“Another guest room,” I said, opening a door. “Gloria Vanderbilt stayed here once. Genevieve’s friend.”
“Who’s Gloria Vanderbilt?”
Ah, youth. “Anderson Cooper’s mother,” I said.
“Really? Cool!” The room, like all the others, was tasteful, warm and impressive, with views of the water from nearly every window. “Can we go swimming later?”
“Sure. It’s cold out there, though.”
“I don’t care.” She opened the next door. “Whose room is this?”
It suddenly dawned on me that I should’ve given Riley a fuller history on the lost son of Sheerwater. Then again, I didn’t know a whole lot about him myself, not really.
When I was little, my father had told me that he’d had an older brother who had gone missing when Clark was five or six. Clark had no memory of him and didn’t talk about him. But living here, I’d picked up on the bigger story. No one was allowed to say that Sheppard was dead. Apparently, he’d vanished without a trace. Genevieve never had told me more about her firstborn. All she said was for me to stay out of his room. Which I had done.
Riley went right in, and I leaned in the doorway.
The room was preserved, and exactly as I recalled. I remembered peeking in here as a kid; I’d loved the wallpaper, which had blue and red race cars on it. Once it was outdated; now it was totally retro chic. My uncle had liked dinosaurs, based on the number of plastic creatures on the shelves. The twin bed was made up with same blue-and-red quilt I remembered, though its color had faded somewhat. A desk with a green-shaded banker’s lamp, a window seat, a red pedal car, a wing chair by the window.
I imagined Genevieve sitting there, staring out at the ocean, waiting for her little boy to come home, and my heart clenched with sympathy. I knew why she was the way she was, after all. It was a shame she’d only had room in her heart for one.
“This was my uncle’s room,” I said, clearing my throat. “Sheppard. He died when he was little.”
“Really?” came that voice, and I jumped. Genevieve stood in the hallway, her white hair perfect, a navy robe wrapped tightly around her still-damn-good figure, the tiniest of the dog pack clutched in her arms. “Don’t speak about what you don’t know, Emma.”
Anger radiated off her, her lips thin with it, her eyes arctic cold. The other, sloppier dogs charged down the hall, racing past us and clattering down the stairs.
“Just repeating what my father told me, Genevieve,” I said.
“Your father is an idiot.”
“So he’s not dead?” Riley asked. “Sheppard?”
Genevieve took a deep breath. “His body was never found, dear. It’s possible he was kidnapped.”
“Whoa. I didn’t know that. And you never found out what happened?”
“We never did.” My grandmother’s gaze slithered toward me.
“That’s so sad. I’m sorry, um . . . Grandma.”
She smiled a little at that. “You’re very kind. And you may call me Gigi,” she said. “Would you like a proper tour of the house? It’s your home for the summer, after all.” She paused. “I would ask that you stay out of this room, however. As you may be able to tell, it’s very special to me.”
“Of course.” Riley looked at me. “Do you mind, Mom?”
Genevieve set down the tiny dog and tightened the sash of her robe. “Helga will make you breakfast, Emma. She’s quite adept at an egg-white omelet.” Translation: You need to lose weight. Look at me. I weigh the same as I did on my wedding day.
I’d warned Riley about my grandmother and her subtle ways of undermining self-esteem.
It’s fine, Riley mouthed.
“Okay,” I said. “Have fun.”
* * *
* * *
I ate the tasteless egg-white omelet. I’d tried to make my own breakfast, was denied, and when I asked for whole eggs, Helga looked me in the eye as she separated the whites and dumped the yolks in the sink. Unbuttered toast. Skim milk, no half-and-half.
I spent the rest of the morning unpacking. Last night, I told Genevieve I’d need a room to work, and when I explained online therapy, she snorted. “People just love to indulge in their misery, don’t they? Well, if it pays your bills, fine.”
