Ms. Mebel Goes Back to the Chopping Block

All her life, Mebel Tanadi has 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 drank 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 interesting topic 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 exhaustion sinking 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 in economics from USC or U Mich, 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 that 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. The St. 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.

She can see the frustration crossing Henk's face. She's done it again, hasn't she? She's found herself in a terrible situation, and instead of reacting appropriately, she reacts with snippy remarks. Why can't she be honest with him, just for once? Show him her vulnerability, let go of the armor made up of humor and wit and acerbic comments? But, even as Mebel claws deep into the recesses of her heart, her ego embraces her tightly, refusing to let go. And so she stands there, unbending, as Henk takes a suitcase out of the walk-in closet. She can tell from the way he's moving that the suitcase is full of things. When did he pack that? He's never packed a single suitcase for as long as they've been married. Their helpers have always done that for them. She wonders for a horrifying moment if he did, in fact, ask their helpers to pack for him. Had Narti and Kus done that, knowing what they were packing for?

"Did Narti-" she starts to say.

"No," Henk sighs. "Of course not. I packed by myself."

Mebel releases her breath. She ignores the little glow of petty pleasure that comes at the realization that because Henk has packed his own suitcase, chances are he's forgotten a ton of things. His nighttime retainer, for one, without which he'll spend the entire night grinding his teeth. He doesn't even have pointy canines anymore; they've been ground flat like the rest of his teeth. Mebel has always hated Henk's teeth grinding. It sounds like someone rattling dice in a cup. Hah, let's see how Wendy likes that. But the thought of him sleeping next to Wendy is a punch to Mebel's heart. She thinks of Wendy, beautiful in her youth, her cheeks plump with natural collagen, and it makes her want to rip out her hair. She bets Wendy has none of her health issues-the stiff knees, the aching back, the dry eyes. Speaking of dry eyes . . . Mebel fishes a small bottle of eye drops from her pocket. These days, her eyes have become so dry that she has to make sure she always has eye drops on her all the time.

Halfway out of the bedroom, Henk says, "I've called Samuel. You shouldn't be on your own, especially now."

Horror sinks in with ruthless speed, and Mebel's entire body goes cold, as though someone's poured a jug of ice water into her veins. "You told Sammy?" she gasps, scandalized. The thought of her sweet baby boy learning about his father's indiscretion is, in fact, worse than the transgression itself. "How could you? He would be-"

"He's a thirty-four-year-old man with a wife and kids," Henk says flatly. "I don't think we need to be protecting him from the realities of life anymore."

"He's my baby!" Mebel says, and even she has to admit that, when put like that, she sounds like one of those overbearing moms who are obsessed with their useless sons. Except Sammy is far from useless, of course. And Mebel is anything but overbearing. You really can't be overbearing in full-body Chanel, it gets too warm.

Henk doesn't even bother with a response before striding out of the room, wheeling his enormous suitcase behind him. She hurries after him, dozens of questions crowding her mind. Dimly, she thinks: I can't beg him to stay. That would be beyond pathetic. I'll tell him good riddance. But when she opens her mouth, what comes out is: "Please stay, dear. Please." Damn it, so much for not begging.

"I wish you all the best, Mebel," Henk says, and starts going down their elegant curved staircase.

For a fleeting moment, Mebel hopes the wheel of his suitcase will snag on their rug and make him trip, but of course it doesn't. It's a Rimowa, after all. And so she stands breathing hard at the top of the stairs, watching her husband of forty years walk out of their north Jakarta mansion and into the unforgiving tropical heat. It's only when the front door clicks shut that it all sinks in. Mebel slides to the floor-gently, as her Chanel tweed skirt is somewhat snug, and if she split the seams, that would just be the icing on this cake of shit, wouldn't it? She senses tears filling her eyes, but before they can stream down her face, the snot arrives. She has never perfected the art of crying prettily. Her body has always produced snot far more efficiently than it does tears. Maybe that's why Henk left her. Maybe Wendy is one of those women who are able to cry prettily.

Girl, Mebel thinks, with another sob. Wendy is barely a woman, she is a girl. Oh god, she's younger than Sammy. Ugh.

Just as that revolting thought settles into her consciousness, the front door opens once more. Mebel's head whips up. Has Henk finally realized what a grand mistake he's made? Maybe this was all a big joke, one of those things that young people are always playing on one another and posting to the Instagram. She dabs at her wet cheeks, hoping she doesn't look too much of a mess.

"Mami?"

Mebel's shoulders sag. Not Henk coming back to beg for forgiveness, after all. Still, she reaches deep within her soul and finds a kernel of persistence to cling to. She mustn't let her sweet Sammy see her like this. She pulls herself up using the banisters for support, then straightens her skirt and tweed jacket.

"Mami?" Samuel calls out. "Are you there?"

"Ama," the high-pitched voice of Mebel's granddaughter Luciana shouts. "I wanna play makeup!"

"Shush, Luci," Samuel's wife, Hannah, says. "We're here to check on your ama, not play with her."

Mebel hurriedly dries her eyes and takes in a shuddery breath. She brushes down her outfit and primps her puffy hair. There, now she no longer looks like a woman whose husband of forty years has just left her. But when she comes down the stairs and sees her sweet Samuel, her Sammy baby, and his lovely family, the tears come rushing back, and she finds to her horror that she is crumpling like a piece of tissue. And when she opens her mouth to say, Oh Sammy, there's no need for you to come here, what comes out instead is an elongated "Waaaah!"

Samuel wraps an arm around Mebel's shoulders. Luciana clings to her mother and stares at Mebel with wide eyes.

"What's wrong with Ama?" Luciana asks in a whisper loud enough to be heard all the way across the house.

"Shush," Hannah says again. She turns around to signal at their nannies-there are two of them, one for each of the twin toddlers, Freydis and Aelgifu. Apparently they're Viking names. Mebel has had to double-check to make sure that they've spelled Aelgifu correctly.

The nannies nod and take the toddlers, along with Luciana, away into the kitchen, leaving Mebel with her son and her daughter-in-law.

"Don't worry, Mami," Samuel is saying.

"Don't worry?" Mebel cries. "How can I not worry? Your father is leaving me for"-she lowers her voice into a scandalized whisper-"for someone younger than you!"

Samuel fidgets, and the crack in Mebel's heart deepens. "Oh, Mami. You'll be okay. He'll come to his senses. This is just a midlife crisis."

"He is almost seventy years old!" Mebel snaps. "He's much too old to be having one of those things. He had one of them already, when he was forty-five!"