.

’Til next time,

V

I had a meeting with Omar Sweet early this morning. It’s official: Roger will not be charged with bigamy or statutory rape.
There’s not enough evidence to convict him. “The case won’t hold water,” Omar told me wearily. “He’s the original Teflon man.
Nothing sticks.”

The good news, however, is that it’s almost certain I’m entitled to all of Roger’s undisclosed assets, and I’m likely to win
full custody of Pete. “You’re a hero,” he told me. “You’re the woman who found Zoe Hayes.”

’Til next time,

V

It’s over. The rotted shipwreck has finally sunk. Roger Tisdale and Valerie Ryan, according to the laws of this state and
as certified by Judge Harry Mendelsohn, are officially, and rather anticlimactically, divorced.

The papers came in the mail this morning. I expected registered mail, certified mail, Federal Express, something with a little
more pomp and ceremony. Instead, I found the envelope stuffed in
my mailbox along with the electric bill, the church newsletter, and the ever-reproachful Victoria’s Secret catalog.

Decree of Marriage Dissolution and Settlement Agreement. The end of a marriage reduced to fourteen sheets of paper and a few
teaspoons of black ink. The settlement agreement detailed the division of property. I get the house and most of its furnishings,
plus the Jeep, the big-screen TV, my iMac, and half of the $61,452 in savings and investments. Roger gets the van, the condo
on Lake Merle, the weedy two acres we bought and never developed outside of Grand Haven, the broken-down speedboat we’ve had
in storage since 1993, the other two TVs, the Gateway and the laptop. Everything I brought to the marriage (my mother’s silverware,
my Todd record collection) is once again solely mine, and everything Roger brought to the marriage (the Cuisinart, the stereo,
the hideous wooden mask in the family room, and the even more hideous vaginal sculpture fashioned from a tree stump) is, mercifully,
once again his.

I quickly searched the document for “the guillotine,” as Omar called it, the clause that would to destroy Roger if he lied
under oath about his assets. I found it in the middle of the last page. “Each party has testified that s/he has been truthful
about all current assets, in all forms, including but not limited to,
cash, stocks, mutual funds, bonds, artwork, precious metals and other holdings valued at more than $1,000. In the event that
either party has misrepresented aforementioned current assets, the court will award the sum total of those holdings to the
other party.”

In other words: Liar loses all.

Omar had craftily devised this delicious clause
after
Roger swore under oath that he had no holdings beyond our shared property, bank accounts, and investments. Cocksure Roger,
certain that we’d never succeed in uncovering his fortunes, agreed to the clause with barely discernible hesitation.

Omar called a half hour ago. On Monday we’ll meet with Libby Taylor to review her file on Roger one last time. Omar explained
that he authorized Libby to continue investigating Roger after she submitted her first report. “There’s every reason to believe
that Roger has continued transacting business on his accounts,” Omar explained. “I wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

I don’t like the fact that Omar kept Libby on retainer without my approval. Between his fees and hers, I’ll be in debt the
rest of my life. Omar has assured me that his guillotine clause is foolproof, but I’m afraid I don’t share his confidence.