Surviving Valencia

“No.”

His soothing tone snapped back to angry desperation. “You’re going to walk away from our marriage? No. No, it’s not going to happen.”

I stood there, unsure of what to say to that. Adrian began to cry.

“This is what I have to do,” I whispered. A part of my brain was telling me to say I was kidding. Turn it around while you still can, it was warning me.

“I love you, Honey.” He was sobbing.

I began to doubt myself even more. I wanted to hold him.

Stay strong.

You knew this wouldn’t be easy.

Are you sure you want to do this?

I don’t know.

“Adrian, I’m going to leave today, I think.” How could I not? It wasn’t as if I could say all this and then we could go on with our lives for a few more days.

He did not answer me.

I waited for him to say something that would change my mind. I wasn’t sure what it might be. I would know it when I heard it.

He pressed his hands against his face. He did not speak.

I listened to the ticking clock and to the neighbor mowing his lawn. I waited. Neither of us spoke. Finally I stood up and went outside to the motorhome. I opened the little door and went inside. It was tiny inside. Cramped and hot. There was barely room to move, and it was so outrageously decorated that it was like stepping into an overflowing jewelry box. I propped open the door, reality coating me in humid, sticky waves that smelled like new textiles and paint.

Bruce had certainly done his job. It was a virtual paradise on earth, complete with a tiny wine refrigerator with a glass door. Tasseled tie-backs held the velvet curtains in place. A small stretch of marble counter top was laid out with a crusty loaf of peasant bread and some withering grapes.

I stepped back outside, catching my breath, fanning myself with a brochure about taking care of my new upholstery. I looked up and down the street, realizing the blue motorhome and silver trailer were drawing a great deal of attention. Anyone not at work was gardening with sunglasses on, coincidentally facing my way. I wiped some sweat from my temple and stuck my head back inside for another look around. Toward the back there was an adorable, linen-filled crib for the baby and a bigger bed for me.

Needing to escape my watchful neighbors, I climbed back up the steps of my new home and sat down on the bench that doubled as the seat for the dining room table. It was so terribly warm and the scents were so overpowering, that I was becoming nauseous. I looked around, trying to find how to turn on the air conditioning. I didn’t see a thermostat anywhere. Did the engine need to be running for the air conditioning to work? I had no idea. I knew nothing about motorhomes. What was the next step? Where would I buy my oranges? How would I fill my evenings when it was too late to ring strangers’ doorbells? Was there even room for my sewing machine in here?

Adrian appeared in the open doorway and set the box of baby clothes in the opening. It took up the only free space I’d had. He turned around and left without saying a word.

I stood up and opened a window, which created a whisper of breeze. If things got too bad, I could sell all of this on eBay, I reminded myself. The important thing was, I was going to live an honest life. This decked out motor home was a little head start to get me on the right track. It was a little crumb broken off from the cake of the good life.

I avoided looking out the tiny window at our gigant

ic home. I looked instead at my newly bare hands, both still bearing the faint markings of the rings they’d worn for years. Free and naked now. Gone were the rings that symbolized love and belonging, and being owned.

I could do this. I would do it because I had to.

I went back inside the house to pack up my belongings. Adrian was in his studio with the music turned up. I realized I was halfway packed as it was, since all my bags from the stay at Alexa’s were sitting in the foyer. I took them to the motor home and then went back into the house. I found the old duffel that had held all my money earned a million years ago for watching Grandma Betty, and filled it with my homemade sundresses. I noticed a few of my favorite dresses were missing. Alexa must have taken them. I might never see Alexa again, I realized. Then it occurred to me that I might never again see anyone I didn’t want to see. My parents, my aunts and uncles. It was entirely up to me.

I dumped books, chipped pottery, and shoes in the bag too, and then opened my bathroom drawers and poured my makeup on top. I hauled it all outside and returned for another load. The door to Adrian’s studio was still closed.

I stood outside it, staring at the pattern of the woodgrain, listening to the blaring music. I was half hoping he would come out and stop me. I knocked but he didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t hear me knock. I tried again. I was losing my nerve, doubting myself. My sewing machine and a tote bag of fabric were all that remained. I honestly considered asking him to carry them out for me since I thought they might be heavy and I didn’t want to make two trips. I was that dependent on him. I was still that far from seeing any of this as being real.

I stood outside his door, listening, waiting.

Was he really going to end it like this? With a closed door. No goodbyes. Nothing.

He doesn’t believe it’s over, I realized. He thinks I’m bluffing.

I got a glass of water from the kitchen and drank it, stalling. The music continued to blare.