INHALED

CHAPTER ONE

 

In her mind, and only in her mind, Isabelle Duval started to wander early in her marriage, revealing the permeability of its seal.
A seal that would hold for 23 years.

Until it would no longer.
A differing reality of the physical world, there, and waiting.
And one of the heart, too, for that is also true.
I turn my hand over and look at the fleshy part of it.
The pain, I think.
The days and the nights.
The ...
... broken and wondering.
And here, now, quiet in the dark, I press down on that place, on my

right hand, and I whisper—why?

“But, as I said somewhere, the human heart is indestructible. You only imagine it is broken. What really takes a beating is the spirit. But the spirit too is strong and, if one wishes, can be revived.” – Henry Miller

I knew I was not the only woman who had had the safety of her world destroyed, the structure of her life disjointed, the foundation of her union blasted. Countless stories depicting evidence of marital crumbling are readily available to the insecure voyeur like me, seeking reassurance in futile comparisons. I wanted to share my story, not as a premise for revenge, but rather, to unburden myself from the encompassing guilt that had woven its way into my stomach. I needed to describe, in painful detail, the unexpected life passage I had chosen to walk, its fine line sometimes erased, or redrawn, oblivious to the hurt and destruction that would ensue. My desire to share was a function of survival, as I needed to finally breathe properly, dilute the shame and access the universe’s forgiveness, and not be inhaled, any longer, by ways I did not understand then, and may never fully, yet.

 

Seated on the edge of her seat, Isabelle Duval fixed her eyes on the dining room floor, pondering something so out of character; so daring—in fact, so dangerously reckless, it sent shivers up her neck. She needed to offset imposed earthquakes with controlled ones. She needed to shield herself from the waves of grief that kept coming at her, violently and consistently, like eternal tides tightly bound together, leaving her with barely time to breath.

For somewhere, over the endlessness of a vast blue sea, her moon had gone rogue, and had lost its ability to ground her, and she felt confused. She felt lost.

Do I want movement, or do I want stagnation?
She wondered more, her eyes still fixed to the floor.
Do I want freedom from this pain? A pain she did not seek. A pain she

did not ask for. Or deserve.

Enough, she thought, and she looked up, for she knew her answer. Her way forward.

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

The decision to marry came rapidly, most likely out of a fear of being alone; a fear rooted in my past. I had decided, almost unilaterally, John was going to be the one. I didn’t see any of it coming, even when the clues telling me to go came rushing over me.

The pre-honeymoon phase took a nosedive one week prior to the ceremony. My married life, in its infancy, had set its own beat, and I heard nothing, or so little of it. I was deaf to it all. Oblivious.

I remember the morning of the wedding, telling my maid of honor, I couldn’t go through with it. It was a gorgeous day for an exquisite fifty guest lunch affair held in one of Montreal’s landmarks, a quaint little Inn, located where the International and Universal Exposition had taken place in 1967. John and I had planned the wedding together, and the venue had been carefully scouted. There was an unbelievably beautiful rose garden, coupled with a country ambiance, that made a small, inexpensive wedding feel grandiose and regal.

At 28 years-old, fresh from a seven year relationship that had ended badly, I had fallen in love with a man who would prove immature his whole life. At first, I had been seduced by John’s tenacity, his perseverance in courting me. That someone was able to keep up with my abrupt and cynical side had stoked my curiosity, as each of my genuine pushbacks had been met with such nonchalance and humor.

From the beginning of our relationship, the sensations I extracted from my time spent with him were sensations that filled me with unconditional acceptance–or, what I thought was unconditional acceptance. And that was my opium, the need to be seen. For the duration of my entire marriage with John, I would rely on this feeling to legitimize my union with him, and to tolerate the many deviant behaviors that would come to mark our relationship. So yes, the way I thought he fully accepted me, the whole of me, complete with my curvy personality, and sharp edges, had seduced me. He truly wants me, and this I thought, is what love is supposed to feel like.

