called often, seemed to have put herself on a schedule, calling Adele at least two mornings a week. She reported only the most rudimentary information. “Scott and I have reached a settlement we can live with. The girls are adjusting with difficulty, but I have promised them that neither of us will abandon them, though we won’t be exactly the kind of family we were. I’m writing up and filing the divorce myself with the help of a friend who is a divorce attorney.”
There was a distant and controlled sound to Justine’s voice that Adele had recognized from other times of trauma and uncertainty. When their mother was failing, when Olivia was having medical tests at age twelve for a possible heart condition, and now, as she was navigating a divorce. There was a deep, throaty sound to her voice, as if she was measuring each word.
“Do you have to get divorced?” Adele asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Justine said. “How can I ever trust him again? He betrayed me. Now I am filled with doubt, unsure if this is the first time. I have to protect what I have left.”
“But is your heart broken?” Adele asked.
After a moment she said, “In a million pieces. But I’m so angry at what Scott has done that I’m not sure it’s for the love of him that I’m in pain. I think, God help me, it’s the betrayal that hurts so much.”
Adele had not seen Justine in weeks, not since that morning she’d driven to San Jose to tell her what she’d caught Scott doing in the pizza parlor. She felt almost as though she was going through a divorce herself, though it was not because she was terribly close to Scott and Justine. It had more to do with the fact that if she had ever believed in anyone’s marriage, it had been theirs.
She went to her weight loss meetings, even adding an extra one every week. She was losing weight steadily, not rapidly. A couple of pounds a week. She amped up her walking, delighted in the fact that her thighs hurt. That held promise in her mind. Someone at one of her meetings said yoga was great for shaping and also would relieve stress, so Adele found a class where she was stretched and twisted like a pretzel to the point of farting. But she forced herself to go back anyway, still waiting for that feeling of spiritual renewal she’d heard so much about. Namaste.
In five weeks she had lost fifteen pounds and she noticed a difference; her jeans were loose. It was almost a religious experience. She couldn’t remember the last time her clothes were loose. Summer was approaching, and she had fantasies of wearing a bathing suit for the first time in eight years.
Her other fantasy was getting a job. Any job. She had so much anxiety about not being qualified for anything, she had become discouraged after the first few applications. In one of her weight loss support groups it was suggested that she check into one of those reentry programs.
“My neighbor was widowed after eighteen years of being a stay-at-home mom. It used to be called the displaced homemakers program for women who had been out of the workforce for a while and suddenly had no job or income or partner. But now I think it’s called reentry and isn’t just for women.”
“I don’t think I really qualify, unless they include displaced caretakers who were working on a master’s degree.”
“But do you have a job?” the woman countered. “Look ’em up and see if they can help.”
Jake, who stopped by at least a couple of times a week, lately bringing things like salad or stir-fry, liked the idea. He pushed it as something to do, something to check off her list. When he was leaving, he remarked on how fantastic she was looking. It made her feel really proud that she’d finally started moving forward.
She looked up reentry programs and found several, all very much alike. They offered counseling, workshops on everything from résumé writing and interview coaching to escaping domestic violence. The websites always encouraged a visit to see which of their many programs would work best. But she called, only to have an