She fell on her bed and turned her back, holding a book open in front of her.
“I want to talk, sweetheart.”
“What do you care about me?”
“Everything. I care about you and Henry more than anything in the world.”
“You do?” She rose to a sitting position, her hand flat on the mattress. “How about science fairs? Or making supper, instead of asking Grandma to cook? Or loving Daddy? How about not kissing my best friend’s father or whatever else you did with him? How about not being stupid. . .” Tears spilled. She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Make it all go away.”
“I’ll try, honey. I really will.”
She looked up, contempt showing beneath her tears. “You can’t make this disappear. I’m not a little kid, Mom.”
12
Myth: People cheat to leave their marriages.
Truth: Most cheaters don’t want their marriages to end.
I was alone in bed when the phone woke me.
“Isabelle?” My mother spoke as though lacking recognition. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Fine is my default response with Babs, offering less room to knock me down.
“The children?”
“Good, they’re good.”
“Adam? How’s he?”
“What’s up, Mom?” My mother never called simply to chat.
“We’re coming East.”
And just like that, my day got worse. “When?”
“Next week.”
“How about a little notice?” I looked for the thermos cup of coffee that Adam brought upstairs for me when I slept in on weekends, but of course, there was nothing.
“Are you busy?”
Caffeine-craving of mammoth proportions took over.
“If you don’t want company just let me know. We don’t have to come. Thomas and Diana invited us for the holidays. We thought we’d stop by your home, so we’ll arrive, um, hold a moment.” I imagined her unearthing hidden reading glasses to study her date book.
“Christmas Eve is Wednesday, today’s Saturday. How about we come Monday or Tuesday?”
“You invited your mother to come? Did you think of consulting?” Adam’s delivery brought rat-poison and pipe bombs to mind. A few more words and his head would blow up and explode all over his desk, spraying the entire study with blood and hatred. His deep-red face made me fear for his heart.
“She invited herself, Adam.”
He looked up at me, his hands fixed on paperwork. “Call her back. Say no.”
I wrapped my arms over my chest. “They’re coming east to see my brother. It was either before Christmas, after Christmas, or never.”
“Fine. I choose never.”
I traced a question mark on the carpet with my toe.
“Do the kids know?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t tell them without asking you.”
“Right. Because I’m always tops in your mind.”
I sat on the large leather chair across from his desk and made a tight ball. “I know. You hate me. But I’m down on my knees. Can we have a mini-truce for Christmas? Let the kids see my mother and Ken.”
He threw his pen on the desk. “How long have you been fucking him?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters plenty. When did this start? How’d you end up in bed with him?”
I tried to stop the tears, which only highlighted my spinelessness.
“How did it happen?” He banged the top of the desk. “How long, damn it? When? Where?”
I closed my eyes. What was the right answer? Adam was right next to me when I met Guy at Henry’s school. Was that the beginning? Would it be when Guy called me the first time?
Maybe it began the first moments in the motel, my skirt pushed up around my hips, because we were too hot to undress all the way.
“Just a few weeks,” I lied.
Two weeks, two months, was there a difference? I thought it less a lie, than kindness.
“How many few weeks? Two? Three?” His sharply enunciated words raised welts in my soul.
“Three.”
He squinted at me. “Liar. How long?”
I threw my head to the back of the leather chair. “Does it matter? I screwed up.”
“Screwed up? Forgetting my sister’s birthday is screwing up. Sleeping around on me, cheating. . .” He stopped, grasping for words. “That’s a fucking sin.”
“Shh.” I looked toward the door.
Adam calmed himself. As always, he worked overtime to keep from upsetting the kids—the realization generated stabs of love.
“You know I love you, right?” I walked over and knelt before him.
“People who love you don’t twist knives in your heart.”
“You know we’re Jewish, right, Mom?” Molly asked. She stood in the living room doorway, her arms crossed tight across her chest.
“Yes. I know we’re Jewish. We lit the menorah, right? And had latkes. And presents.”
“So why do we always have a Christmas tree?” Contempt dripped as she watched Adam struggle with straightening the Scotch pine.
Adam lifted an eyebrow as he screwed the last bolt into the trunk. It felt like we were choosing sides for a holy war.
Adam shook the tree and then reached into his toolbox. Molly selected a red glass Santa dusted in silver and looked at the front and back.
“Remember that one?” I smiled. “Aunt Diana sent it to you when you were only five.”
“We should pay attention to helping people, instead of all this.” She gestured with glass Santa toward the tangle of lights and then dropped the ornament on the coffee table.
