It has been such a long time since I have felt loved.
I am in my early forties, still slim and divorced. My one major flaw – at least in the eyes of my husband of 15 years, is that I am a survivor of breast cancer. At the age of 39, I discovered a lump in my right breast, which, upon examination and a biopsy, turned out to be cancerous. In order to stop the spread of this virulent growth, I had to have the breast removed in a partial mastectomy.
I suppose that I have to give my loving husband some credit; he waited until I was discharged from the hospital to inform me that he would be sleeping in the guest room since he couldn't stand the sight of my scars. He always turned his back to me when I changed into my nightgown and then left for the other room. It was only two months later when he advised me late one rainy night that he was leaving me.
In his or so memorable words, 'I was damaged goods and he wanted a whole woman in his bed'. He then informed me that he was moving in with his much younger secretary – I had met her at social functions and although she was admittedly good looking, she had little to offer other than a great body with all its parts.
When we had married, I had quit my job as a primary teacher (although I loved the kids so much) and stayed home to be the 'trophy' wife at all my husband's business functions. He always insisted that I wear revealing gowns (with push-up bras to enhance my 35-C breasts) and the highest of heels to accent my long legs. I know that many a deal was closed while the poor smucks were oogling my body. Upon more than one occasion, dear hubby even asked me to be extra friendly with a tough sell but I always vehemently refused. I was no one's whore!
The night he left me in a fury, his car went out of control on the rain slick surface of the interstate – he was on his way to his bimbo girlfriend – crossed the median and was totalled by an oncoming semi. Although I found it hard to feel great sorrow for the man, I wandered somewhat lost through the funeral and burial. Then, seemingly like a vapour in the wind, our mutual friends started to disappear for good. It was as if I was a pariah to the married women (was I going to steal their husbands? Not likely!). All the friends I had known had been our friends or my husband's colleagues so, like many divorced women, I became a loner.
I learned that my dear Dave had cleaned out all our joint accounts and cashed in all his investments. I was only able to trace the funds to an offshore account that, even with his death, remained sealed to me without the codes. I had always let Dave handle the finances and on the reading of the will, I learned that he had even taken out a second mortgage on the house that was in default. Apparently much of 'our' money went to expensive jewellery, furs, cars and a penthouse for his mistress/secretary.
I think what hurt the most was that my best friend Miranda suddenly stopped returning my calls; it was as if she thought my cancer was contagious! I found myself alone.
I needed to keep busy and also desperately needed a job so I phoned my former principal at the elementary school I had worked at when I married Dave. The school was in another state a thousand miles from where Dave and I had moved to further his career. It turned out that the principal was now a superintendent and she was so glad to hear from me, I wept as we spoke. She asked what the problem was and I poured out my sad tale.
She asked me when I could start – she had a Grade One class begging for a teacher in her division and the job was mine if I wanted it. Without any hesitation, I told her I could be there in two weeks, which corresponded to the start of the school year. I hurriedly packed my meagre belongings, advised the bank the house and all its contents (except for a small van load of favourites that I shipped on ahead of me along with my car) was theirs and after cashing the $15,000 in bonds that Dave had hidden in my name to avoid the IRS, I caught a plane to the small mid-western town called New Plains.
The superintendent picked me up at the plane and after giving me a warm hug of welcome and caring, drove me to a realtor friend who had several small homes for me to look at to rent. The third one was like a dollhouse and I fell in love with it immediately. I fairly gushed over it when I learned that the owner was anxious to sell it and that with a small down payment, I could manage the mortgage from what I would be earning. I signed the paperwork and the keys were handed over to me just as the movers drove up in their truck. I had given the realtor's office the mover's phone number and while I was looking, they managed to contact the driver on his cell to send him to the right address.
Within three days, with the help of Diane (my superintendent) and her team of friends, I was all moved in and I held a pizza and beer night party in the small backyard in appreciation for their help.
