My Wife's Li'l Secret (3 page)

Yes, for the first time ever, my wife was hands-in-the-air dancing!

Despite that fact, I was so pissed off with him that I couldn’t wait for his visit to end. Therapy would be cheaper, I concluded.

But wait, there’s more!

While touring Sydney, Viggo met a group of Russians and Ukrainians and struck up a friendship. They hung out every day and whenever he left the house to visit them, he always took along a couple bottles of liquor. From
my
bar. Took
my
expensive liquor, without the courtesy of asking me if he could. Just helped himself to it as if he owned the joint. I waited for Liefie to say something to him, but she said nothing. In fact, she seemed to encourage it.

Make yourself at home.
What a fucking dumb thing to say to someone.

I fumed silently each time I looked at my bar – the bare shelves, the dirty or missing crystal glasses. I balked at the drink stains on the beautiful Beechwood counters and worst of all – the overflowing ashtrays at my bar, which was my pet peeve.

He smoked inside my house!
Inside
.

Even if Viggo forgot my rules about smoking, even if common courtesy didn’t prevail, the
NO SMOKING!
sign on the wall of my bar should have served as a reminder. The bastard ignored it.

Why the hell was Liefie allowing him to do this, to behave this way? How could she allow the jerk to smoke
inside
the house when she had two little kids? Where the fuck were her brains?

I shook my head in anger at Viggo
and
at my AWOL wife.

To think we lost our precious baby because of this arsehole.

As for my bar, I refused to stock it again, to top up empty bottles, to fill up the kegs – not with that greedy bastard around. So sadly, my bar continued to look naked and …pathetic. And I continued to quietly wish Viggo had died during his last heart attack.

But I said nothing to him, because Liefie, she blossomed with her brother around – she laughed out loud, danced regularly, dressed like a teenager again, wore make-up, colored her hair, painted her nails and …she left the house.

She left the house
– that was huge.

Sure, she doted on her arsehole brother, prepared him his favorite foods, waited on him hand and bloody foot, took him around Sydney, spent all my money on him, failed to notice his bad manners, his crudeness and his flagrant abuse of our hospitality, buy hey, my wife was back.

That was all that mattered, right? So what if I never saw him reciprocate in any way? Liefie loved her brother. That was a good thing.

I loved my sister Arena, too. Not the adoring, flamboyant, six-egg-omelet-every-morning love that Viggo and Liefie shared, but a quiet, under the surface, profound love. Hell, I left my country and migrated to Australia to be with my sister because I worried about her.

Growing up, Arena was my Go-To Girl. I always sought her advice, knowing she would steer me in the right direction. 

When I was ten and a group of bullies kicked my butt and stole my remote controlled helicopter, I called Arena. She took on four bullies and got back not only my helicopter, but also a six-pack of batteries, as well as two long-reach, water-squirting, light-up swords. (She used the five words guaranteed to instill fear into little boys—
I will tell your mum
.)

When I was seventeen and busted for hot-wiring and driving my friend’s father’s Datsun (with my friend in it), I called Arena, not my parents.

When I was seventeen and arrested in a bar-room brawl, I called Arena.

When I was seventeen and busted for stealing (with three of my friends) a speed camera from the road that had photographed me driving one hundred and forty kilometers in a seventy zone (which we later dumped in a lake), I called Arena.

When I was seventeen and my boss fired me for sleeping with his wife and refused to pay me for days worked, I called Arena. She had a quiet word with him, made me apologize and promise never to have sexual relations (her words) with his wife again, and got him to pay me.

When I was seventeen and was busted for smoking pot in the back of the church with a young priest, I called Arena.

She always had my back, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for my sister.

So, I understood that Liefie loved her douchbag brother, said little, and counted the days leading to his demise. Eh,
departure
.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

Five hundred and four hours.

Make yourself at home...

Some of the changes Liefie made to herself irked me.

I disliked her new hair color – brassy, blonde, brittle.

I reeled at the sight of her bright, metallic-blue eye-shadow that she began to wear during the
day
and at night.

Her red lipstick that I initially liked started to look harsh. When it faded, it left a hard red line around her lips, making her look like the tired and sleep-deprived hookers I used to arrest when I was a cop.

Her black nail polish, her orange fake tan, and that severe, black eye liner she constantly wore did nothing to enhance her looks.

She used to be really lovely and fresh-faced, but all that changed; now when I looked at her, I saw so many colors on her face, I could no longer see the person behind the make-up.

In the bedroom, when she came to bed (which was around 3 or 5 a.m. most mornings), even though she was happy and smiling during the day, she still slept at the far end of the bed. Still kept up that giant
Keep Out!
sign.

Even though I wanted to, I didn’t push her.

Give her time, I told myself. She’ll come back to you when she’s ready.

As if her make-up wasn’t bad enough, her dressing began to change. For the worse.

Give a girl an inch and she will make a skirt out of it.

