Jackie Wagner

Black was surprisingly complicated. Apparently, it wasn’t even a colour, but the absence of colour. I squeezed some Iron Oxide Black from the tube onto my glass palette and felt guilty. One of my painting instructors had said that real artists mixed their own black. But every time I tried to make black, all I got was this really ugly brownish grey. No matter how many complementary colours I added, the paint was never sufficiently black.

I dipped the brush into the juicy paint and ran a line across the canvas. Could anyone tell that my black came from a tube? Would a hand-mixed black be more complex and fantastic? Maybe it was like the difference between baking from scratch and using a cake mix. But I had used my share of cake mixes, too. When you remembered the night before that you had to bring birthday cupcakes for an entire grade two class, Betty Crocker was your flipping BFF.

Maybe that was my problem as a wife—too many shortcuts instead of doing the right thing the right way. No, that was ridiculous. Brent hadn’t left over cake mixes. It must have been not doing the things he considered important. But damn it, I could never figure out what those things were. Living with Brent was like a multiple-choice exam when you had skipped the entire semester—you could only guess at the right answers.

I shook my head, trying to physically clear those discouraging thoughts from my brain. This was why I loved painting. It was the one activity that allowed me to stop worrying.

The tulips in front of me were beginning to droop slightly. This was the problem working with live models instead of photographs—everything changed, the objects, the lighting, the angles. But my new painting teacher, Uwe, was so dramatic. He had actually torn up one woman’s photo reference and thrown it on the floor. After a horrified silence, he told the class that if we wanted photos we should take photos, but if we wanted paintings we needed to learn to see things in real life.

I squinted at the flowers. Maybe reality was better, because I had to really look at the shapes and dimensions instead of gridding everything out. And in the evening light in the dining room, I realized something big. The flowers weren’t only red. They had pinks, yellows, whites, and greens in them. And where the petals were almost translucent, I could see all kinds of veins and lines. Maybe Uwe was right. I mixed some new colours on my palette and tried to capture that lovely yellowish-green shade. So fresh.

“Mommy!” Tristan squeezed his arms around my hips.

“Darling! You’re home already?”

With a pang of guilt, I checked my watch. Not only did it have paint on it, but it was forty minutes past the time I meant to quit. As usual, I’d completely lost track of time while I was painting.

I brushed the bangs off my face with the back of a paint-splattered hand and looked up. Brent and Hannah were standing there, and both of them had the same look on their face—slightly disdainful. Like I was some disorganized flake who had to be tolerated. If only I were showered and perfectly dressed with the studio transformed back to a dining room, as I’d planned. I smiled apologetically, but neither my ex-husband nor my daughter smiled back. Damn.

“Still doing your painting?” Brent asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer. Tristan dragged him away to show him something. Hannah sidled in and looked at my unfinished canvas.

“Flowers again?” Then her tone softened. “I like the colours. Did you miss us?”

I kissed the top of her head. “Of course. It’s so boring when you’re not here. How did your soccer game go?”

“We lost again,” she said. “But I played good.”

That was typical Hannah; she worried about doing her part more than winning. I began jamming all the tubes of paint back into their box.

“Where’s Minx?” my daughter asked.

“I think she’s sleeping on your bed.”

At least she had been when I last saw her this morning. I admired that lazy cat’s ability to sleep eight hours straight. Since Brent left, I had not slept through the night once. But the good thing about sleeping alone was there was nobody to complain if you turned on the light to read. Hannah took off to see her beloved pet.

I was rinsing my brushes in the kitchen sink when Brent walked in and cleared his throat.

“Listen, Jackie, we need to talk.” The sweet tone of his voice meant that he really wanted something. When we were married it might have a been a guys’ weekend in Vegas, trading in his almost new car, or a blow job. But now what could it be?

Against all reason, hope bubbled up inside me. Did he want to come back? This was my secret fantasy. If my life were a movie, then Brent was the only eligible male in the cast, so naturally all my romantic thoughts were centred on him. It was two years since he packed up and left. Now we were legally divorced, and he was dating Margaret Whittaker. Reality should have sunk in by now, but I was still an optimistic idiot. Or just a regular idiot.

I dropped the brushes into the sink. Then I smoothed out my hair and smiled. Well, I tried to smile, but my expression felt fake and awkward. That was the problem with seeing Brent. I never knew exactly how to act with him. We couldn’t go back to our loving familiarity, but I couldn’t treat him like a stranger either. There was so much left unsaid between us. We really should have had a screaming, plate-throwing fight that night he said he was leaving. That would have been more satisfying and given me some closure. Like donating a pint of blood at once, instead of releasing it drop by drop.