It did. Sort of. Barely. I had $96,475 in student debt, the cost of my shared office space, a car payment and upkeep, rent to my grandfather (at my insistence, since we’d lived for free for years and I worried about his own bank account). Groceries, two-thirds of our utilities, Riley’s school expenses (activity fees and sports fees and the ridiculous list of school supplies each year). Health insurance. Car insurance. Gas. Saving for her college. Clothes for a teenage girl who was still growing. Cell phone and service. Internet. Credit-card-debt payments. The fees that covered my license to practice psychology, membership to the American Psychological Association, malpractice insurance. The conferences I was required to attend to keep my certification. Taxes.
Then there are the things you don’t think about. Haircuts. Veterinary care for the “free” kitten we got when Riley was seven, only to find it had a heart condition and spend $750 that we couldn’t afford on the poor little thing and have it die anyway. School pictures. Field trip costs. A new washing machine. Gifts for Riley’s friends’ birthdays, my coworkers’ baby showers and weddings.
Life was expensive, even when you got child support. Jason worked in his family’s construction business and made a fairly decent living, but he wasn’t rich. I was proud that Riley had had a pretty normal childhood because of my financial savvy . . . especially given that we lived in Downers Grove, which had been a humble working-class town when Pop bought his house but had grown into a wealthy, desirable suburb.
Which was a long way of saying I couldn’t afford to take the summer off and needed every client I could get.
Genevieve had granted me use of a room on Sheerwater’s ground floor. The giant house was built on a slight hill, so it was essentially the walk-out basement but, as was the rest of the house, beautifully done. A home theater, gym, yoga studio (seriously), the dogs’ playroom (again . . . seriously) and this room, my summer office.
While it was small by comparison to other rooms in Sheerwater, it was easily quadruple the size of my office at home. The room had a built-in desk that lined one wall, a couch and sliders out to the flagstone patio that was shaded by the main-floor deck. The patio had chaise lounges and a firepit, and the view of the lawn went all the way to the water.
I’d forgotten how very lovely Sheerwater was. In my memory, it was more formal; in person, it was simply perfect.
Hard to imagine my sixteen-year-old inheriting a mansion. I’d have to talk to a lawyer and probably hire a financial adviser, because this was out of my league.
I caught a glimpse of Genevieve and Riley walking across the lawn, my daughter’s hair glowing in the sun. They were arm in arm.
Be nice to my daughter, old woman, I thought.
At noon, we were meeting Jason and his sons for lunch. His wife, Jamilah, and I had spoken a few times on the phone. She’d always been cordial, if a little . . . tight sounding. They had two boys—Owen and Duncan, ages seven and nine. They sent us a Christmas card each year—the perfect family photo. Jamilah was African American and gorgeous . . . Owen, the older boy, had green eyes and lashes to die for. The little one looked like mischief incarnate with dimples and curly hair. I rather liked the boys, based on the occasional sliver Jason would share with me, or the times Riley Skyped with them and I could hear them laughing.
The old familiar feeling of being on the outside, almost but not quite welcome, wrapped around my heart.
And then, after lunch, I’d be seeing Hope. That, at least, was one thing I was very much looking forward to. Being near her for the summer was a silver lining in this whole endeavor.
Well. Before any of that could happen, I had to
deal with the Mastersons, who were trying to fix their marriage after Dirk had cheated with a younger woman. Amy wasn’t willing to give up on the marriage just yet. Not before she ate his beating heart, I thought.
I set up my computer on the desk, checked to make sure my background wasn’t too distracting, and smoothed my hair. Smiled my therapist smile and clicked their names. The gurgling of the connection sounded, and there they were, sitting next to each other, not touching, Amy’s jaw tight, Dirk’s gaze on the ceiling, already irritated.
“Hi, guys,” I said. “How’s this week been?”
“Shitty,” Amy said. “Because he lied. Again.”
“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be like this.” He looked at me . . . well, at the computer. “Dr. London, I didn’t tell her I was getting drinks last night with my coworkers because I knew she’d think I was going to see Bailey again.”
“Please don’t say your whore’s name in our house.”
“Jesus, Amy. Calm down.”
