Freedom At Lunch

I have plans to have my ex over for lunch so that together we can sign some legal documents that will lead to the finality of our marriage. I could not stand the thought of meeting with him yet again in a public place where we both have to fight to hide our feelings, and where we can't truly be authentic with one another. This time, I want our meeting to be on my terms. Surprisingly, he is 100% onboard with the idea. When I pick him up downtown at Cafe Artigiano, he is holding his usual quadruple Americano in one hand, and a soy-decaf latte in the other for me. I roll down the window and grin at him as he hands me my coffee, and then he throws his bag in the back seat, and hops into the passenger's seat. The sun is shining and house music is playing on my car stereo. He leans over and kisses me once on each cheek, the way the Greeks do it. It's nice to see him again. 

We cruise up to my place, an east side home that sits across from an elementary school on a quiet street. This is the side of town where people still have plenty of yard space and lots of green grass. It is a calm Sunday and I notice how he seems so at peace, standing outside my house in the quiet sun, smiling.

Inside we sit in the living room on the big L-shaped couch. It is weird that it still feels so comfortable being around him. He starts talking first, telling me about some of his Truths, things he probably never would have mentioned while we were still married.  I smile and listen to him talk, realizing how much compassion I have for this gentle man sitting on the other side of the couch. I watch his eyes and I hold space for him to be honest about his feelings, knowing that this is something that's always been difficult for him. He slowly tells me about a memory he had just this morning, one that doesn't make him feel good. Instead of angrily defending myself, I soften and say "Yes I know, I remember that too". He pauses and looks at me, and then after a few moments, feeling safe, continues to talk more openly.  Instead of scrapping, we are finally hearing one another. He wants to know why we did the things we did, and I can see that he is in pain.  My heart goes out, and I move over to sit beside him.  I say that we both did the best we could, and that we didn't know we were hurting one another.  I realize I am not the only one who is haunted by memories, by visions that we can't do a thing about any longer. I hope he feels supported by me now, in this place where truth feels so uncomfortable.  He doesn't move away but instead accepts me rubbing a single hand on his back.  I know him well enough to know that he would have never asked anyone for support in these last months, and here today in this house, away from public eyes, he can finally let himself feel. We sit in the silence for a few moments until forgiveness washes over us.

For lunch I cook herbed chicken and steamed vegetables tossed with olive oil and sautéed garlic, with a plate of feta cheese, olives, and cucumber. We drink sparkling mineral water with slices of lemon. It is all just like it used to be, but it's sad sitting across the table from him now.  He holds his glass up and looks me in the eyes the way they do in Greece, and says "Cheers". I smile and hold his gaze and reply "Yamas" (Greek for "cheers"). Again I notice that it just feels so normal sitting with him, enjoying a meal. I tell him this, and then continue to tell him dinner time used to be my favourite time of the day. Curious, he asks why. I reply "Because it was the only time that we got to be together, it was the only time I felt we were really on the same page. I used to love dinner time with you".  He blinks as if this is the first time he's realized this sentimental fact. It probably is the first time.  Our lunch is turning out to be a nice time, as the conversation moves between our feelings about our marriage, to the mundane, to the quirky. We chuckle easily together, finding that familiar tone, that sense of humour. The kind of language that only two people who were once married can share with one another.

The sun is coming in through the dining room window, and he moves his chair to my side of the table so we can sit in the sunshine together. I say "I love the sunshine". He smiles lovingly at me and says "I know you do, Char".  Right then a memory flashes in my head and I start to tell him about it. It's a memory of a beautiful vacant, naturalist beach in southern France, the Languedoc-Roussillon region. Someone in a shop drew us a map, and we took off in our little rental car down a dusty road to search out the perfect place to lie in the sun, sans clothing. Finding the beach, a breath-taking, long, vacant beach of sandy dunes and crashing waves, we laid our beach blanket down in a perfect little hiding spot nestled close to the long grass, up on the hill a ways from the roar of the waves. Almost ritualistic, we spread our towels, set up our music, and shaded our lunch, making ourselves ready to enjoy a long, luxurious day in the sun with nothing else on the agenda.  I go on to tell him that I remember watching him walk in the warm sun down to the water and dive in. I say "I was always so amazed at how fearless you were in the water". I tell him how I thought he swam so confidently, and how I loved to watch him swim. Then I tell him that I kept on watching him as he resurfaced from the salty Mediterranean and walked up the beach, his strong, Greek, god-like legs carrying him across the sand dunes and back to our space. My eyes start to mist over again. His eyes and his facial expression tell me that he's also gone back in time with me. I look at him and say "I thought you were so beautiful".

Hadn't I told him then, as well? I was sure I had. Maybe he didn't hear me? Why are we able to hear one another now? A couple more tears spring from my eyes and he reaches over takes me in his arms, sitting there in the dining room in the sunshine. For a minute, I feel safe and warm.

