Torn

It had been seven long years since Patrick's disappearance. Death in absentia was what the court called it. Maureen called it freedom. Getting him declared legally dead had been no walk in the park. Sure, it was hell going through hearing after hearing, trying to prove there was no way her husband was ever coming back, fighting through the fake tears of a widow to retell the story of their last fight and how brokenhearted she was. None of it made any impression on the court. Maureen was specific about why she believed her missing husband dead—everything from his plane crashing on the Africa coast to the African government's inability to identify her husband's remains from the many that were found. The court listened to every argument, every detail she and her attorney could provide. Each time it ruled against them. There was no proof of his plane ever having been in the vicinity of the tsunami that hit Port Elizabeth all those years ago. And, because the plane was presumed downed in international waters, there was an issue of jurisdiction. The deck was stacked against Maureen. The court found no basis to believe Patrick's plane had been in imminent peril. With no proof of peril, no evidence of a plane crash, and no bodies to identify, there was little to do but wait. The law was clear on this issue: only after a person had been declared missing for seven years could he be declared legally dead. Even after the new 9/11 law took effect that allowed the governing mediator and judge to move the mandatory wait time from seven years to three, the court was unwilling to listen to her until seven years had passed. When the mandatory time elapsed, the court would entertain her petition. Part of the reason for this, besides the absence of bodies or plane parts, was the rather handsome $4.5 million life insurance policy she would receive, not to mention a substantial estate. Not bad for only four years of marriage. Maureen knew the first day she laid eyes on Patrick that she had an all-day sucker who would do any and everything to keep her happy, in life and in death. All she had to do was fake a few orgasms, pop out a child, and pretend to be the perfect wife for six months each year. Six months was the total amount of time Patrick was home in a year— never consecutively, of course, but it gave her brief periods of reprieve from her wifely duties. When she became pregnant with Lily, Patrick showered Maureen with diamonds, pearls, the finest maternity clothing, a new car with a chauffeur, and an in-house chef to ensure proper nutrition for mother and child. She was treated like a queen and felt like one. Patrick made a point to be home more often so he could pamper his wife, the mother of his child, during these once-in-a-lifetime days. He would rub her down from head to foot. Often he'd lay his face on her ballooning stomach to catch the faint kicks of the unborn child. He read stories to her belly and put an extra blanket over her to make sure the baby was warm enough. Maureen couldn't have anticipated how things would change between her and Patrick after Lily was born. It was almost as if Maureen were not there. Patrick came home from his business trips and went straight to the baby's room, often sleeping in the room with the child in his arms. He made love to Maureen only once in the year following Lily's birth, and that was nothing to call out God's name about. When Lily became sick, Patrick was home too often. For the next six months, he never left her side, except to shower and check his emails. He slept, ate, and watched television in Lily's bedroom. After the baby's death, Patrick all but disappeared from the face of the earth. He rarely came home, except for religious holidays. A devoted Mormon, Patrick insisted they attend all sacrament meetings, or church services to the rest of the world, together, as "a family. It wasn't so bad being married to a Mormon. In fact, it was a piece of cake. Patrick didn't drink alcohol or even coffee. No drugs. Not a single sordid thing that could defile His temple. The one thing that did bother Maureen about Patrick's faith was the tithing. She just couldn't understand who in his right mind would give the church—clearly a place not run by God—ten percent of his earnings. Often Patrick gave more. Maureen was sure Patrick was in one of those heavens he'd always talked about reserved for the faithful and pious. He had been faithful to a fault, and definitely pious. He believed in "giving back" and urged Maureen to join a charitable organization, insisting she'd feel a love and joy she could never achieve through normal channels of self-gratification. Obviously Patrick had never heard of the Jack Rabbit, and the extreme female pleasure its thrusting and beaded massages have provided millions of women. Maureen's rabbit had a position of honor in her bedroom and in her appointment book. A man may have invented the vibrator to relieve the carpal tunnel syndrome of Victorian doctors, but it was a woman who perfected the vibrator that hippy-hopped its way into the homes and hearts of all women. No amount of charitable work could ever compare to its joys, but Maureen gave it a try. Now, more than seven years after the plane crash, years of litigation, and countless prayers (although in vain), Maureen was finally going to get what she deserved. The big pay- out. And that insurance check was just the tip of the iceberg. The first thing she would do would be to shop in Milan, then Paris, with a grand finale in NYC. Yes, her mother taught her well. Marry money and live happily ever after. Mother was the epitome of marrying well. Four husbands, all dead, three of whom left over $2 million in life insurance, payable to the widow. With no children other than Maureen from her first marriage, Mother had no one with whom to split the inheritance. Mother was definitely Maureen's inspiration. Just one more week until her meeting with Grace, then payday, and all of Maureen's cares would disappear. Maureen sat in front of the marble fireplace in her favorite oversized lounger, her long porcelain-white legs stretched out before her. She held her vodka tonic high in the air in a mock salute, the light from the fireplace causing a spectacular light show as it bounced around the room, refracted through her crystal glass. "Thank you, Patrick. You were a devoted husband in life and death. To God be the glory."