Those words gonged in my brain when I saw how short her skirts had become and how much thigh she flaunted, something she had never done before. Her tops, which she wore during the day and at night, clung to her and showed way too much cleavage for a mother of two who had to pick up her kids from preschool. I was embarrassed.

She took to wearing stilettos all the time, something she hadn’t done before. I didn’t have a problem with the stilettos, but together with her slutty ensemble, she looked like a bloody prostitute!

How could I not be embarrassed?

Every time she dressed, she’d totter up to Viggo, close her eyes, and with palms facing him she'd ask in a little girly voice, “Do I look nice?” He always answered in Russian, so I couldn’t tell if he approved.

Viggo’s opinion seemed to matter most to her and that really pissed me off. Especially since both of them treated me as if I was invisible.

They held all their conversations in Russian even though I was at the dinner table or in the room. It was downright rude and I brought it up with Liefie.

First causally, in a sing-song voice, a smile on my face, “I’m in the room guys. English! English! English!” Big smile.

Then a little firmly, sounding wounded, “It’s not polite to talk in Russian when I’m in the room, Liefie. Makes me feel excluded from the conversation, okay?”

Then with my arms thrown out in the air, my face a mask of anger, “Jayzus! D’ya want me to leave the room? Huh? Want some privacy so you can talk about me? Just tell me straight, will ya?”

“It’s just so good to converse in my mother tongue,” Liefie snapped. “Like you and your sister sometimes speak Afrikaans. What’s the big deal?”

She had me there.

Sometimes Arena and I spoke in Afrikaans, but unlike Viggo and Liefie, we just exchanged
words
, a sentence at the most, then hurried to explain to everyone around what had been said.

But Liefie had a point, so I quit my whining and sulked.

As if all the above wasn’t enough, Viggo found a fresh new way to annoy me – he began to emulate me.

He started to wear his hair like mine, wear formal shirts similar to the ones I wore to work (even though he was not gainfully employed), he stole my aftershave, used my shaver without permission, draped my fluffy burgundy towels (Liefie had my name embroidered on them for father’s day) around his naked waist so I could no longer use them, and drove my wife’s Ford Explorer, even though he did not have a valid driver’s license.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?
No.

Everything Viggo had was supplied by Liefie. Which really meant that all his indulgences, every bit of his luxuries, all his fucking extravagances were supplied by
me!

I was desperate to ship his arse back to Ukraine. Via uninsured cargo.

But he had drawn my wife out of her depression.  And when he left, he was going to give me back my
old
wife.

So I swallowed my anger and quietly counted the days till his departure.

We had two weeks more with the arsehole.

Just
two
more weeks.

Fourteen days.

Three hundred and thirty-six hours only.

Not that I was counting.

****

“We’re unable to reach Mrs. MacMillan, so we’re calling you,” the voice on the other end of the line said, a trace of irritability in the person’s voice. “Mrs. Macmillan hasn’t picked up your daughter Ally from preschool. Are you able to?”

My forehead creased. “My wife hasn’t …?” A quick glance at the silver Tag Heuer on my wrist caused me flinch –  5:25 p.m.!

Liefie’s been involved in an accident!

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said as I dashed to my Jeep. “Be right over, okay?”

Liefie had never failed to pick up our daughter on time before. Something had to have been wrong. Another accident?
Crap!

As I weaved my Jeep in peak hour traffic, I dialed Liefie’s mobile phone.

Hi, this is Liefie. I’m unable to take your call …

My anxiety peaked. Without leaving a message, I ended the call and dialed her phone again.

Again, all I got was voicemail.
Where the hell is she?

I dialed Viggo’s number. Yes, the fucker had a mobile phone too, purchased with my money, who else’s?

To my relief he answered. “Hallooo?” God, I hated his voice, his accent.

“Viggo, is Liefie with, eh….Olga, is she with you?”

Without a word, he handed the phone to my wife.

She’s okay. Whew!

“Liefie?”

“Ritchie? Hallooo?” She’s even started sounding like him.
God!

In the background I could hear talking, men’s deep voices, women’s high-pitched laughter, the tinkling of glasses. They were either at a party or a very lively bar.

“Liefie, you didn’t pick up Ally.”

“Ally? Oh, fuuuuck! I forgoooot, Ritchie. I forgoooot!”

She sounded drunk. Could she be drunk, I wondered? No way!

Liefie had never been much of a drinker. I’d never even seen her drunk, so for her to be slurring? No way.

It was a Wednesday – Liefie would never drink on a weekday.

“Ritchie, wha…wha…?”

“Liefie, how much have you had to drink?”

“Whaaat?” She laughed. “Drink? No, no, no...”

My sigh was one of exasperation.

But even though I was a little annoyed, I understood. It was the first time she forgot to pick up Ally. She was probably caught up in the party spirit with her idiot brother and his Russian friends.

“I…I’ll go fetch her now, Ritchie.”

“No, no, no, Liefie! You sound too drunk to drive. Don’t!”