After lunch, we move back to the living room. I say "So, do you wanna just do this?" and he goes and gets the papers from his bag while I grab a blue pen. Nice and legal. We sit down beside one another on the couch and he signs first and then lays the pen down. I hear his breathing beside me, heavy and rapid. I know he is upset. I pick up the pen and methodically start to sign my name in the appropriate spaces. My eyes fill so quickly that I can hardly see what I am writing. I just know I am signing my name by the feel of the pen's stroke, just like I've signed it so many other times before without thinking about. But this time it stings really bad. When I finish signing, I put the pen down and let my face drop into my hands. I feel his big arms around me, the familiar arms of the man who used to be my husband. Together we sit on that stupid couch for many minutes, crying quietly and holding one another. I see the past 6 years run like the reel of a movie in front of my eyes. All the memories, all the heartaches, all the love, all the dreams. Gone with a couple strokes of pen.  Just sign your name on the dotted line, and voila. You're divorced.  It's more difficult to get married than it is to get divorced.

When I drop him off back downtown a little while later, I sigh heavily. So I am free now.

This morning I wake up not to the usual panic attack, but to thoughts of my future. Hopeful, uncertain, free. I briefly let my mind wander over the Atlantic ocean to the land of tulips and wooden shoes. I linger there for only a second, and then I shake it off.  Focus on your freedom now, Char.

On my break I walk over to Urban Fare to pick up some groceries to make a big healthy salad for lunch. Right there in the middle of the produce department while looking over the organic lemons, I start to think of my ex again. But this time it is a vision not of him and I, but of him and his new girlfriend. I start to feel the beginnings of an emotional attack setting in. I almost drop my lemon and start to groan quietly, glancing quickly around the store to find something that will take my mind off of it, something that will stop my eyes from overflowing so bloody quickly. Damn! I didn't even have a chance to stop it, it hit me so fast! I let my feet carry me swiftly to the back aisles of the store, trying to catch my breath and fighting to focus on something different... what should I have in my salad? A nice can of tuna. Flaked or chunk? That's it Charleen, move your thoughts somewhere else.  Slowly my breathing levels out.  I close my eyes and look inward, trying not to be too hard on myself for still having difficulty with it all. Once I am sufficiently calm, I glide back over to the check-out stands, feeling the drain from the attack I've just had. I always feel so crummy and so uncertain about myself afterwards, and not centered.  It always baffles me how my day can be clipping along at a nice pace, when WHAM! I get completely hit from the side. I feel like a football player who didn't even see it coming, only I'm not wearing any protective gear or a helmet. Well, at least I am wearing my big sunglasses! I don't want to look at anyone, and I sure don't want anyone to see me either. I am certain that if I take my sunglasses off, everyone will see how completely fucked-up I am feeling right now, so I would rather keep hiding behind them. Waiting for my turn in line, a man comes and stands behind me.  Then he moves a little closer to me and I can see by his body language that he is readying himself to strike up a conversation. Oh god, I think. Please just don't look at me!  His chipper voice breaks my stupor: "Say, that looks like a really great salad you have yourself there! I love that salad...!" Despite my wanting to run and hide under a rock, a little smile cracks across my face and my eyes start to twinkle. What a line, I think.  I turn my body slightly towards him; a very nicely dressed older man with a big smile and a smooth, black lamb-skin jacket.  I quickly size him up.  Nice black slacks, nice shoes.  Mmmm, actually he is Very Nice, I think.  And was that an American accent I heard?  I reply lamely: "Well, I'm trying to eat healthy these days...". He goes on with a tale of how he once had bought the same salad, how much he had enjoyed it.  It's a super sweet attempt on his part.  How wonderfully refreshing and sexy American men are, I think.  Darn good thing I kept my sunglasses on...

Strolling back down Alberni with my bag of groceries in my hand, I round the corner at Thurlow and pass the Burberry store. Then I stop myself in my tracks and think "I am going to let myself go inside that store!" Just like the therapeutic affects of a really great movie, window shopping always helps to relieve at least some stress.  But it's the feel of very fine fabric and delicate stitching under my fingers, on garments with little tags that read "Made in Italy" that have always been the icing on the cake!  As I walk through the door I am greeted by a friendly sales person who offers to show me around the store. Still hiding behind my dark sunglasses, I politely decline and continue quietly on my own. Wouldn't you know it, of course I find an absolutely amazing dress that I know for a fact would look fantastic on me. Standing in front of a mirror, I hold it up against my body and think "And it would fit perfectly, too".  I check the price tag: $695. Ouch.  I wonder to myself: Would I ever spend that much on a dress? No, I wouldn't. But believe me, I sure would like to! I sigh and my stomach growls, reminding me to get the heck out of there. One day I'll buy that dress for $695. One day.

Back at the office I sit at my desk and munch on my salad, juggle calendars and arrange schedules, respond to emails and put out fires.  A thought comes across my mind, and I can't help but think to myself that I am sitting on the cusp of something so cool, so close I can almost taste it.  I do believe that there is always a reason for everything, and who knows?  Maybe my freedom is necessary for me to really get to where I'm going.  Maybe it's all good.

Charleen xo