The Thirty-Eighth Divorce's End

Today is my fifth wedding anniversary. It's also the day my husband, Ethan, asked me for a divorce for the 38th time. He does this for Ilene, his childhood friend. The woman who crashed her car on our wedding day, leaving her unable to have children. Ever since, he's been repaying a debt of guilt, and I've been the price. For five years, I endured the cycle of divorce and remarriage. But this time was different. Ilene pushed me down a flight of stairs. Ethan found me bleeding and promised me justice. He swore he would make her pay. But days later, the police called. The security footage of the incident had been mysteriously erased. There was no evidence, no case. That night, Ilene had me kidnapped. As her men tore at my clothes in the back of a van, I managed to call Ethan. He rejected my call. I jumped from the moving van. And as I ran for my life, bleeding on the cold asphalt, I made a vow. This time, there would be no 39th remarriage. This time, I would disappear. Chapter 1 Today is our fifth wedding anniversary. Ethan Bruce, my husband, stands before me. He possesses the same handsome severity as the day I met him, all sharp angles in his eyes and the straight line of his nose. But the words that issue from his mouth are a dissonance on such a day. “Let’s get a divorce.” I register no shock. I feel no particular sorrow. I merely watch him, a stillness settled in my chest, not of peace, but of vacancy. “Do you know this is our ninth divorce?” I ask. A flicker of something hunted crosses his eyes. His gaze slides away from mine, finding a point of interest on the wall behind me. “Ilene Wolf is threatening to jump off the roof,” he says, his voice a low current of sound. “She says she won’t come down unless I divorce you. You know her anxiety…” I cut him off. “Hmm, I know.” I’ve known for five years. I’ve known through eight previous dissolutions. “So, how long will this one last?” I ask, my voice even. He looks surprised, as if he had braced himself for the storm of tears or the shriek of recrimination. He no longer receives what he expects from me. “Once her mood stabilizes, we’ll get remarried,” he promises. He reaches out as if to touch my shoulder, but his hand arrests itself in mid-air and falls back to his side. “Okay?” I study his face, the war playing out in the tight set of his jaw, and I am struck by the absurdity of it. A terrible, hollow comedy. “Okay,” I say. “After all, we owe it to her.” The courthouse staff knows us by name. “Back again?” The clerk, a woman named Martha, pushes a pair of spectacles up the bridge of her nose. She retrieves the familiar forms from a drawer, the motion practiced and weary. She has become an expert in the architecture of our ruin. “Still an amicable divorce this time?” I nod and take the pen she offers. Ethan signs his name beside mine. The nib scratches against the parchment, a sharp, decisive sound. He has made this sound eight times before. He is proficient at it. When it’s my turn, the pen hovers over the paper. I feel a brief, internal hesitation, a tremor of some old, forgotten sentiment. This is the ninth time. The first time, I cried until my throat was raw and I could not draw breath. The second time, I asked him, “Why, Ethan? Why?” The third, the fourth… a confused smear of pain and pleading. By the fifth time, I could walk in here and exchange a dry pleasantry with Martha. “Please hurry,” I’d say, “We have plans.” I take a deep breath. I meticulously sign my name, Aurora Kemp. This time, I inscribe it with unusual care. Each letter is rendered perfectly, a small, final monument. When we step outside, Ilene is waiting. Not on a roof, but right there on the courthouse steps, a study in frail victory. She rushes past me and throws herself into Ethan’s arms. “Ethan! I knew you’d choose me! I knew you loved me more!” Ethan’s body goes rigid. He looks over her shoulder at me, his eyes filled with an emotion I cannot name. Guilt? Apology? It is of no consequence. He tries to gently push her away. “Ilene, that’s enough.” She just clings tighter, ignoring him completely. She snatches the divorce papers from his hand and waves them in my face like a captured standard. “See this, Aurora? He’s mine now. He was always mine.” I don’t say a word. I just watch them. A profound weariness has settled deep in my bones. “Ilene!” Ethan’s voice is sharp with annoyance. “Stop it.” She immediately changes tactics. Her face crumples, and she starts to sob against his chest. