Disconnect

Although she lives several states away, we’ve talked and read each others’ blogs for long enough that I’m not sure we’d know each other better if we shared a back-yard fence. Because of this it was no surprise when early last year she told me that her husband had finally ended their marriage.

They’d been struggling for years and while I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her so, I had little hope that they’d celebrate another anniversary. She continued to push therapy and plain old hanging in there but by early last year he was all talked out. He packed a suitcase and left one Friday before she returned home from work; when spring officially arrived he was ensconced in the comfort of his new girlfriend’s home and quite cheerfully helping to raise her children.

My friend accepted all this with better grace than I would have. At least she did until summer passed, and then fall, and then the entirety of winter without her husband filing for divorce. Filing was the only contention between them. They’d lived in an apartment and produced no children. Their cars were paid for and owned one apiece. The most valuable property jointly owned was a television. In short, theirs should have been as fast, simple and painless as any divorce could be.

But as he was the one who wished to be apart, he felt that it was his job to file even though they reside in a no-fault state and the outcome would be the same no matter who initiated the paperwork. As weeks and months passed she periodically confronted him. “Why haven’t you filed yet?” she’d ask, and every time he had some entirely rational reason. Work was extra busy. He lacked the funds. The office had unexpectedly closed early. A winter illness forced him into bed. Then he’d promise to perform the distasteful task the coming week, but Friday would once again arrive with no divorce filed. “I’ll take the paperwork in,” my friend offered, but each time her ex peevishly refused. He was adamant that the job should be his and cranky at being pressured about it.

Painful as it was, I’ve no doubt that my friend’s husband did the right thing by moving out. But the constant lame excuses about filing for what promised to be a quick, easy divorce — and one that he wanted — made me furious by proxy. I wanted my friend not to have to wonder when if ever he was going to follow through, or face his annoyance every time she asked if the deed was done. I wanted her to be free in every way to move on to the next big thing in her life. I’ll admit that I bugged her about it more than I should have. “What’s your next step?” I asked each time she told me that he failed to file, pressing her for answers when clearly there were none. Months passed in impasse punctuated by intermittent pressure from me.

Then one day I was surprised to find that she’d addressed this very topic in her (very vanilla) book/movie/music blog. She and her ex began as strangers in adjacent airplane seats, she wrote, strangers who over the course of an hours-long flight had developed a fast, intense intimacy. Now the flight has come to an end. The plane sits at the gate. Soon they’ll walk down the jetway and depart for who knows where with no more than vague, half-hearted plans ever to speak again.

My divorce was different. Whether we like it or not our children bind us together as long as they live; they force our relationship to grow and improve even after we’re free from the burden of being married. As my friend and her husband are not similarly motivated, is it any wonder that they let every other passenger deplane first? That they are the last to emerge into the terminal? That they linger a few extra moments at the gate before rushing off to catch the next flight away from each other and into some unknown future?

After reading her piece and feeling the breath catch in my chest with shame at being such an unfeeling idiot, I’ve decided that if in the future I am tempted to bother her about the filing’s progress I will endeavor to keep shut my big flappy mouth.