Vivienne

Warning: contains themes of miscarriage

The summer was proving to be an exceptionally hot one; a rare occurrence for this small, coastal community in Nova Scotia. The refreshing sea breeze had been stunted by the sun’s dead weight for a few weeks. Vivienne had been dragging around this heaviness for a while, too, unsure who carried more pressure—the air or her.

Vivienne had worked all day at the flower shop, assembling the most cheery and vibrant bundles of sunflowers and pastel peonies. An uplifting symphony of floral scents surrounded her, yet if one more small-town gossip gushed their best “I’m so sorry to hear you had another miscarriage,” crap, she thought she might jab Brenda or Charmaine or Angelina right in the eye with a rose thorn. 

She wasn’t sure what made her boil the most—the fact that this town always had their finger on the pulse of everyone’s business, or that, admittedly, she was no better than any of them. But what made her skin crawl even more was the sickening knowing that they'd been talking about her, long before she lost her third baby.

Earlier that morning, Vivienne’s worst fears—ones that had been haunting her in the middle of the night—had been confirmed. She’d been betrayed, and there was no way in hell this town didn’t already know. Her insides contorted as she saw each customer off with a polite “Thanks so much, come again,” instead of an eye-stab. She drove home in silence after her shift, settling for 750ml of wine. She’d need it for the confrontation she was about to have. 

Kicking off her sandals in the kitchen, she filled a glass to the brim with wine. Sliding the patio door open, she started making her way from her house towards the shoreline. The dry grass pricked beneath her bare feet like straw. The sun was already setting as dark rain clouds rolled in from the ocean, dense and oppressive like a cement brick pressing against glass. It was a welcome relief, though, as the rain was desperately needed. So was each sip of peppery cab sauv that Vivienne swirled in her mouth. White wine would have been more thirst quenching, but that evening, the ruby liquid trickling down her throat like warm blood was the closest she could get to the vengeance she craved. A far cry from the delicate woman she had once been. 

Her toes gripped the sharp rocks of the sea bed as the bite of their chill grounded her. The rest of her body smouldering with heat, Vivienne held her breath in relief as the frigid waves skimmed over her feet. Licking the cracks on her lips, she savored the salt as her buzz rose with the tide. Through gritted teeth, a tingling sensation spread through her head from the alcohol as thunder rolled in, growing louder and closer. She gasped, realizing she was suddenly shin-deep in the Atlantic. 

Vivienne’s father had spent the better part of his life aboard a fishing vessel, and he always used to tell her, “You have to respect the ocean. She’s a powerful force who moves quickly. She can be dangerous if you don’t pay attention.” 

Vivienne’s free hand clenched into a fist. Her stomach burned, seething with both glee and fear at what she might be capable of.

Tilting her wine glass upside down into her mouth until the very last drop plopped onto her tongue, Vivienne turned back to head home. The clouds were like the Grim Reaper cloaked in black, looming over her as she unsteadily stepped from rock to rock. As she made her way up the hill and onto the grassy path, an unusually large wave crashed against the shore. 

“Every seventh wave is usually bigger and more unpredictable than the six before it,” Vivienne’s father would also say. “That’s the rhythm of the ocean. Don’t underestimate it.” 

Vivienne used to roll her eyes at all her father’s ocean talk back when she was a kid. Now, she wondered if she’d once underestimated more than just the ocean.

She left wet footprints behind as she walked across her patio and into the house. The wine glugged from the bottle as she helped herself to another generous pour. Making her way back outside, thunder filled the atmosphere with the echo of a bass drum. The cicadas were even louder with their buzzing opus. 

Sitting down in an Adirondack chair, Vivienne kept drinking as she scanned her barren backyard that separated the house from the sea. She and her husband, Peter, had once made big plans for that yard. “A fire pit! A porch swing! A hot tub! A treehouse for the kids! You name it!”. Instead, a rectangle of yellow, sun-charred grass stared back at her.

Vivienne swirled her glass as she gnawed at the inside of her cheek. Just then, she heard the crunch of tires against gravel. Peter was home. Vivienne struggled to breathe. 

“There you are,” Peter slid the patio door shut behind him. He had a frosty bottle of Bud in hand. Vivienne’s gaze cut through him like a blade as he took a seat across from her. 

“Long day at work? It’s getting kinda late,” she said, knowing exactly where he’d been. 

There was a version of Vivienne who had once confronted Peter directly about his whereabouts. 