“Drunk? Okay, Viggo, he will drive, then.”

“No, Liefie!” I snapped. “Don’t let him drive! He’s probably way drunker than you. And Liefie …where’s Becky?”

“Becky?”

“Yes, Becky, Liefie! Where is she?”

“She’s with me.”

Oh shit!

My two-year old daughter was with Liefie while she was so drunk? And she wanted to drive them home in that state? How could I not freak the fuck out?

Calm down! Calm down!
Calm down!

“Where, Liefie? Where are you?”

“Where?” Did she have to repeat everything I said?

“At …at Yuliya’s house.” Yuliya was one of the Russians they had met at a bar in Sydney.

“Liefie, listen carefully to me: do
not
drive home. Take a cab back. Do. Not. Drive. Home. Understand? Take a cab.”

“Cab? Wait, wait, wait!” The conversation between Viggo and Liefie was muffled and obviously in Russian so I had no idea what she was saying to him.

“Ritchie, Viggo, he says he’s okay to drive. He’ll be fiiiine.”

“Liefie, no! Do
not
let him drive you guys home. Take a cab home. You can fetch your car in the morning.”

She protested, but I was firm about it.

“Okay, fine, whatever you say, boss!” The sarcasm in her voice did not go unnoticed. “Boss!”

“Liefie!” Shaking my head, I hung up, pissed off with her lousy attitude. It’s Viggo’s fault, I fumed as I neared the school. Fucking pain in the arse. After he arrived in Sydney, she had become a different woman and not in a good way.

I eased the car into the almost-empty school parking lot, killed the engine and raced up to face my daughter.

Four-year-old Ally was seated at reception, hands folded tightly across her chest, chin tucked, her curls forming a blonde curtain around her little face.

“Ally? Hon?”

She looked up at me, her mouth curled downwards, her bottom lip trembling, her face tear-stained. My heart sank at the sight of my beautiful daughter looking so miserable and distressed.

She was the most spirited, mouthy four-year-old on the planet and she made me laugh out loud with some of the things she said. No secret, I absolutely adored her. The day she was born, I became a man and I felt love like I had never experienced before.

When she looked at me with those big, blue, liquid eyes and uttered, “Dadda,” I said yes to …
whatever
the question was. I just couldn’t say no to Ally.

Her laughter was my phone ringtone. That’s how much I adored her.

“Baby, I’m so …”

“I hate you!” she cried, tears coursing down her flushed cheeks.

I bear-hugged her. “Ally, I’m sorry, honey. I’m really sorry.”

“I hate Mum too!” she said, pushing me away with her tiny hands. “I’m always the last one to be picked up and it’s so embarrassing. I hate my whole family!”

She was the last one to be picked up every day? That was news to me.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I said, holding her close.

“Sorry is not good enough!” she hissed in a tearful voice. “I h…hate you, I hate Mum, I h…hate Becky, I hate…”

I let her rant until both her anger and her sobbing subsided.

“Would a McFlurry help?” I finally asked, kissing her hair and wanting to take away her anger and tears.

She didn’t answer.

Okay, if she wasn’t responding to a McDonald’s McFlurry, she was
really
mad. I had no choice but to let her be.

She slapped away the hand I offered and walked to the Jeep in stony silence, her chin buried in her chest.

I walked, she stomped.

As I drove, I kept looking at her the in the rear view mirror. All I got were blue daggers.

“I’m sorry,” I chanted. “I will fix things, baby, I promise.”

She folded her arms across her chest and jerked her head to look out of the window.

With a weary sigh, I drove on.

As I pulled into my driveway, she said, “Yes!”

I glanced back at her. “Wha…?”

“I want a McDonald’s McFlurry.”

“Oh.” I scratched my head, then slipped my Jeep into reverse. “O…kay.”

“With M&Ms.”

I smiled at her in the rear view mirror.

“And can you buy the toy on the side, Dadda? The girl toy? I don’t want the boy toy. Ask for a pink one. And buy one for Becky too or she will cry for mine and I really don’t have the energy to fight with her, Dadda.”

We were back to
Dadda
. That was progress.

With a weary sigh, I reversed out of my driveway and drove twenty minutes in bumper-to-bumper peak-hour traffic to McDonalds for the Mcflurry she had thumbed her button nose at earlier on.

“Sorry I yelled at you, Dadda,” she said in a sheepish voice, her tears forgotten. “I was having a bad day.”

She was having a bad day. Imagine that. At her age, to say something like that?

My heart swelled with pride!

“That’s okay, Ally Cat,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you, Dadda.” When Ally uttered those words, a bonfire blazed in my heart.

“Can I get a kiss? An air kiss?”

With a smile, she blew several kisses at me (the way her mother used to blow kisses at me in the past), while I pretended to catch each of those kisses and place them in my shirt pocket. “For later,” I explained.

She giggled out loud.

My beautiful daughter was smiling again and that was all that mattered.