Great advice, Dirk. Like telling a cuckolded wife to calm down ever worked. “Before we get into details,” I said, “let’s back up a little. Dirk, we talked about how an apology means naming the thing you did wrong, taking full responsibility for it, acknowledging the pain it caused and discussing how you’ll act differently. Have you given that a try?”
“Yes. Repeatedly.”
“Yeah, well, the whole sincerity aspect isn’t coming through,” Amy ground out.
“Dirk? Do you want to address that?” I asked after a beat.
“Maybe I’m not sincere because I’m tired of being treated like a whipped dog.”
That was the trick with marriage counseling and infidelity. One spouse had wronged the other—not in a vacuum most times—but to beat up the unfaithful spouse week after week made him less responsive to working things out.
Neither of them said anything, too busy clenching their sphincters. “A lot of couples come to marriage counseling to feel okay about getting a divorce,” I said. “And some come to try to save the marriage. Where would you say you stand? Amy? Want to go first?”
“It’s hard to want to stay married knowing he’s a cheating scumbag,” she said.
“Let’s try not to call names, okay?” I said. “Dirk was unfaithful, Amy. It happened, and you can’t change that. If you’re going to work on the marriage, you’re going to have to start letting that go.”
“So the burden is all on me. As usual.”
Dirk sighed, long and loud. “I said I was sorry. I said I wouldn’t do it again. It’s my fucking mantra. ‘I’m sorry, Amy, I’m sorry, Amy.’ How long are you going to punish me?”
“As long as I want, cheater. Asshole. Liar. Cliché. Dating a younger woman. Where’d you come up with that? In the middle-age-loser handbook?”
“Let’s try to reframe that without name-calling, Amy. It’s more helpful for you if you try to explain your feelings to Dirk. Maybe start a sentence with ‘I am really hurt when I think of . . . ’”
“I am really hurt when I think of you and that whore.”
Dirk stared into the computer screen and rolled his eyes, trying to win me over.
“Amy,” I said, “you’re going to have to move forward, either with Dirk or without him. But you do have to move forward.”
“Well, I wish I could move backward and be thirty again. Like Bailey, whose vagina is probably nice and tight because she didn’t give birth to Dirk’s two sons!”
I tried not to sigh. I felt for her, I really did. Amy had had a real problem with Bailey’s age. Even more than the infidelity was the insult, she said. She was forty-five; Bailey was thirty. “Fifteen years younger than me!” she’d sobbed in our first session. She talked constantly about Bailey’s figure—she stalked her online—her beauty, her skin, her hair, her half marathons.
The fact that Amy was fixated on Bailey showed her own insecurity and self-esteem issues. Those were harder issues than forgiveness for her.
One of the dogs—the biggest one, from the sound of it—clawed at my door and moaned.
“You okay?” Dirk said.
“You’re so concerned about everyone,” Amy snapped. “Except me.”
“Sorry, that’s my . . . my dog.” The less clients knew about my personal life, the better.
“What kind?” Dirk said. “I love dogs.”
“A mutt,” I said.
“You’re a mutt,” Amy said, looking at her husband. “You’re a nasty, filthy dog.”
“Amy. The name-calling isn’t making anything better,” I said. “Let’s change the focus here. What do you want from Dirk?
“Honesty. Decency.”
“And what does that look like in the day-to-day?”
She paused. “Not lying about where he is and who he’s with?”
“Dirk? What do you think about that?”
“Yeah. Fine. But then she can’t punish me for telling the truth.”
“And what would you like from Amy, Dirk?”
“I’d like some respect, that’s what. Home was like a black hole where I couldn’t do anything right. If I was there, I was in her way. If I was out, she was pissed because I wasn’t home. If I was working, she was pissed because I wasn’t making enough. If I worked more, she said I didn’t care about her. If I suggested we do something without the kids, she’d give me this martyred look and tell me why she was too exhausted to leave the house. If I didn’t, she’d ask why we never went out anywhere.”
