Chapter 1
All her life, Mebel Tanadihas always had a fear of—not so much death as much as situations that eventually lead to death. Like getting lost in a desert, for example. It’ll hit her when she drinks a glass of water and sees a tiny bit remaining at the bottom of the glass. Her brain will go:When you are wandering around a desert without any water, you will think back to this moment and wish you’d drunk every drop.And Mebel will lift the glass once more and make sure she gets every single drop.
Or when she is swimming, treading water in the deep end of the pool, her brain might say:Check for sharks.And she’d look over her shoulder just in case a great white somehow found its way into the swimming pool in their backyard.
Sometimes, when Mebel cuts off a piece of steak a little too big, her brain says:I wonder if your face will remain purple after you die from choking on that bite.It would make for an interestingtopic of conversation at the funeral anyway. And Mebel would cut the piece in half.
Long story short, Mebel’s brain is a bit of an asshole.
Though not as big an asshole as, it must be said, her husband Henk. The thing about Henk is, Mebel fell in love with him when she found out his name was spelled H-e-n-k and not H-a-n-k. She’s had an entire life of explaining to customs officers at airports that, no, that is not a misspelling in her passport, her parents really did mean to name her Mebel. Yes, they were aiming for Mabel. And “Henk” is so much more tragic than “Mebel” that she could not help falling for him. They were clearly created for each other. Except after forty years of peaceful marriage, Henk has just decided to drop a bomb right into their lives.
“You’re leaving me for our chef, Wendy?” Mebel says now.
Henk has trouble meeting her eye. “Yes,” he mumbles to a spot somewhere above Mebel’s head. Maybe he’s starting to lose his vision. Mebel makes a mental note to get an appointment with an ophthalmologist. Or maybe not, since he’s just revealed that he is leaving her for their chef, Wendy.
“She’s a baby,” Mebel says.And her name is spelled properly, her brain says. She chooses not to say this out loud.
“She’s twenty-four.”
“Exactly. Her brain isn’t even done developing!” Mebel is getting shrill and she knows it, but she can’t help herself. “Once it’s done developing, she might realize she doesn’t even like you,” she adds. It’s petty, but Michelle Obama once said that when they go low, we go lower. Or something like that anyway. She’s not one to argue with Michelle Obama.
Henk sighs. How can one short sigh convey so much? Though he doesn’t say it, Mebel senses his frustration and exhaustionsinking into the marrow of her bones. Their entire marriage, she’s sensed it, and she’s tried so very hard to avoid triggering Henk’s disappointment. She thought she’d done well; even at age sixty-three, Mebel is, dare she say it, fabulous. She was always, and always will be, a CHIP—a Chinese-Indonesian princess. When Mebel’s son told her what a CHIP was, Mebel had been proud of being one.
“CHIPs are all the same, Ma,” Sammy had said. “First of all, they’re raised in some European-style mansion with a hypermanicured Pomeranian. They get chauffeured around in Alphards, they get their bachelor’s in economics from USC or UMich, and then come back to Indonesia to get married and become trophy wives.”
Mebel has never understood why being a trophy wife is somehow looked down upon. She loves being a trophy wife. She makes such a fantastic trophy. She’s even shaped like one, all slender curves and long thin legs, which she has maintained in the same exact shape for the last few decades. She takes pride in being a trophy, except now it seems that Henk has decided to swap her out for a new one, and the thought is unbearable.
“I understand why you might feel the need to go for petty jabs,” Henk says in his reasonable tone. It’s a tone that he has used on their Pomeranian, Riri, and their son, Sammy, up until the age of eight, and Mebel for as long as she can remember. “I will spare you the indignity of moving out,” he adds magnanimously.
“Moving out?” Mebel echoes blankly. She hasn’t even thought of that possibility. But as soon as Henk says it, she thinks:I could do with a staycation for a few nights. Leave him in this big, empty house to think about what a mistake he’s making. TheSt. Regis Jakarta has a magnificent spa where they massage your face with a South Korean serum made out of salmon sperm.
But before Mebel can WhatsApp her assistant to make a booking at the St. Regis, Henk says, “Yes, I will be moving out.”
“You?” Mebel cries. “Where would you possibly stay?” Of course, as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realizes the stupidity of her question. Henk is a real estate tycoon. The number of properties they own in the city is always growing, to the point that Mebel doesn’t know how many of them they own. If Henk wants to move out, he doesn’t have to worry about not having any options.
Henk shrugs. “One of the apartments in south Jakarta. I like that area.”
They live in north Jakarta. It’s only about twenty miles away from south Jakarta, but with Jakarta traffic, it’s a journey that could take anywhere between twenty minutes and three hours. He might as well have told her he’s moving to a different country.
“Since when?” she cries. She feels affronted by this. Years and years she’s tried to get him to sample one of the many trendy restaurants that have sprouted in south Jakarta, and each time, she’s been shot down with “It’s too far away,” and “Why bother? We have great restaurants here,” and so on.
Henk doesn’t answer, merely looks sheepish, and it begins to sink in with horrible clarity that the truth is: Since Wendy. Mebel is beginning to realize that from this point on, her life will be divided into two halves—one of them would be BW, Before Wendy, and the other would be AW, After Wendy. Kind of like BC and…uh, AD.But wait, a small voice pipes up in her atrociously messy mind,why is it AD and not AC? Because,replies a different small voice,then it would be air-conditioning.Mebel snorts.
Henk frowns. “This is not a joke, Mebel,” he says.
“I know,” she says, but she can’t help releasing a tiny little demented giggle.
Henk shakes his head. “See, this is the problem. I can’t have a proper conversation with you without you doing your…thing.”
“My thing?”
“You know what I mean.”
And now the mirth is gone, replaced by a searing hot rush of anger. “No!” Mebel snaps. “Actually, I don’t know what you mean.”
As though noticing the change in atmosphere, Henk deflates. “It’s fine, forget about it. I’m sorry,” he adds before Mebel can say anything. “I really am. I never thought—I didn’t plan on this happening.”
“Me neither,” she says.