John and I met at a private party in Montreal, and I would later understand that his emotional inadequacy was responsible for what I perceived as his tenacity. I remember vividly the B-52’s song, Love Shack, blasting, the crowd dancing, as he introduced himself.

“You train often,” he had yelled to me with the wave of a hand, and beady, glassy eyes that told of nothing I wanted. Not too far from us, stood a tall, redhead, slim and elegant. She seemed paralyzed in the corner, before the large window, beer in hand, playing with the Claudine collar of her white chemise. I remember thinking as I scanned the whole of her, the way girls do with impunity, the verdict harsh and final, this girl looks as if she is wearing a collar made of dollies. Sometime after, I would find out he had attended the party with his then girlfriend—the tall, slim, and elegant redhead. Oblivious to her presence, and oblivious to my reticence, John had planted his index finger to my side, deep into my flesh. I had pushed his hand away from my body, pulled my tank top further down. Nothing, my eyes had said to him, you are nothing. That night, he had followed me to the taxi, running behind me, begging for my phone number, which I had declined to give him.

Eventually, after three months of incessant phone calls left with my secretary and my roommate’s boyfriend, I gave in. He had touched something. Marylin Monroe’s saying was starting to ring true—if John could handle me at my worst, I could give him, at the very least, a glimpse of me at my very best.

Somewhat handsome, at 5 feet, 11 inches, his body, although, still lean, showed signs of impending doughiness. Our lovemaking had allowed me to touch and feel the potential for his body to become fleshy. I understood that he probably had peaked physically a few years earlier, his trained body then the subject of an intense sports regimen. I would discover over time, how my slow disinterest for all things sexual would correlate with John’s inability to care for himself, body and soul. Weaved into the us we were, inside the slow dysfunction of our ways, the desire to feel and touch—to be touched— was alive. I wanted John in a way he could never be. Slowly, so very slowly, my abdication for all things sexual, unfolded, leaving the seeds of intimacies behind.

 

Armed with her answer, Isabelle left her home in a state of shock, not knowing her destination. Not knowing where the night might lead her. Aware only of the possibilities of her needs, now surfacing, and stalking, in every possible way, and wanting to be unleashed.

She hastily packed an overnight bag, one betraying her intentions—the irrefutable proof of her premeditated plan: a pink lace nightgown, two G- strings, a hairbrush, a toothbrush (complete with tongue cleaner), some medication, and a laptop and charger. Together, totaling the incriminating evidence pointing to her desire to escape.

Anywhere. With anyone.

​

CHAPTER THREE

 

The thirteen months preceding our wedding had been blissful, even though John was, I soon discovered, prone to sudden, strange temper tantrums, often punctuating very normal, quiet moments. There were other red flags I willingly ignored. Explosions of rage because socks were put in the dryer, because bagels were burnt, because of anything and everything. Nonetheless, I had decided it was time to marry.

I had chosen my groom.

John and I were living in one of the most romantic places Canada has to offer, Old Montreal, the American Europe. The architecture, reminiscent of the start of the area’s colonization, created the backdrop for the beginning of our story. The sound of horse-drawn tourist carriages rolling along the rustic cobblestone, non-stop waves of visitors basking in the European ambiance, and a majestic port with its busy boardwalk, provided an idyllic springboard for our young love.

Following our wedding, we stayed a second and final year in Old Montreal. I was starting a master’s program in management at Montreal University’s Ecole des Hautes Etudes Commerciales. John was working as a financial advisor for a well-known international consulting firm.

From there, we moved to downtown Montreal, the corner of Sherbrooke and Stanley, to a small Victorian-looking house. I had had a miscarriage and had decided to pursue my master’s thesis on a part-time basis. The miscarriage had left me shaken and depressed. Suddenly, the pursuit of a full-time master’s degree seemed irrelevant. My failed pregnancy had transformed itself into the perfect pretext to leave Montreal for two months and accompany John to Paris and Marseilles for his work as a financial consultant. From there, I decided, I would research my thesis.