“Are you kidding me? You’re acting insane,” he’d plead defensively. “I can’t believe you’d think this of me. I’m married to you.” 

And as Vivienne threw back more red wine, her stomach churned at the sight of him. She thought of all the times he had turned her steady world into a warped funhouse mirror—how easily she had believed his gaslighting over her own intuition.

“Yeah, long day. It’s nice to be home to wind down,” he said, the lies spewing from his lips. 

The corners of Vivienne’s mouth lifted as she raised her glass. 

“Well, welcome home then.” She was calm and murderous. 

With a furrowed brow, Peter raised his beer, cautious and suspecting. Clanking their drinks, Vivienne took another three sips.

She admired Peter’s features that she once found irresistible. His dark and intoxicating eyes with the rich color of espresso. The once charming beauty spot above his upper lip that now felt like a mark of deception. His warm complexion speckled with stubble, all brought out by the glow one gets from fucking someone else. 

Just then, a roll of thunder cracked like a whip, ominously close. 

Vivienne watched as Peter passed a shaking hand through his hair. Her bones ached with gratification, feeling the power dynamic shift. He knows that I know. 

“My, uh…parents were asking if we'd like to come over for dinner on Saturday,” Peter said, his voice cracking. “Mom has a chicken, or something... she’s had it in the freezer for a while now. From the farmer’s market.” 

Vivienne floated her wine to her lips. As she drank the remainder in one continuous stream, her eyes stayed locked on Peter above the rim of her glass. She placed the empty vessel on the table with a delicate clink. Grabbing something from under her chair—another empty wine glass—she stood up. Peter went stiff as a board as his wife approached him. You should be scared, you fucking bastard.  

“Viv, come on.” Peter stumbled on his words. 

Sweat dripped off of Vivienne’s forehead as she hovered over her husband, her hands clawing the arms of his chair. His heart raced as he glanced down at the wine glass, the stem clasped between Vivienne’s fingers. His breath fluttered. 

“Look, I-” Peter did not have a chance to finish. 

“Shut up.” Vivienne ordered, a maniacal smile curling across her face. 

Her teeth were stained purple from the drink. Storm clouds coloured the night sky a pillowy onyx as Vivienne and Peter's stares tangled in the dark. The tension was so thick, you could have cut through it like a hot knife through cold butter. 

Vivienne’s chest pounded in agony. She hated that she could feel her eyes welling up. She didn’t want to shed a single tear for Peter, even though she knew she’d been withholding a Mississippi River’s worth. She thought the wine glass might shatter in her hand with what she said next. Her voice quivered. 

“I don’t own red lipstick, Peter. Not a single tube.” 

Peter’s face went flush as his wife held the glass in front of him. That cherry lipstick stain on the rim taunted him like a detective who finally nailed a criminal guilty of a salacious crime. The cherry stain was an imprint of Debbie's lower lip, of course, and didn’t he know it. He’d been nibbling on it earlier that evening. 

Peter hung his head in his hands as Vivienne paced the length of the patio, a little too casually. 

“I was right all along,” she said, tying her sweaty hair into a high ponytail. “I just didn’t know you had the gall to fuck her in our own house. In our bed. Where we’ve been trying to make a baby,” Vivienne bolted right back up in his face, her words laced with venom, “For four… fucking.....years!!!!!!!”

Peter’s knee bounced up and down as he ripped the label off his beer bottle, piece by piece. Sweat seeped through his shirt. 

“Viv. I…I can explain.” 

With a grunt, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him towards her, nose to nose. 

“I don’t want an explanation.” 

As a deafening boom of thunder shook the ground beneath their feet, Vivienne planted her lips onto Peter’s. They kissed, deeply and aggressively. Vivienne’s fingernails scratched the back of his neck as she climbed onto him, her knees pressed to either side of his thighs. For a moment, Peter pulled away, his eyes wide with the uncertainty; was his wife was going to fuck him, kill him, or both? 

Vivienne held his face as she panted heavily. “This is the kind of woman you want, isn’t it?” 

And after a microsecond of hesitation, Peter took the bait. 

Under the canopy of nature’s foreboding hellscape, the two kissed and pulled each other's hair. They bit each other on the neck. Peter picked up his wife, her four limbs gripped forcefully around his body. Sliding the patio door open and slamming it shut, he carried her to their room. He threw her on the bed, pouncing on top of her like an animal in heat. They ripped each other's clothes off, a chain of lightning striking the earth just outside the window with a detonating roar. The loving husband and wife who had once vowed forever, fucked each other’s brains out like complete strangers… like enemies… like two people who knew this was the beginning of the end. 