“First, that is so skewed,” Amy said. “And second, now you being a cheating, lying scum is my fault because I was a shitty wife?”
He pretended to think. “Yeah.”
Her face went blotchy with rage. Outside the door, the dog barked and clawed harder, sort of like a direwolf, but senile and less cool.
I cleared my throat. “I think we have to address the atmosphere at home if we’re going to move forward,” I said.
Amy looked at me. “Are you taking his side?” she screeched. “Is he somehow the good guy here?”
“No, no,” I said calmly. “There’s no good guy here. You both did things wrong, and you need to take responsibility for that.”
Amy got off the couch and left my range of vision. Dirk raised an eyebrow and smirked. There was a smashing sound. A second later, she came back.
“I did nothing wrong,” Amy said. “I mean, seriously, what else was I supposed to do, raising the kids when you were out being a big-shot lawyer?”
“Supporting our family, you mean? But since you asked, maybe you could’ve put out once in a while,” Dirk suggested.
“Would you even want my saggy, baggy old body? I’m not Bailey, after all. I don’t run 10Ks and go to the fucking salon to get a blowout and get my pubic hair ripped out! I’m sorry I’m not thirty anymore! My vagina has been stretched out with your two kids!”
“How would I know? We’ve barely had sex since Evan was born!”
Mac barked, then began to howl, possibly picking up on the Mastersons’ mood.
Times like this, I was glad I’d never gotten married. As they yelled at each other, the screen froze, and I can’t say I was sorry. A second later, it clicked back in. They were still yelling.
“Enough,” I said loudly. “You don’t have to do anything. You’re welcome to get a divorce. There’s nothing stopping you. Your children can grow up in two households, and frankly, that might be better for them in this case.”
That stopped them dead.
“If you want to stay married, you have to do things differently. This isn’t about Bailey, as much as it seems that way. This is about the two of you. You’re here, you’ve made the time for counseling . . . that tells me, at least in part, that you want to stay married. So let’s schedule another session for later this week, and we’ll talk about what made you decide to get
married. What you liked about the other, found interesting and exciting.”
Amy opened her mouth, but I shushed her. “You’ve been married for sixteen years. According to what you said, you were happy for at least ten of those. You know how to be a loving partner because you were one. Think of a few things you do for each other that shows that. Little things, maybe. Amy, you said Dirk always scrapes your car when it snows. Dirk, you mentioned that Amy takes books out from the library that she knows you’ll like. We’re going to need to focus on the positive here. Otherwise, you’ll just be in a spiral of bitterness and anger.”
We talked for another few minutes and then clicked off, and I sat back, satisfied. Whether or not the Mastersons took my advice was up to them, but it had been good advice, and I hadn’t pussyfooted around about the way they acted.
I opened the door to let Mac in, only to find that he’d left but not before shitting on the floor. With a sigh, I went to find some paper towels and clean up.
The Mastersons did not exactly inspire hope, not with Amy’s fury and Dirk’s simmering disappointment. But the intensity of anger they exhibited could only come after love. Maybe they would find their way back to each other.
Would I have been a good wife? Once, I’d pictured Jason and me together, first when we were in high school, later as I percolated Riley and then in the years of her toddlerhood. With every month that it didn’t happen, I knew the odds were lower. It was like being swept out to sea by the Gulf Stream, seeing an island that looked so beautiful, but never getting quite close enough to swim to shore.
Besides Jason, marriage had never been a consideration. I’d been putting myself through school and raising Riley. I’d dated three guys in the past sixteen years, but none had ever gotten to the “meet my kid” phase. None had gotten to the third date, in fact. And that was fine. My life was plenty full already. I had Calista, a few pals from the grocery store, school, my colleagues and clients. I liked to ride my bike and, um, other things. Movies and books, sure. I belonged to a book club that, yes, I’d been neglecting, but I was in one.
When Riley went to college in a year and change, I’d be thirty-seven. Sometimes, that felt as if I’d be all alone in a vast, cold ocean, with no islands at all.
Life and Other Inconveniences Page 10