The Thirty-Eighth Divorce's End

The scalding liquid struck my chest and face not as a splash, but as a solid sheet of fire.

The pain was a white, blinding nova. I screamed, my body recoiling, the chair tipping backward. I struck the floor hard, my head cracking against the polished wood.

The sounds of the restaurant—the clatter of silver, the murmur of conversation—warped and stretched, receding to a distant hum. Through a shimmering fog of agony, I saw Ethan leap to his feet, his face a mask of horror.

“Aurora!”

He starts toward me, but Ilene is faster. She grabs his arm, her own face streaming with tears, her voice a hysterical shriek.

“She deserved it, Ethan! She was mocking me! Don’t you see? It’s her fault I crashed my car! It’s her fault I can’t have babies! She ruined my life!”

Ethan freezes. He looks from my crumpled form on the floor to Ilene’s sobbing face. The old, familiar battle played out in his eyes: the debt against the vow, the ghost against the wife.

Ilene wraps her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. “Take me away from here, Ethan,” she cries. “Please, take me home. I’m scared.”

He looks at me one last time. I’m lying in a puddle of soup, my skin screaming, my vision constricting to a narrow tunnel. I see his hesitation. I see the choice he is about to make.

He scoops Ilene into his arms and carries her out of the restaurant. He doesn’t look back.

The last thing I felt before the darkness took me completely was the cold, sticky texture of the floor beneath my cheek.

Consciousness returned not as a light, but as a sensation: a deep, internal throbbing, as if hot needles were stirring in the muscle beneath my skin. My eyelids were gummed together, and it took a great effort to pry them open a crack. The world above was a blurred expanse of white ceiling tiles and the translucent form of an intravenous bag suspended in my field of vision. A figure in blue scrubs moved nearby, the rubber soles of their shoes making a soft, rhythmic friction against the linoleum.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a gentle voice said. “You gave us quite a scare. You have some nasty second-degree burns, but you’ll be okay.”

I don’t feel okay.

“Your parents were here all night,” she continued, fluffing my pillow. “They were so worried. Your father just stepped out to get some coffee. Oh, and a man identifying as your husband called a little while ago, asking about your condition. He sounded very anxious.”

The image of Ethan carrying Ilene away flashed in my mind. A knot of iron formed in my throat, a pain sharper than any burn.

He left me on the floor.

“We’re divorced,” I say, my voice a dry rasp.

The nurse looks surprised, but before she can say anything, the door to my room swings open.

It’s Ethan. He looks tired, his hair is a mess, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

“Rory,” he says, relief flooding his face. He rushes to my bedside. “Don’t say things like that. We’re not divorced, not really.”

He tries to take my hand, but I pull it away.

“Ilene… she didn’t mean it,” he starts, a familiar excuse on his lips. “She’s just not well. She feels so guilty, she’s been crying all night.”

He apologizes. “I’m so sorry, Rory. I am so, so sorry.”

I look at him, at this man I have loved for so long, and I feel nothing but a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion.

“She’s more important, isn’t she?” I say, my voice flat. “The one you left me on the floor for.”

“That’s not it—”

“This whole thing,” I interrupt, “this sick game of divorce and remarriage, of my pain to soothe her ‘anxiety’… I’m done, Ethan.”

My voice is quiet, but it’s stronger than it’s been in years.

“Go be with her. Go take care of her. She obviously needs you more.”

He looks confused, as if he can’t comprehend my words. “Rory, are you still angry? I know I messed up. I know I should have stayed with you.”

He grabs my hand, his grip tight, and avoids my eyes, his gaze fixed on a stain on the wall. “She was holding a knife, Rory,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What else could I do? You just need to get better… once this is over, everything will be fine.”

“How long, Ethan?” I ask, the question hanging in the sterile air between us. “Another five years? Ten? Will you be placating her on her deathbed while I wait?”

He falls silent.

“It’s my fault,” he finally whispers, the same words he has said a thousand times. “I owe her.”

I’ve heard that phrase so many times. It used to make me feel sympathy. Now it just makes me feel tired.

I close my eyes. My chest feels heavy, as if it were packed with wet earth.

“Yes,” I whisper back. “You do owe her.”

I take a breath, preparing to say the words I should have said years ago. The words I decided on in the car.

But just as I open my mouth, his phone rings.

It’s a video call. Ilene’s tear-streaked face fills the screen. Her voice is shrill and accusatory.

“Ethan Bruce! You promised you would be right back! Why are you with her? I told you to stay away from her!”

She starts sobbing. “I’m not eating. I won’t eat anything until you come back. If I starve to death, it’s your fault!”

Ethan’s face sets in a familiar mask of frustration and resignation. He rubs his temples.

“Okay, Ilene. Calm down. I’m coming.”

He gets up to leave. He leans down to kiss my forehead, but I turn my head away.

“Rory, get some rest,” he says softly. “I’ll be back later tonight to check on you.”

A dry, bitter laugh escapes my lips. Later tonight. After he’s tucked Ilene into bed and promised her the world.

I watch him hurry out the door, his phone still pressed to his ear, his voice a low, soothing murmur meant for another woman.

The door clicks shut, leaving me in silence.

I turn my head and stare at the empty doorway.

“I was going to say,” I whisper to the empty room, “that you owe her everything. So you can have her.”

“But I don’t owe either of you a damn thing.”

“From this moment on, Ethan Bruce, you and I are over. For good.”