My daughter Catherine, was born two-and-a-half years after we married, followed by her sister, Alice, three years later. I had now accomplished a deep want I had held in my heart. I had become a mother. The pull of motherhood had succeeded. The visceral knowledge that, somehow, part of my mission in life was to bear children and touch them with my truth, had been confirmed and accomplished.

The fulfillment I felt during those first few years, while somewhat energizing, was not enough to offset the overwhelming feeling of it not being enough. This feeling of quasi-fulfillment, shifted my definition of balance, my sense of it, including, rationalizing not returning to work for the sake of the children’s well-being. Moreover, deep at the core of my being had settled a monstrous truth. Shamefully, like a little girl caught in her mother’s unambiguous world, the place where flowers rot and slowly die, the place where women hold one place—second place, I had let John’s needs superimpose themselves on mine, morphing my needs into his. I remember thinking, the price to pay in order to not have it all, when family becomes your only bearing, is to not have it all, and to not have it all means life is divided in morsels that you see, and hear, but cannot ever fully taste.

 

Isabelle had been chatting online with three men, and had in her possession, four or five pictures of herself that she considered good ammunition. When she pulled out of her driveway at 11:00 p.m., well- coiffed and dressed to close her deal, she still did not know where she was heading, as not one of the conversations had reached a satisfying conclusion. Nevertheless, she left hoping to get a drink at the local bistro, and pursue matters further from that location.

The bistro was closed for the evening, and she felt deflated. In fact, everything in downtown Northampton appeared to be closed. She had deployed so much energy to get this far, and she was now left with the option of either returning home, or heading to her local Holiday Inn Express.

Parking her car in a nearby parking lot, she headed to the local pub, which, thank God, was still open.

She walked into the pub, flaunting a fur poncho and suede knee-high boots, strutting in front of the college students who were watching some sports event on the big screen. She sat down on a stool, ordered a rum and Coke, and checked her phone. She only had 14 percent power left, and a message from one of the three men interested in meeting her. She had barely finished her drink, before heading to her car. From there, she charged her phone, called her newfound blind-date, and made sure she entered the right address into her phone. He lived one hour and 45 minutes away. It was now 11:30 p.m.

All that mattered now, was that she had a destination. A place where she could escape the reality her life had become.

A place, she thought, where she could seek her revenge. And she would. All of it.

No matter what.

She started the car, and she drove into the waiting dark, on this night of her revenge.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

The thoughts circling in my mind were challenging to ignore, as I considered the tasks involved in moving to Taiwan. Prior to the move, my migraines and widespread body pain had notably increased. The eight months preceding our departure had been filled with mixed emotions, as leaving behind family, but mostly good friends, provoked a vertigo-like sensation that had enmeshed itself in my body, altering my already delicate sense of balance.

Nothing, however, hurt more than abandoning my growing coaching clientele. I had been building that clientele since the children were eight and eleven years-old, following my decision to slowly reintegrate into the workforce. Somehow, I had understood the need to lean into my professional self, acknowledging my hunger for recognition.

Nonetheless, my apprehension quickly gave way to excitement. I had rationalized the move as the right step to take to provide my family with some unity and stability. John would be available to help with Catherine, now fourteen years-old, whose mental health issues were becoming more evident. John’s assistance could create an equilibrium in which we could possibly redefine ourselves, as a family, as a couple.

Our house was put on the market in February 2010 and was sold that April. On July 30th, we were taking off for Taipei, Taiwan, full of hope and promises. While John had been commuting between Asia and Montreal for fifteen years, the move to Taiwan represented my first contact with Asia, an unbuffered contact whose impact I felt the minute we landed in Taipei.

The taxi ride to The Grand Hotel, Taipei, Taiwan, was a quiet one. The exhaustion we felt was unknown to our bodies, our systems shocked by the harshness of the voyage. Twenty hours of traveling—Montreal to Toronto, Toronto to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Taipei—coupled with twelve hours of time difference, had taken its toll.