“Yes?” I asked.

He was staring at my mouth. That used to be the signal he wanted to kiss me. Holy crap, did he want to kiss me? Because I still found him attractive, damn it. His thick dark hair curling over his forehead, those soft lips, and that five o’clock shadow that he had five minutes after shaving. Maybe he’d put on weight in the past year, but it wasn’t too bad. There wasn’t one man I’d met since he left who ignited the passion I used to feel for Brent. I moistened my lips and waited.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Don’t do what?”

“Lick your lips. You have paint on your mouth. In fact, you have paint on your cheek, too.” His own lips curled in disgust.

I flushed and rubbed the side of my face. But since I had no idea where the paint was and it was probably dry, there was really no point. I mentally kicked myself. I was certifiable for even considering that something might be going on between us.

The solid figure of Margaret flashed into my mind. She was not unattractive, but she had quiet, forgettable looks. “You’re way better-looking,” so many women had reassured me after meeting her, as if that were the only important thing. I was the only woman in the universe whose husband had left her and moved onto someone less attractive. While that might seem comforting on the surface, it had led people to speculate on what horrible things must be wrong with me. If Margaret were a young, blonde Barbie doll, everyone would have understood that it was all about sex. But Brent and I had a normal married sex life, at least from what I’d gleaned from comparisons with my girlfriends. Besides, if Brent wanted more sex, he would have asked for it. That was his personality. So, if it wasn’t sex, what was the problem? Last week, I took a quiz called Ten Signs Your Marriage is in Trouble, and we had only checked off two of them.

“Earth to Jackie,” Brent interrupted. “Can you please pay attention? This is important.”

“Oh, sorry.” I trained my eyes back on him.

“Look, when we finalized the divorce, we agreed that you and the kids could continue to live here for the time being.”

“Yes. Staying here with all their friends and the same school has really worked out well.” That was one thing I’d prided myself on. I had completely minimized the disruption in Hannah and Tristan’s lives. Except for the absence of their father, our home life was exactly the same.

“Sure. But it’s been a couple of years since I left, so they’ve had lots of time to adjust. Anyhoo, Vancouver’s real estate market is pretty overheated right now.”

I waited. Brent had his lecture voice on, so I knew better than to interrupt.

“A real estate bubble is like a game of musical chairs. When the music stops, you don’t want to be the one without a chair.”

“So, we’ll hold on to the house?”

Brent shook his head. “No, no, no. We need to make sure we get the money out while prices are high. We don’t want to be left holding on to the house once its value goes down.”

“Oh, because in musical chairs, the goal is to be left with something,” I pointed out.

“Well, perhaps my analogy wasn’t perfect, but you don’t have to act obtuse.”

I widened my eyes in mock surprise. When he got huffy, he used big words. Like I couldn’t be offended if he called me obtuse instead of stupid. Sure, I knew exactly what he meant in the first place, but I hated when he explained things to me like I was five years old. Besides, my point was that I didn’t want to move. I had worked hard on this house, and I loved it. The kids loved it too. “But if we sell the house where are the kids and I going to live?”

“You’ll get half the proceeds from the sale. You can buy a new place.” Brent made that task seem like nothing.

“I don’t want to move.” My voice sounded whiny even to my ears.

“Jackie, I’ve been more than generous. Most husbands would have insisted that we liquidate all our assets when the divorce was finalized, but instead I’ve continued to pay the mortgage as well as child support.”

The mortgage payments were in lieu of alimony and not out of the goodness of your heart, I thought but didn’t say. “But we agreed… staying here would be best for the kids.” Tristan had been hit hardest when Brent left. For the first six months, our son had to see a therapist who had recommended keeping his school and home life stable to minimize the stresses in his life.

“Surely you didn’t think you’d continue to live here until Tris graduated from high school. He’s much better now, and if you have to move, this is the perfect time. Hannah has a year left before high school, so she can make new friends easily.”

“But they’ve lived in West Van their whole lives.”

“If staying here is so important to you, maybe you need to get a job.”

“I have a job.” I worked in an art supply store. Now was probably not the time to let Brent know my hours had been cut way back since Christmas.

“A real job. Not a minimum wage job that’s only part-time.”

Like Margaret’s job. She was some kind of business consultant or so I’d gleaned from LinkedIn. But if I had a full-time job, who would get the kids to school? Who would stay home with Tristan when he had an upset stomach because of things going wrong? Who would chauffeur everyone to their after-school activities?