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I’m just so happy. Let’s go celebrate! Please?” Then, she looks at me, a malicious glint in her tear-filled eyes. “Why don’t we invite Aurora? To celebrate our new beginning. And her end.” Ethan looks at me, his expression an apology writ large. He is asking me with his eyes to play along. Just one more time. For a reason I don’t understand myself, I nod. “Sure.” We all get in his car. Ilene sits in the front, leaning against Ethan, her hand resting possessively on his leg. I sit in the back, an unacknowledged shade in the theater of my own life. I watch her fingers trace patterns on the coarse fabric of his trousers. I watch him grip the steering wheel, his knuckles standing out white and stark, but he does not remove her hand. He never removes her hand. Silence. Indulgence. Compromise. That has been his response to Ilene for five long years. It starts to rain outside, the drops drawing long, weeping lines down the glass. The sight sends me back in time. Five years ago. Our wedding day. Ethan and I were the golden couple of our university. He was the brilliant business student, and I was the promising artist. Our love was a swift, consuming fire. He was possessed of a different sort of gentleness then. He would hold my hands, the ones stained with turpentine and paint, and tell me they were the most beautiful hands in the world. Ilene was always there, a figure in the periphery. His childhood friend. The girl who was obsessively in love with him, who followed him everywhere. “She’s just like a sister to me,” he would say, brushing off my concerns. “Don’t worry, Rory. It’s you I love.” I believed him. On our wedding day, as I stood in my white dress, his phone buzzed relentlessly. It was Ilene. “Don’t answer it, Ethan,” I said, a knot of cold unease tightening in my stomach. “Not today. Today is for us.” He smiled, kissed my forehead, and silenced his phone. It was the best day of my life, for a few hours. Later, we found out what happened. While we were saying our vows, Ilene, drunk and hysterical, crashed her car. The accident was severe. She was rushed to the hospital. Her body was a ruin of broken bones. The doctors told us she would never be able to have children. The guilt became a living thing inside Ethan, a weight that bent his shoulders. He felt responsible because he had ignored her calls. From that day on, a debt was formed. A debt he felt he, and by extension, I, had to repay. Ilene’s physical wounds healed, but her mind did not. She was diagnosed with severe anxiety and depression. She began to wield her fragility as a weapon. Anytime Ethan and I were happy, she would have a breakdown. A panic attack. A suicide threat. And every time, Ethan would give in. To calm her down, he would agree to her demands. And her biggest demand was always the same: “Divorce Aurora.” So we did. The first time, he held me as I cried and promised it was just for show. After a few weeks, when Ilene was “stable” again, she would come to us, crying and apologizing. Ethan would forgive her. And we would remarry. Then the cycle would repeat. And repeat. Nine times. I went from agony to numbness to a bone-deep weariness that settled into my soul. My paintbrushes gathered dust. The world, which had once presented itself to me in a symphony of vibrant color, became a muted landscape of grey. In the car, I watch Ethan’s profile as he drives. He is still handsome, still the man I fell in love with. But he’s also a stranger who has allowed another woman to ruin our lives. He just let her touch him. He let her sit in my seat. He’s taking us to celebrate my divorce. A strange quietude descended upon me, and in that silence, a single, unadorned thought took root. This time is the last time. There will be no tenth remarriage. I take out my phone and send a text to my brother. [Are Mom and Dad home?] He replies almost instantly. [Yeah. What's up?] [I'll be there in an hour. We need to talk.] Then I text my parents. [I'm leaving him. For good this time. I want to move. Far away. Will you come with me?] My mother's reply is a string of worried emojis. My father's is simple and direct. [We are here for you. Always.] A single tear, hot and unexpected, escapes and traces a path down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. I have cried enough tears for this man. I will not cry anymore. We arrive at a fancy restaurant. Ilene insists on sitting next to Ethan, clinging to his arm like a child. He tries to pull away, but she starts to whimper. “Ethan, you hate me now, don’t you? After everything I’ve been through…” He sighs, defeated, and lets her stay. He cuts her steak for her, pours her wine. People at other tables look at them, smiling. They look like a couple deeply in love. I feel like a piece of furniture, present but unregarded. My bag is on the seat next to me. It slips, and a small sketchbook falls out. I haven't used it in months. Ilene sees it. Her face changes. “What is that?” she snaps. “Are you trying to show off? Trying to remind him of what you used to be?” She lunges across the table, her eyes wild. Before I can react, she grabs the bowl of hot soup in front of her and throws it directly at my face.