The Strange Year of Vanessa M Read online

  2.

  It wasn't easy, explaining to her husband. She’d never seen him so distraught. First the shock, turning pale, hands clawing the sofa and then the anxiety, the laboured breathing, the pacing around the living room. Ten years of marriage, nearly fifteen years together, crumbling at the sound of a few words, “I’m moving out.”

  “What? Why? Don't you love me any more?” he shouted.

  How could she explain it had nothing to do with love? That she needed some time to herself? That she couldn’t be the person he wanted her to be any more? That she had to go and experience the world that existed inside of her, like the message on the note her aunt had left for her, and which she was finally beginning to understand? For all the arguments she tried to produce, Vanessa knew he wasn’t listening, just like he hadn’t been noticing the signs all this time, because there had been signs, subtle, maybe. Not every day, maybe. Mistaken for fatigue or mixed up in her, ‘I’ve got a headache,’ excuses. But signs all the same. Or hadn’t he noticed when Vanessa evaded his kisses? When she brushed his hand from her leg, or forced a smile. When she rolled her eyes at the suggestions he made.

  The problem with relationships is that men expect women to give them instructions and women expect men to divine their thoughts. As if the only function of words were for banal conversations. Men think that when women want to get something off their chest they call a girlfriend, and women think that when men need something, they ask. And that’s when the chasms of silences and unspoken words begin to open up. And that’s when one them falls into the chasm.

  For Vanessa, this chasm was their Friday-night outings to the cinema, when she’d rather have sat on a bench in the park looking at the stars. Their family lunches on Sundays, with her husband’s parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, when she’d rather have spent the day in her pyjamas, curled up on the sofa watching a film. Fifteen days’ holiday wasted in a stupid tropical resort, when she’d rather have gone to a remote beach much closer to home. She clearly remembered the last time they’d spent their holidays on one of those beaches, before they’d begun having enough money to take holidays abroad. Life was simpler in those days. When there was no TV in the bedroom, when they shared a car and made their own Christmas presents. When Vanessa was relatively happy.

  Mimi would have been three-years-old that summer. They’d rented a house in the middle of a nature reserve, a few miles from a stunning, unspoilt beach. The image that came into her mind was of her sitting under a red sunshade making cheese and ham sandwiches for their afternoon snack while her husband and daughter played at the water’s edge. The rays of sun reflected from the water like a blanket of silver sequins, a backdrop for Mimi who was pretending to be a ballerina. She would spin round and round until she got dizzy and fell over into the sand; her giggles echoing from the cliff that protected that magical place; her husband running after her and picking her up, covering her belly in kisses. That was the image she’d clung to for so many years. But even this image was beginning to fade.

  “Nothing’s definitive. Our love and our marriage aren't definitive, and neither does this separation have to be,” Vanessa said.

  “And what am I supposed to do in all of this? Wait here for you to make your mind up? Wait for you to find yourself again, is that it? Shoulder all the responsibility, bring up Mimi, put my life on hold for an indefinite time, and run the risk that one day you’ll call up and say in the end it really is definitive and you won't be coming back?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Oh you don't know, do you? So who does, then?”

  Vanessa didn't answer. She held her head down so her husband wouldn't see the tears brimming in her eyes. To cry right now would be an enormous act of cowardice. She was the one that was causing all this. What right did she have to cry?

  “Who is he, the bastard?” her husband asked, his eyes red with rage.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, taken aback.

  “You think I’m stupid? It’s obvious there’s some guy behind all this. No one moves out and leaves their husband and their own daughter unless they have someone else.”

  “Are you crazy?’ There’s no guy. It’s nothing to do with that, sex, men, relationships. Don’t you understand that’s what I’m trying to get away from? I just want to be with myself, for the first time in my life.”

  “So the judge was right, then: you really have gone mad.”

  “Maybe I have…” she answered, defeated.

  She’d never thought it would be so difficult. She’d envisaged a tough conversation, but not her heart being wrenched in this way. She didn’t want to cause so much pain. She’d never thought she could cause so much pain. Maybe because, deep down, she’d hoped her husband would want the separation too. How on earth could he not be sick of her, of her remoteness, her apathy? Hadn't he ever dreamt of a certain freedom? Hadn't he complained about her to his friends when they were out drinking? ‘My wife is a bitch. There are days I can't even look at her. I haven‘t had sex for nearly a month. One of these days I’ll be unfaithful to her. She’s really asking for it.’ Why wasn't he one of those men?

  They sat staring into space, all talked out, each of them just sitting there. Immobile. Inert. Awoken occasionally from their torpor by a passing car, the refuse collection wagon, or the noise of the fridge that invaded the silence every so often. It was dawn by the time they went to bed. She went first, trembling. He went next, devastated. Just to lie down, as neither of them could get to sleep.

  3.

  ”If you walk out that door it’s for good.”

  Those were the first words her husband uttered the next morning. His gaze was cold, fixed on the ceiling; perhaps it had never moved all these hours. His body was tense at her side; both of their hearts beating fast.