Vivienne and Peter glistened in the hot afterglow of grief and regret, both pulling deeply on a cigarette. Vivienne hadn’t felt the burn of tar down her throat in years. It was vile and masochistic, and yet so deeply comforting. She couldn’t bear to look at Peter. The pain of laying next to the ghost of a man who had once loved her with such reckless abandon hollowed her stomach.

A memory rolled through her mind’s eye like a film reel: Peter brushing her hair the night they came home from the hospital after her first miscarriage. The bathroom tile was cold on her thighs as Peter sat close by on the edge of the tub. She rested her head on his knee as her tears flowed onto his pant leg. 

“I love you so much, Peter. Thank you.”

As he passed the bristles twice more over her scalp, he said, “I love you too. We’re going to be okay.”

He knew how to care for her back then, in moments so desolate that she couldn’t fathom how to care for herself. As she put out her cigarette in the glass ashtray on the nightstand, her breath became shallow and labored. Who’s going to care for me through this?

The grumble of lightning filled their bedroom with a soft, unsettling glow, like the flash from an old-fashioned camera, lingering in the stillness. Vivienne’s entire marriage flashed before her eyes, too. Yarning over morning coffee, tipsy fondue nights, cuddles after sex, sunset beach walks, repetitive inside jokes, three pregnancies, three miscarriages…

And then, an affair.

Her distress trickled out of her as a bitter laugh. She turned towards Peter, resting her right cheek on the pillow. She could feel the corners of her eyes turning down, as if the weight of gravity itself was at play. Peter’s eyes reflected her sorrow, too, as he forced a smile through his unease. Mother nature lit the sky as the thunder crashed in both their chests. 

Vivienne whispered hoarsely, as if her words were tearing her apart, “I want a divorce.” She choked up. “Get out of my house.” 

Peter bit down on his lips, not fighting for her, for them. Like a coward, he got up, dressed, and left. No words. Just silence. The door clicking shut behind him felt like reality slapping Vivienne in the face. Her heartbeat punched her in the neck as she heard his car pull out of the driveway. He was gone.

Vivienne lay staring at the ceiling, her fingers clutching the bed sheets for dear life. The room started spinning as the alcohol-fueled emotions swirled through her like poison. Her body pumped with oxygen as her shoulders went up and down with each breath. A sharp clap of thunder shook the house. And with that, the sky finally opened. Torrential rain came flooding down on their dried-up town like pellets. After a long drought, the heavens poured themselves onto the earth, clearing the air and lifting the violent July heat with it.

As the storm expressed itself, something deep within Vivienne turned, unlocking an abyss of emotions. Her pain was finally free to move as she took in a genuine inhale, drowning in the liberation of her sorrow. She sobbed in the fetal position, feeling the carefully constructed world she had built over the years crumble beneath her, each piece of her perfectly placed life now shattered on the floor. Vivienne felt like one of those shards of glass, lost and scattered, unable to piece together what her future might be. 

She stayed in bed for the rest of the night, mourning the end of these pages of her life....the only chapter she’d ever known. 

****

A thin line of coral was piercing over the horizon at dawn. July was cooler the following year, a lot more forgiving. Vivienne sat in her sunroom, quietly rocking her sleeping baby. 

Her heart swelled everytime she caressed little Leo’s cheek with the back of her finger. It was never the plan, to be just the two of them, but through the harshest of storms, Leo ultimately found her.

He was a burst of confetti while being the safety of a warm hug. He was the energy of the sun and the quiet knowing of the moon. Leo was the love of Vivienne's life who painted her life technicolor. 

Yet Vivienne’s stomach burned, overwhelmed with both glee and fear. She wondered if she would resent him—this tiny human who filled every page of her new chapter with the most beautiful poetry—every time she looked at the beauty spot above his upper lip…a spot that was a carbon copy of Peter’s. 

Vivienne closed her eyes and sighed out, picturing her toes gripping the cool, grounding rocks of the sea bed. Her shoulders dropped as she imagined the waves lapping over her feet. As her jaw relaxed, she felt the ease of love returning to her bloodstream.

She held Leo closer, a shiver of devotion running through her as she pressed him against her chest.

She heard her father’s voice, “Never forget, Vivienne. The ocean… she can heal you.”