The Kiss of Judas

The betrayal needled me at a 45-degree angle. It was caustic and driven, sinking its teeth into my flesh, razor-sharp in its edge and piercing. I sat there, staring at the Skype screen, wondering if I had heard my sister correctly, an out-of-body experience that had me floating between a time when I was complete and this moment when the wind was sucked out of my lungs. I couldn't breathe; I couldn't exhale. I was suspended in a repetition of a phrase, "We are flying into St. Louis first. We won't be arriving in Memphis until the fourth of October."

Her weak dispositioned husband, Steven, nodded in agreement. Cowardice, at its best.

I laughed it off with insincerity, a forced shrug while catching Kelly in my peripheral vision. She was gutted too, mouth ajar, staring into an empty void. I didn't know if I should put my arm around Kelly in solidarity or tell Donna to go to hell. I'm always the nice guy. It is the role I have been dealt.

I hear Donna mutter under her breath, "She doesn't like it," and I think to myself who the hell would? Steven shoots Donna a pleading look, imploring her not to say the obvious out loud.

In the span of twenty, maybe thirty seconds, I have relegated her to the fiery gates twice. There is a strong wish for my sister to disappear from the laptop screen. If only Virgil could lead her to the center of hell, so she could bear witness to her fraud. The white noise in my head hums a high pitch. A cold, irredeemable shadow passes over my skin. It feels like I have been kissed by Judas.

"Well, we'll see you guys next Saturday," I proffer, knowing I will never log in for another video session. It is over. Finite. Done for the rest of this lifetime.

I make a nice, pretended wave to the camera, and Kelly sits frozen in her disbelief, beholden to her astrological origins. You just don't sting a Scorpio first. It's the law of nature. The call ends. I wrestle with the growing static in my head. We both stare out the window of the study, the day overly bright, flooding our senses with its glaring intensity. The silence persists for many minutes, both of us urging our better selves to reflect and re-examine the conversation that has transpired. The Easter weekend is destined to be flat, truncated in this unseemly revelation. There is an unholiness in the silence.

Kelly starts it up again, as I know she is destined to do, the hurt flowing freely, "We have sat here for five years, waiting to see them. Our only connection has been Skype through these long, insufferable years of the pandemic. I mean," she pauses to catch her breath, "we've talked with them every Saturday at ten o'clock our time for something like two hundred fifty weeks in a row." Again, she stops, staring into some all-consuming darkness.

"It will be okay," I say without conviction.

"No, it won't be okay, Paul. It really won't. She's choosing to have Beth pick her up from the airport in St. Louis where they will stay for a week before they even come down here. They are traveling a world away from Sudbury to the grand ol' United States, and the first person she wants to see after all the time that has elapsed is Beth, your ex-wife."

"I know," there is a redundancy in the explanation. It's not that I fault her for explaining, but I don't rightly need an explanation. I am dumbfounded.

I try to retrace the broken connection in my head. It is the sister who I have only known existed for the last decade. My English mum gave her up for adoption when she was still in the UK. Of course, my mum was young and had a desirous yearning for the American soldiers at the Woodbridge Air Force base. It was a different time and a secret that almost cleaved a hole among my other siblings when Donna surfaced. I took her in without hesitation, welcoming Donna into the family while the others held out a stoic reluctance. To think that she would prefer visiting Beth for a week several states away when I have dutifully been the one to greet her at the airport baggage claim. It is deflating and nauseating. It conjures up the reasons for my divorce, a history that Donna has been privy to, and I am stunned to know that they still talk. It is worse than that though; they are close enough for an extended visit.

Sure, life seemed idyllic with Beth at first. We had a home on the lake, solid jobs, and older kids from separate relationships who would be embarking on their own lives in the nearing years. I had let my guard rest, knowing we had a relationship that was quiet, trusting, and calm. Little did I suspect what lurked beneath the niceties, the lies that were interwoven into the daily nuances of our lives. She was a chameleon at best, and the devil in her purest form. She acted her way through two years of marriage while she stole away my income, faked an interest in my pursuits, and planned a retreat to Missouri to be with her high school sweetheart. Yes, that one with the lizardry skin, the one whom she said got away. He slithered his way back, a drunken, inert loser. She deserved him more than she deserved my family. But my sister, this stranger now, must hold her out like a demi-god. She knows that Beth cheated on me, feigning to drive every other weekend to see a cousin who materialized out of nowhere. Of course, it is laughable now, the scope of my inattentiveness. I had become complacent in our relationship with a blind trust and a moldy interest. Perhaps on some level, I am to blame. Indifference in marriage breeds contempt, or something akin to a rot that one would find in Denmark, or England, or right under one's nose.

"Is there no loyalty?" I ask it aloud, not anticipating an answer. The question hangs in front of me, and then it is usurped back into my body, gnawing at the fresh wound. I choke on air for the slightest breath.

Kelly responds, "Loyalty, what is that, Paul?" she almost looks more broken than me. She is one to wear her emotions, but usually, it is a hard presentation, not a projection of defeat. 

She continues, looking at no one, the words quivering in sadness, "Loyalty is naming our son after her dead son, because our heart broke for her, even though he died long before you had a chance to meet him. Loyalty is choosing your brother over a heartless liar. Loyalty is being upfront and telling people your plans, not waiting until you've been painted into a corner where you're forced to share hurtful details. Loyalty is dead, and I'm most bothered by my gullibility, for not protecting the parts of me that I normally keep reserved. And she knows that my mom passed away a mere three weeks ago. Donna was the first person I called for comfort."

There is a blankness to her voice, contrasted against the brusque harshness that the mid-day sun relents. I glance over at her in time to see a tear slide a careful, sullen path down the rosiness of her cheek. I reach over to wipe it away, to let her know that I hear her. I am resolute to the pain. I can shoulder it for both of us.

In response, I add, "Loyalty is family." Shaking my head I utter, "She only met Beth once. I’m sure that Donna is mistaken in her intentions. You mean something to her, you must. Certainly, I do…or I did."

I rest with the new understanding. The schism cuts a permanent divide.

We sit tighter in our connection, a gentle silence, both of us looking into the blur of the afternoon sun through the window. There is an odd juxtaposition as if it is snowing, the white flower petals falling softly from the Bradford pear tree. I realize that we are instinctively holding hands. Out of nowhere, an uninvited Skype call rings through, the whimsical cadence of the music annoying in its out-of-touch frivolity. We look at the incoming call and then each other. My free hand reaches for the top of the laptop screen and folds it down with care, a strength in knowing we can manage the betrayal.

The hurt may take a little longer.