When I had proposed we move to Taiwan, I was aware any move would be unsettling for Catherine. Moving to Taiwan, I rationalized, would be good for all of us, but mostly for Catherine. I thought it would provide her with an unequaled growth opportunity. Up to this point, she and I had been quite close. I had been the very present parent in her life, as John had mostly concentrated his efforts with our company. Yes, Catherine and I had a strong bond, a close understanding of one another, one which I had used in order to legitimize our move to Taiwan. Under the assumption that, I, the competent parent, understood her needs more than anyone else, I had set the stage to test her limits.

Have I gambled on the mental health of my fourteen year-old daughter? I asked myself, as I stepped into the taxi leading us to Juifen. I was bitterly realizing I had consciously not calculated the probabilities of a win. Holding Alice’s hand, trying my best to hide my worries from her inquisitive eyes, I stared in disbelief at the dashboard in front of us. It had been profusely decorated with potted plants, a Taiwanese ‘thing,’ I would quickly discover. I turned my head toward Alice and looked at her gaping mouth. My eleven year-old daughter’s small face had distorted into an expression of such surprise; her round, brown eyes were almost as big as her mouth. Her reaction immediately refocused my attention on the moment, highlighting its incongruity. As if on cue, we both exploded into an uncontrollable, fatigue-fueled laughter. There, in the back seat of the garlic-smelling taxi cab, I tightened her hand, brought it to my lips and kissed it with immense gratitude, as I closed my eyes.

The urban heterogeneity of Taipei was quite startling, but somehow equally refreshing. We had arrived in a strange land where beauty and hideousness coexisted in a tamed harmony. Absorbing it all, we checked into our rooms, physically unable to articulate our concerns. My stomach was churning, and my head was throbbing.

The Grand Hotel was a huge pagoda-shaped structure built, according to the locals, under the supervision of Chiang Kai-chek’s wife, Mei-ling. John had chosen to introduce us to Taipei via this old and stinky landmark, where carpets and walls seemed to release a constant flow of mold-like odor into the Chinese five-spice laden humid air.

Located far from the city center, it proved to be the wrong location from which to fight the jet lag we were all feeling. Unable to distract ourselves from our fatigue, and overwhelmed by the lack of western cultural references, the children and I felt trapped. Nonetheless, we spent our first six days at the hotel, waiting for our container to reach our new home in Cedar Village, a small compound located at the base of Yangmingshan National Park. Slowly, recuperating from our travels, and preparing our new house for the arrival of our belongings, we braced ourselves for the official launch of this adventure.

We finally moved into our house up on Yangmingshan seven days after having landed in Taipei. Overlooking a valley, our new home was an immense three-story structure located within a private sixty house compound. Upon entering the house, the children had immediately felt at home, as if reassured by the luxurious and inviting feeling the space provided. It was a sharp contrast to what they had observed thus far.

I, too, had been reassured by our new home’s design, charmed by its Asian simplicity, but mostly by its inviting layout. The path through the house was a jade-colored, carpeted slicing through the wide open space. It seduced me. The novelty of it, so calming, so reassuring. Entering from the third floor, we would make our way down to the first level, greeted by a luscious garden and an in-ground swimming pool. Much of our time would be spent there, seated on the bench, holding hands, observing the serpent eagles circling above our heads, scanning for prey. These moments of quiet mornings, late afternoon teas, and brimming glasses of wine, should have been enough.

But no.

They were not.

 

Isabelle looked at the tall branches overhanging the small road, the tall, majestic trees etching a military-like salute, guiding her on toward Lowell, MA.

Toward freedom.

Away from her pain and sorrow. Hate and spite, the pillars of her revenge—a guiltless revenge she would master and feast upon, and worming now into her heart.

She would apply herself. She would allow herself to let go. The darkness of the night pure, the air thickened by a light fog. Yes, she was afraid, but she would pierce the blurry curtain until reaching the highway—until reaching him.

Yes. Revenge. The unlikely key to her freedom.
Or, so she thought, as she drove on, lost to her thoughts. Lost to her escaping.