  “I’m not going to wait for you. You have to choose,” he went on, with a coldness that was new to Vanessa. “But remember it’s your choice. Yours alone.”

  Vanessa closed her eyes and felt the tears, which she’d stoically held back all night, rolling down her face. She hadn’t expected this. She knew he was right, but she hadn't expected it. She’d envisaged him crying, hugging her, telling her everything would be all right, he’d always be there for her, he’d wait as long as necessary, he’d do everything to win back her love. She’d envisaged them arranging to keep in touch regularly, maybe even meet in a café and talk about how things were going. How stupid! Obviously he wasn't going to do that. People still had their self-respect, even when they’ve just had their heart broken into a thousand pieces. And yet Vanessa had made her decision. Nothing would make her go back. Not even the chance she might lose her family forever. She packed her bags, spoke to her daughter, who shut herself up in her room, crying, and called a taxi.

  “I understand your decision,” she said as she dragged the last suitcase out of the house. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you.”

  He closed the door without answering, without even looking at her. Vanessa stood there, surrounded by suitcases, hoping none of the neighbours was watching. She felt physically ill, sick; sick of herself. A lump in her throat of the deepest anguish, at leaving a life of so many happy moments behind her, at not having had the courage to make this decision earlier, at not having realized that this is what happens when we stop having control over our own destiny. She couldn't go back now. The time had come to think about her needs and her needs alone.

  The taxi arrived. Vanessa looked at the house for the last time. From the window on the first floor a small hand appeared and carefully tossed a brand new doll onto the pavement. Vanessa picked it up from the ground, brushed its dress clean and held it to her chest. Before telling the taxi driver where she was going, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and picked up her phone.

  “Auntie, can I move in with you?”

  Her aunt’s soothing voice came back at her:

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  May

  1.
/>   Looking around her, Vanessa failed to understand how she’d let herself be persuaded to come here. It was scary. Thirty-odd people acting as if they’d been brainwashed, all of them were smiling the same smile and greeted each other with tight hugs, like old friends, although they’d only just met. Most were wearing pyjamas. Or not exactly pyjamas, but the kind of clothes they sell in hippie markets: baggy cotton breeches, shapeless tunics, Jesus sandals. Vanessa tried to keep as far as possible from them and remain anonymous against the rear wall, in vain. The monitor from the life therapy session came and took her by the hand and led her into the midst of the other participants. The class soon began. Zen music, eyes closed, everyone sitting on the floor. OK, it’s not that much different from a yoga class, thought Vanessa. But it was.

  After a calm start the proceedings turned more frenetic. First with the ‘Earth Dance’, which the monitor described as immersion in the soul in search of equilibrium, energy, inner truth. The participants were blindfolded, so they could see everything with ‘the eyes of the soul’. The idea was to dance freely, spontaneously. Shake the body, run, jump, roll on the floor, and make pirouettes; anything went. Vanessa hardly moved, mainly because she was afraid of falling or bumping into someone. Now and again she felt a hand pulling her into the maelstrom. It must have been the monitor.

  Once everyone was seeing with the eyes of the soul, the class entered the liberation phase. To the sound of I Want to Break Free by Queen, they were told to shout as loudly as they could, a roar, a name, a word. The objective was to expel anxieties, unlock energy. Vanessa shouted, but apparently not as loudly as she was expected to. At least, not compared with the other participants, who looked like they were auditioning for a horror film. Some were screaming in a more operatic register, or yelling for their mother or father.

  “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” the monitor shouted. “Think of everything that’s blocking you and shout I HATE YOU! Visualize that feeling, that anguish, and tell it I HATE YOU!”

  Vanessa was feeling more and more out of place, especially when she saw some of the participants crying as they shouted the words. It was like a cult gathering. The monitor came up to her and seized her hands, saying, “Don’t be afraid, let your masks fall, shout! SHOUT!”

  Vanessa hesitated, then let out the loudest, ‘I Hate You,’ she could manage, by imagining she was really shouting, ‘Get me out of this madhouse.’ The monitor smiled and gave her a hug before setting off around the room.

  The music ended and the participants slowly recovered their normal heart rate. In the sudden silence of the room, the reactions of each participant were more evident. Some were breathing deeply, others were sobbing, and others were mumbling something that sounded like a prayer. Vanessa merely shut her eyes and hoped the class was nearly finished. It wasn't.

  ‘Now, stand face to face with the person who came with you, if you came alone, choose a partner.’

  Before Vanessa had time to look around, a girl in her early twenties had come up and stood in front of her. She was thin and fragile and looked as if her recent spiritual awakening required relinquishing all the habits of her earlier life, including hairbrushes and showers.

  “Look each other in the eyes and say I Love You,” ordered the monitor.

  Vanessa was finding this less and less funny. The girl didn't hesitate. She placed her hands on Vanessa’s shoulders and said, “I Love You,” three times over. Then she was silent, her honey-coloured eyes staring into Vanessa’s, waiting for her partner to reciprocate. She had to do it. They stayed that way for two minutes (which for Vanessa felt like two hours) until a new order came.