I placed my hands flat on the table and noticed that my fingernails were edged with black. “But if we sell and I only get half, I won’t be able to afford to live in this neighbourhood anymore.” Our home was lovely, but it was one of the smaller places to begin with and we had only a single lot. Maybe I’d be able to find a rental townhouse, but that wasn’t the same thing. My parents always said that owning a home was the best investment you could make.

Brent nodded. “Yeah. But you know, moving might not be the worst thing in the world. The kids always have a great time downtown with me.”

Maybe. Raising your kids in a city condo was a trend, but not one I had ever imagined doing. I grew up in the suburbs, surrounded by trees, big yards, and friendly neighbours. But so many of my expectations had changed. Maybe this was one more. There was a huge lump in my throat. The kids were downstairs, laughing as they played some computer game. A curl of anger rose up. We all loved this home. Maintaining our normal home life was the one accomplishment I’d prided myself on, and now Brent was taking that away.

“Why is this happening now? It can’t be just about the real estate market. The homes around here have been rising in value—despite someone saying every year that it can’t last.”

He looked down at the marble countertop. “Well, I’ve seen a condo development downtown that I think would be a good investment for me. I need to free up money for the down payment on that.”

“Only you?”

He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Does that really matter?”

Did that meant that he was moving in with her? It wasn’t even about Margaret, who seemed like a nice person in the five minutes we’d spoken, but more about the amount of time the kids would get. They loved having Brent’s undivided attention. In some ways, he spent more consecutive hours with them now then he had done when he was still here. And how old was Margaret? Were they thinking about kids? My poor sweeties would get shunted to the sidelines when cute new babies appeared on the scene. Then they would turn into teenagers with psychological issues.

I sighed loudly. That single train of thought led into a dismal future that was still years away. Sometimes having a good imagination was the worst thing.

Brent shook his head. As usual he could see right into my head and figure out what I was thinking. “Don’t worry, Jacks. Everything’ll be fine.”

“Isn’t there anything I could do to stay here?”

He sniffed. “Well, you could buy out my half of the house.”

I did some mental calculations. The house down the street had sold for over two million, and ours was nicer. So the ballpark price would be from two and half million to three. Holy Mother of God, I’d need a million dollars to buy him out. That wasn’t happening. My dad had assured me that I could count on them if I had any big financial problems, but he was talking about the van breaking down—not a house purchase.

But Brent knew all this before he made the proposal. He went over to the fridge to get a Coke, while I was busy having a stress attack.

“Look, if you want to stay in this neighbourhood, you’re going to have to downsize and get a job.”

“I like to be here for the kids when they get home.” I also liked making gourmet dinners for Brent and maintaining a beautiful home, but that job had been yanked out from under my feet.

“The kids are getting older. They can handle a little independence.” He motioned towards the plastic container of art supplies on the dining room table. “Maybe it’s time to stop dreaming and playing around.”

Meaning stop making art. Everyone knew that artists didn’t make much money. All my instructors seemed to have multiple jobs.

“Art isn’t about money for me, it’s more like an escape.”

“An escape? You live in a beautiful house beside a rain forest, you work part-time, and I support you and the kids. What possible stresses could you have?”

I was tempted to reply, “Well, the man I was in love with, who promised to love me forever, decided he needed more out of life and walked out. On the scale of one to traumatic, that’s pretty high.” But instead I said nothing.

Brent drank his Coke and looked around the kitchen and into the family room beyond. “Well, the place looks great. If you do some of that clutter-clearing stuff, it will look even more spacious.”

I knew exactly what he was doing now too, because we used to practice his first sales calls together. “Assume the close,” Brent always said. He was assuming that I would go along with the sale of the house, because what choice did I really have?

“Does it have to be right away?” I asked. I cursed the pleading tone in my voice, mainly because it was pointless.

He nodded. “It’s March. Most family houses are sold in the spring, so that families can move in the summer and start the new school year in their new homes.”

“It’s a lot to consider at once. Give me some time to think things through.” Tonight, I could reread the terms of our divorce agreement. I was pretty sure we both had to agree in order to sell. But it wasn’t like I’d take him to court. We’d worked so hard to keep things calm and civil, so what was the point of poisoning his relationship with the kids now? And why did he get to be the one to initiate these major life changes? Still, Brent had been very fair about child support and staying in our home; all my divorced girlfriends had commented on it.

“Sure. Take your time,” Brent replied.

But once he got an idea, he was like a dog on a bone, which was why he was such a successful investment advisor. He would ask me again on Wednesday when he came to get the kids. He was already eyeing the house like a prospective buyer.

That was the trouble with knowing someone so well. You knew when an argument was already lost.