Chapter 2: The Deposition
Divorce discovery is a bloodless war.
Fisk, Brandon’s new attorney, thought he could drown me in paper. Produce all communications with coworkers. Produce all receipts for dinners. Produce therapy records.
Marcus objected to all of it. “Irrelevant. Harassment. Fishing.”
Judge Kemp agreed. “Mr. Fisk, your client participated in a criminal battery against my petitioner. I’m not letting you turn this into a trial of her work ethic.”
Fisk pivoted. “We’re alleging fraudulent conveyance. She moved money to hide it from the marital estate.”
“She moved her separate property to a separate account,” Marcus said. “Day of the assault. That’s not fraud. That’s safety planning. We have the police report. Time stamped 7:39am. Transfer time stamped 8:12am. After the crime.”
Fisk didn’t have much.
Brandon had less.
He was living in a motel. Job at the dealership was “indefinite leave.” He was driving for Uber.
Eleanor was in a senior apartment. Paid for by the state. She called me once. I didn’t answer.
The deposition was in March.
Brandon showed up in a suit. Too big. He’d lost weight.
Fisk started. “Ms. Hale, is it true you make more than my client?”
“Yes.”
“Did that create tension?”
“Tension was created when his mother shaved my head.”
“Objection, non-responsive,” Fisk said.
“Overruled,” Judge Kemp said. “It was responsive. To reality.”
Marcus took over.
“Mr. Hale, did you tell your wife to quit her job?”
Brandon looked at Fisk. Fisk nodded.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her to ‘learn to behave properly’?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say ‘hair grows back but marriages don’t survive disrespect’ after your mother assaulted your wife?”
Brandon swallowed. “I was upset.”
“Did you pay the mortgage?”
“No.”
“Did you pay the utilities?”
“No.”
“Did you pay for your mother’s medication?”
“No.”
“Did your wife?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions.”
We recessed.
In the hall, Brandon approached me. Fisk wasn’t there.
“Claire,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“I’m sorry it got like that,” he said. “Mom… she’s old. She has ideas. I should have stopped her.”
“You should have stopped yourself,” I said.
“I know. I was… I felt small. You were big. At work. At home. I didn’t know how to be a man.”
“Being a man,” I said, “is not hurting a woman so you feel bigger. Being a man is paying your half. Being a man is calling 911 when your mom commits a crime. You did none of that.”
He nodded. “Can I… can I see it? Your head?”
I’d been wearing wigs to court. Today I wasn’t.
I turned.
He flinched. Not at the bald. At the tattoo.
I’d gotten it on day 31. Back of my neck. Small. Mine.
“You tattooed it?” he whispered.
“I reclaimed it,” I said. “You took my hair. I took my skin.”
He sat down on the bench. “I don’t know who I am without you.”
“That’s not my problem,” I said. “That’s your work.”
The divorce was finalized in April.
No alimony. No assets to him. No visitation, because we had no kids.
He got his car. His debt. His mom.
I got my house. My money. My life.
The last time I saw Eleanor was at the grocery store.
She was in line. Counting coupons.
She saw me.
I had hair now. Buzzed. Growing out. Blonde. I liked it.
She looked down.
I didn’t say anything.
She didn’t either.
I paid for my groceries.
On the way out, I saw her cart. Bread. Milk. Cat food.
She had a cat.
I’d forgotten.
I went back.
I put a $50 on her conveyor belt.
She looked up.
“For the cat,” I said.
Then I left.
May you like
She didn’t say thank you.
She didn’t have to.
