Page 72 of Come Back To Me

In the picture, which after all these years I still have saved in my phone, David has his arm around my waist, smiling toward the camera. His smile is so genuine it’s infectious. I see the corners of Lunya’s mouth turn upward and I don’t know if she’s smiling because she just fell into a juicy story or because David looks so happy. I suppose it could be a combination of both.

My side of the photo is a different story. I’m holding one side of my dress up, smiling close-lipped, a huge bouquet of red roses behind us. You can almost see the fear in my eyes. The picture itself brings on a great deal of pain. I don’t look at it often, but with each new cell phone I’ve had through the years, I always make sure it is there.

Lunya is briefing me, her English perfectly accented. She will ask me three questions in French, and I am to answer them in English. They will dub the video later. The other reporters have taken notice and are walking over, their eyes narrowed in anticipation. They stop and consult each other as Lunya ignores them. She will break this story. It’s a big one. A beloved and well-known musician has an estranged wife no one knows about, that’s media gold. Strangely enough my heart is not racing, I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not lying. This is my story to tell, my truth. I am relaying it as it happened. I am David Lisey’s legal wife and soon the whole world will know.

Make a plan, watch it go to shit—something my mother used to say after her third beer. She’d be glossy-eyed by then, her cupid bow lips slashed angrily with the coral lipstick she wore every day. It was probably wrong to imprint a child with this sort of pessimism, but my mother thought warnings and wisdom went hand-in-hand. I had some warning at least. I didn’t expect the world to open up for me. I was prepared to make a plan and watch everything go to shit. I think about those kids a lot—the ones who had two parents and three non-microwaved meals a day. What was it like for them when things went to shit? Were they expecting it? Did it hurt more because it was so foreign? With a truth teller for a mother life can’t blindside you.

My plan goes to shit faster than I expect. As it turns out, revenge is best taken after much planning and consideration. Impulse on the heels of anger is wrought with the type of issues a sane and private person would want to avoid. After Lunya Louse’s short but efficient interview, I am ushered into a black Range Rover wearing red lipstick and driven home to Celine’s flat. The driver, a man Lunya referred to as Gerard, did not speak a lick of English, and I had to type the address into my phone and hold it out to him in order to get home. In our confusion over language and phones, we did not see the white van following behind us, though I’m assuming Lunya did. What does it matter to her? She has her story and they can chase her source all they want.

A nasty throb has started behind my eyes, a headache to rule all headaches. I open the picture of David and me on our wedding day and stare at it until my appetite for memories has been sated. What have I done? I’m not sure, but it’s too late to change anything now. I step out of the Range Rover after thanking Gerard and make my way up the stairs, wondering how I am going to explain all of this to Celine. She told me to go, to talk to David, not aim at ruining his life. I stare at my feet, shamed. What is it about me that sends me over, over, over the edge? I can’t blame my mother, or my father, or my loneliness. Cheap tricks. Sure, I carry around your average bitterness, but it doesn’t stop me, I’m not drowning in it. Outing David to the whole world was brought on by something else.

Celine greets me when I walk through the door. I fall into her arms, a rag doll. She shushes me when I start to cry and settles me on the couch before bringing me a plate of olives and cheese. I pick at the food while she pours two generous portions of wine and carries them over in her small, white hands. Everything looks too big for Celine’s small hands.

“Yara,” she says. “Tell me what has occurred.”

What has occurred.

I want to repeat her phrasing but she gets flustered when I do.

“Turn on the news,” I say.

“Oh, no,” she says. “What have—?”

I shake my head indicating that I don’t want to say more. The story runs on the six o’clock news. Celine and I have drunk most of the bottle and are spread out on the sofa like a couple of college girls. I jar when I see my face appear on the screen, the blonde hair and red lipstick. I look like a whore, not a wife.

“Oh my, Yara,” she says.Oh my, indeed.

My roommate listens raptly as Lunya Louse asks me about my marriage to singer/songwriter David Lisey.

“Yara Phillips, who claims they were together in a bar on Rue Bezout the night David Lisey was attacked, is also claiming to be his estranged wife…”

Celine glances at me then back at the TV. “You certainly know how to cause a stir,” she says. “I sent you to the hospital to talk to David, not the entire country.” She waves her hand outside the window. “World,” she corrects herself.

“Yes, well, they wouldn’t let me see him and I got a little carried away.”

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say more.

The phone begins to ring and we stare at each other.

“Do we answer it?” I ask.

Celine stands up and walks over to the dated house phone on her wall. She answers in her usually chirpy way and I hear her speak in rapid French before hanging up. She comes back with a new bottle of wine.

“Someone just called you a whore,” she says. “In French. It sounds much better to call someone a whore in French.”

“More elegant,” I agree. “Do you think it was the lipstick?”

Celine sits back down, and her eyes are bright and angry. “I think it’s the jealousy.”

Petra is on the screen now, images of her flash and change so we can get every angle of her beauty. Petra walking into a restaurant in downtown LA holding David’s hand, Petra at lunch with David’s mother, Petra sitting on David’s lap at an awards show. The public is curious about her, they love her: the silent and supportive fiancée to America’s newest sweetheart. She’s grown her hair out, added some tattoos. She wears the right clothes and paints the right makeup, looks devastatingly classy. Jealousy, such a complicated word. I don’t want to be her, I don’t want to look like her, but I want it to be easy to love him—like it is for her. What is it exactly that I’m admitting to myself?

David was mine. He could have left me. He could have annulled the marriage. He never gave me divorce papers.Oh my God.He hadn’t been trying to torment me; he’d come to find me. Once, twice, three times. I start rocking on the sofa, head buried between my knees. Celine wordlessly strokes my back. She knew…who else knew…Posey? Ann…? Was I the only one?

“Celine,” I say, sitting up. “You’re the most peaceful person I’ve ever known. Peaceful,” I reiterate. “As in filled with peace.”

Celine waves me off. “You’re drunk, Yara.”

“No, no—let me finish,” I insist. I’m holding up a single finger. I tuck my hand away behind my back, embarrassed. I can taste the wine on my tongue, coating the inside of my mouth. I am drunk, but that’s when you’re most honest.

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