  “Now let your partner go and do the same thing with someone you don't know. Share the love that’s inside you and all around you, like our original tribe taught us.”

  This time it was a woman in her fifties who approached Vanessa. She had an enormous wart above her upper lip, which made it difficult for Vanessa to look her in the eyes.

  “Now walk around the room and say, ‘I Love You,’ to everyone. Look each other in the eyes. Hug each other. Only love can heal the wounds of the soul.”

  From the speakers of the small CD player came the Ode to Joy. The participants hugged each other and said, ‘I Love You,’ overcome with emotion. The girl with the honey-coloured eyes was convulsed with tears, hugging another girl with a maternal air. A middle-aged man was down on his knees, hugging the legs of his partner. Others danced together swaying, smiling awkwardly. Vanessa tried to go with her feelings. These people looked so happy with their spiritual exercises. But unfortunately they weren’t producing the same effect on ‘Vanessa; she felt nothing but an enormous urge to giggle.

  “Receive the shaman that dwells inside you. He is being summoned,” the monitor shouted. “And now laugh! Laugh all you want! I want to hear your laughter! The laughter of children, pure, innocent, authentic! Redeem your inner child. It lives! Live it!”

  Finally Vanessa could let it all out. Not her inner child, but the laughter she’d been suppressing since the beginning of the class. The monitor smiled, thinking Vanessa was finally on the same wavelength as everyone else. Giggling hysterically, everyone held hands in a circle. They were jumping like little children while Vanessa was trying to regain her composure, telling herself, ‘Calm down; it’s almost over.’

  “And now, on the count of three, run outside joyfully. And don't forget, the next session is in fifteen days’ time. Until then, listen to your inner child and live! You are beautiful! You are magical! You are life! One, two... three!”

  Finally it was over.

  “Auntie, I can't believe you enrolled me in something like that!” Vanessa confessed when she got back to her aunt’s house.

  “Really? Didn’t you like it?” asked her aunt, surprised.

  “How can I put it? NO! It’s not my thing at all. I know you adore these things Auntie and I have every respect for them, really I do. But it’s not for me. An aura reading or an astrological chart that I can get. But these things where everyone has to do what they’re told to, regardless of how pathetic it is, no thanks.”

  “I thought it would do you good to loosen up. All your energies are blocked.”

  “Yes, but I prefer to unblock them with a bottle of wine, for example, which incidentally is what I’m going to do now. Care to join me?”

  “A bottle of wine, at five in the afternoon, why not?”

  Vanessa was beginning to feel a little calmer, even after wasting a whole Saturday afternoon in that ridiculous healing session. A few weeks in the company of her aunt’s good vibrations, and some time alone, were finally producing an effect, despite all the work at the office. There was a huge difference between getting home from work and laying down on the couch reading a magazine or something and getting home from work and having to make dinner, bathe her daughter and plan meals and stuff for the next day.

  She’d also persuaded Mimi to come and see her. At first she would only come accompanied by her father or grandmother, which was an ordeal for everyone. Vanessa’s husband could hardly look at her, her mother wouldn't speak to her, and Mimi looked at the floor all the time and answered in monosyllables. But on the third visit things began to improve, and soon she would be coming to spend the whole weekend with her.

  It was the nights which were the most difficult to bear. It was at night that all her demons, her uncertainties returned. She knew she had to break free from the past, and little by little she was succeeding, but she still had no plans for the future. And she missed her husband’s body, its warmth, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. The years they’d spent together wouldn’t disappear in a month, and she didn't want them to disappear. They were part of the journey. Her journey.

  “What you need is a good fuck,” her aunt would tell her when she confessed these feelings. “And as luck would have it I happen to know a boy who’s just right for you.”

  “If it’s anyone from the Sunshine Centre, I’d rather not…”

  “No
. It’s the neighbour from across the street. Haven’t you ever seen him? He usually shows off his abdominals at the window, very cute. He’s a lawyer and single, of course.”

  “Cute, a lawyer and single? He’s got to be queer.”

  “He isn't, I promise! In fact he has a lot of female company. But he seems to lead a crazy life, no routine or weekends. Not many women can put up with that, can they? But for you, just for a bit of fun, he’s perfect.”

  “I have to see these abdominals first,” Vanessa winked.

  The idea of getting involved with someone at this point had never crossed her mind. But divorce was looking more and more inevitable and her husband was still making it quite clear he wasn't willing to take her back, even if she wanted (and she didn’t). Maybe her aunt was right. A no-strings affair wouldn't do anyone any harm. And she was beginning to need sex. She would pay more attention to that window and to the world in general. People who sat down next to her in the café, people she passed in the supermarket or at the kiosk where she bought her cigarettes. We spend our lives in such a hurry, so self-centred, that we forget the simple act of observing the life that’s simmering all around us. Looking others in the eye, seeing more than faces. Maybe that’s why we feel so lonely.