“It’s been a long time,” she informed me, following me into my apartment.
“I’m not sure. Do you think it could have anything to do with the fact we’re divorced?”
“You know I still care about you, Win.” She stopped and looked at a painting I had recently hung on the wall. “Hey! That’s new.”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird. You buying art.”
“I like art.”
“Well, I know, but it’s just strange, you know? It was the kind of thing we used to do together.”
I gave her a sideways glance as I kicked off my shoes. “Actually, it was the kind of thing you did for us. My job was to hang up what you purchased.” Sandi walked slowly around my apartment, stopping in front of the large glass patio door to take in the view. Admittedly, it was a good view, but Sandi seemed out of sorts, even for her, and it was clear she wanted to talk to me about something but didn’t seem to know how to begin. I decided not to say anything and see what would happen. In the classroom, we call it “wait time”, the period between when the teacher asks a question and someone volunteers an answer. It’s often awkward, but sooner or later someone will speak just to break the uncomfortable silence.
Sandi continued to stare out at the rain beating down against the patio door. Her long blonde hair, dampened by the rain, hung past her shoulders. Her strong shoulders, sculpted in the gym through dedication bordering on fanaticism, sagged with the weight of whatever she wanted to tell me. In fact, it wasn’t like her to allow rain to affect her appearance. I’m not proud to admit that a large part of the power Sandi held over me for so long was her physical strength and strong beauty.
“Aren’t you going to ask how I am?” she finally asked.
“How are you?” I supplied her with what she apparently wanted to hear.
“Fine,” she answered coolly.
“Good. I’m glad we cleared that up.” Sandi’s sarcasm could be contagious.
Another of Sandi’s amazing arsenal of talents was her ability to pout, which she did in the classic “stick out your lower lip” fashion often favoured by ramp-walking fashion models. To be fair, Sandi had, in fact, worked as a model, principally when she was twelve years old, displaying training bras and adolescent undergarments for the Eaton’s catalogue. Somehow, Sandi’s modelling career had stalled at the ripe old age of fourteen. But she could pout. She was putting it into use now as the unwritten signal I remembered from the tumultuous end to our marriage. It still worked on me now as it did then. I’m nothing if not pathetic.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Sandi, I’m sorry. Obviously something is upsetting you and you want to talk to me about it. Although why you continue to choose me as your confessor in lieu of one of your numerous confidants at the spa never ceases to baffle me.”
“Because I know I can always count on you to listen to me. You don’t judge me.”
“Sands, I always judge you. Often disparagingly, sometimes even to your face. Do you not remember our marriage at all?” Sandi waited patiently for the signal that I would be quiet and let her speak. Eventually, I always did. It’s part of her charm and her power that she manages to wield over me to this day. “I’m sorry. Carry on.”
Sandi finally turned from her post at the window to face me. “I hardly know where to begin.”
“I generally find things go best when you just blurt out whatever’s on your mind,” I offered helpfully.
“I’m pregnant.” Her admission hit me in the solar plexus, which I’ve been led to believe is a fancy way of saying my stomach. I tried to keep a poker face, though historically I’ve always been a terrible poker player. Sandi looked at me and nearly laughed. I guess I wasn’t so good at hiding my shock.
Finally, I managed what I often do when I’m faced with a socially uncomfortable situation: I made an inappropriate joke. “I was thinking you looked a little heavy.”
Sandi’s smile dropped dead away. “That was cruel even by your standards,” she informed me frostily.
“I’m sorry,” I said for the third time in as many minutes. My ex-wife always brought the apologies out in me. “Reflex reaction to shocking news, I guess. I’ve had that kind of a week.” We stood across a five foot divide and stared silently at each other a while more. We communicated about this well during our marriage too. “Why are you telling me this?” I finally asked her.
“I thought it was important that you know,” she replied, returning to her business-like disposition.
“Why? It’s not mine.”
“Winston! Why would you even say such a thing?” she demanded.
“Because it’s been nearly two years since we separated, in case you’ve forgotten.”
She smiled coyly. “But it hasn’t been two years since we’ve been together. You may never be able to resist me.”
She had me there. But I wasn’t about to allow her the upper hand in this conversation, whatever this conversation was about. “It doesn’t count when you’re drunk. Besides, it’s been long enough that medically I know my original proclamation is true.”
Sandi smiled again. She had a way of pre-emptive smiling that told me she was about to deliver an “I told you so” moment. I really didn’t need her to say it; I knew exactly what it would be. She said anyway. “See? You never should have given up law. You instinctively went into paternity suit protection mode.” Throughout most of our marriage, particularly the latter half, Sandi had generally proved herself the stronger advocate of our union. Why she hadn’t entered the practice of law herself is a puzzle. It might have been the requirement to show up at work each day which would have interfered with her spa exercise and facials.
“Is that why you’re here?” I tossed out desperately. “Are you trying to find some warped means of obtaining child support?” It did not appear there was any way I could restore my dignity in whatever this debate was about. With most people I didn’t care. I’m a gracious loser with plenty of practice. But somehow with Sandi I could never bring myself to concede.
“I thought you might want to know. That’s all.” She put on her genuine hurt look. I knew how contrived it was, but I fell for it every time.
“I’m sorry.” I restated my “talking with my ex-wife” mantra, deciding to play nice for the remainder of our chat. “That was thoughtful of you.” I paused momentarily. “Do you know who the father is?” Whoops.
She brushed past me towards the door. “That’s it. We’re done.” This was the part of the conversation I knew I didn’t have to respond to. Sandi never left the room without a parting shot. Sure enough, she got as far as having her hand on the doorknob when she turned around to face me. “You are a little, little man,” she proclaimed, staring obviously below my waist as she pronounced the second “little.” It was almost disappointing. I’d heard that one before, but it still left a new scar each time.
“Thanks for stopping by,” I threw in the last word as she headed out the door. “I’m sure you’ll let me know where you’re registered for shower gifts.” Not bad, considering how little time for prep I’d had.
“Prick,” she hissed, sticking her head back in the doorway. With that, she turned and left. Always the last insult.
With Sandi out of my life—at least for the evening—I took to the task that I spent most of my evenings on: marking and preparing for class. After last night’s failed attempt to complete my marking, I knew I had some catching up to do. If there’s one thing I had learned in my long teaching