Changed

by Maggie Nerz Iribarne

Leaving my Ron was not a hasty decision. It took me years to get to that point. Years of talking, my words hanging in space with no one to catch them. Years of sitting at the table surrounded by three bent heads, not in prayer, but in fixation on little screens cradled in their hands. Complaining and making rules to ban them did not work. My family considered me a malcontent, a party-pooper, a luddite.

Ron,

I’m leaving. I accept that I cannot hold your attention. You are free to focus on your more powerful distraction. I give up. I’m going to live at my parents’ house.

-Joanna

I pictured him finding the note, sitting on the edge of our bed, googling: “What to do when your wife leaves.” He might order a hundred TV dinners on Instacart, head downstairs to his chair, snap on football, immerse himself in the game, all the while texting his sports thread buddies.

I folded the paper into an envelope, left it on his nightstand leaning against the lamp, noting the thin veil of dust on his stack of paperbacks. I ran my finger in the powder, marking my presence, my absence. At the closet I removed the necessary clothes, packed a bag. Then I walked the rooms of the house, my house, the house where we’d once been so happy, before the phones. I entered my children’s rooms, now shaded museums of times passed. Grasping for a scent of their baby selves, I envisioned diaper changes, bottle feeds, read-alouds. I could still feel their warm heads, the pleasure of falling asleep at their sides, the comfort of a night light glimmering in darkness.

In the third bedroom, my office, I couldn’t avoid the closet that held my wedding gown and the dried bouquet, its flowers growing more beautiful with age. The bright pink and vibrant green of their freshest moment had softened into bruised rose, deep pine. I slid the bouquet into a plastic grocery bag, carried it and everything else to the car.

Backing out, I hesitated, thinking of Ron coming home to this empty house, eating some sad dinner alone, bewildered. I felt sorry for him, for us, then I left.

The night Joanna left me I had big plans. I sped home, excited to share my news: I’d finally been promoted to chief engineer. I’d take her to dinner, Vito’s even. We’d sit in the candlelight and plan a trip to Paris. I repeated the words, You’ve always said you wanted to go to Paris, out loud as I drove. That plan went to hell when I pulled into the driveway and all I saw was darkness. I entered slowly, fearing an intruder, but no one was there. No onion cooking smells, no record playing on Joanna’s turntable. I scanned my phone, found nothing, texted the kids.

Anyone know where Mom is?

-IDK

-Gym?

Frustration, annoyance gripped me. Leave it to Joanna to go off galivanting the one night I have big news. She’s always complaining but never here for something good. Huh. I poured myself a finger of whiskey and retreated to the den. I switched on the TV. Well, when she comes in she’ll see me fine and dandy sitting here. But I wasn’t fine and dandy. I couldn’t relax. I wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, squinting in the light. I pulled out pepperoni and cheese, dug in right there, scanned the counter for some hint. Again, I scrolled through texts, emails, checked the news.

Maybe she’d had an accident? Fear and worry entangled.

Upstairs, I flipped on the office light. Nothing. I scanned the shelves. In our bedroom, shock bubbled as I opened her empty drawers. Finally, I saw the letter. I sat down, read it, allowed it to fall to the floor. I pulled out my phone, googled, What to do when your wife leaves you.

Later, at my den desk, I held the fancy pen Joanna gave me for our college graduation. Her curly red hair framing her face when she handed me the wrapped box. That open, friendly face. Shame overcame. I felt this urge to write out her favorite poem. The subject of her thesis: Richard Wilbur? I felt for my phone, but the words surprised me, came on their own:

The beautiful changes as a forest is changed

By a chameleon’s tuning his skin to it;

As a mantis, arranged

On a green leaf, grows

Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves

Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.

Arriving at my deceased in-laws’ house, the house she won’t sell, the one for which we still pay taxes, I half expected her to be standing at the end of the driveway, as she had that first time. But the driveway was empty, slick with packed old snow. I placed the envelope in the mailbox and returned home, alone.

One month later, I faced my husband as I had during our first honeymoon. This, exactly the same as then: the falls, the heart-shaped tub, the bubbles. That first night Ron pulled what seemed like one thousand hairpins from my over-hair-sprayed hair. He wiped my raccoon eyes clean with a warm washcloth. No phones then, no phones now.

“Can things really be better? Like they were before?” I asked, aware of his gaze set on my face. I felt conscious of my wrinkled neck, admired his greyed temples. He turned me in the water, slid a bar of soap down my back. He traced shapes there with his finger. I relaxed, hoped for something new.

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Maggie Nerz Iribarne is 53, lives in Syracuse, NY, writes about witches, cleaning ladies, struggling teachers, neighborhood ghosts, and other things. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.