“Uncle Thomas and I loved our tree growing up. It might have been the only fun time we had as a family the whole year.”
Molly plopped on the couch next to Henry and grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Do we have to relive the pathetic moments of your life again? We know. You had the worst childhood in the world.”
“Watch yourself,” Adam said from the floor. “Use a respectful tone when you speak to your mother. If you can’t do that, don’t say anything.”
“Got it.” She snatched more popcorn and began walking out.
“Don’t you want to decorate?” Henry looked confused.
“No,” she answered.
“Please, honey. It would be nice to do it as a family.” I tried to sound more encouraging than begging.
“Would it?” She stood in the doorway and looked at Adam as though waiting to be reprimanded. He gave her a hard look. “No thank you, Mother. I’ll be in my room.”
“Why isn’t she helping?” Henry asked. “I don’t—”
Adam interrupted. “Is it secure?”
I shook the tree. It held steady.
“It feels fine. Molly is just at that age,” I answered Henry, handing him an elf with a baseball bat. “Remember when Uncle Thomas sent you this?”
“What age?”
“The age where she’d rather be in her room than doing something with me.”
Henry squeezed the elf. “Is she mad at us?”
I sat next to him. “She’s just being a normal teenager. Come on, we have tons of decorations to unwrap.”
He delved into the time-softened cardboard box and pulled out an ornament wrapped in extra-thick tissue. A glass unicorn emerged from the paper. He set it next to Santa, the elf, and a blue sled with Henry written in bold letters down the middle. Somewhere was a pink sled with Molly’s name.
“Doing this by myself is dumb,” he said. “Do I have to stay?”
Adam stood and stretched. “How about you and I play cards, buddy? Gin rummy?”
He dropped a wooden candy cane back in the box. “Is it okay, Mom?”
“Completely,” I said. “Want hot chocolate?”
“Yeah! We can play while you decorate.”
“How about we make the cocoa and
use the kitchen table to play?” Adam asked.
Henry looked back and forth between Adam and me.
“Dad’s got the right idea. I can surprise everybody with a gorgeous tree.” I grinned like a damn jack-o-lantern.
“Thanks, Mom.” Henry hugged me and followed Adam out the door.
I sank deep into the couch and pulled a small box of golden wooden stars from the half-empty box. They reminded me of the Holocaust. I threw them back.
Decorations covered every surface. The ones I collected, along with those I inherited from my mother. When Babs moved to Texas, she left me the whole box so she could start shopping fresh. Each year she had a different theme for her tree. Last year’s photographs showed Ken, his three sons, their three wives and Ken’s ten grandchildren standing in front of a silver tree covered in a rainbow of crystal balls.
Texas-sized diamond rings and earrings sparkled off the women; the men all wore colorful Christmas sweaters. Jews might celebrate Christmas, but you wouldn’t catch the men wearing sweaters embroidered with Frosty the Snowman.
I felt like shoving the entire collection of Christmas crap in a big black garbage bag and dumping it outside.
“The tree’s great, Mom.”
“Thanks, Henry. Enough lights?”
He stepped back, pursed his lips and squinted at the sparkling tree, looking like a miniature Adam. “Just right.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Washing the cocoa pot. He told me to say good night.”
“Okay. To bed.”
‘Where’s Molly?” He looked around as we headed toward the stairs.
“Upstairs on the phone.”
“Did she see the tree?”
“Not yet.”
“We should get her. To see it.” He looked up. “Want me to get her?”
“How about we let her be surprised when she comes down.”
“What if she doesn’t come down?”
“She’ll come down, Henry.”
“What if she doesn’t? I better get her. You wait here. No. You go get Daddy.”
“Okay, go ask her,” I said.
“And you’ll get Daddy?”
“I’ll get Daddy.”
He pounded up the stairs, calling Molly’s name as he ran. I headed to the kitchen.
NPR played. Adam learned the wonders of the Andes as he loaded the dishwasher.
“Sounds like you won.”
He didn’t turn. “True.”
“Henry wants you to come in and see the tree.”
“I’ll be right in.”
I walked over, itching to hug him. “Thanks.”
Straightening up, he grabbed a sponge and wiped powdered cocoa off the counter. “I’m doing it for him.”
“I know. You’re doing a good thing. So, thanks.”
He looked at me. “Was sex with him earth shattering?”
I squeezed my muscles tight and closed my eyes for a moment. “The kids are waiting in the living room.”
“Fine. After we’ll talk.”
In the living room, Molly curled on the couch, staring at her phone. Henry, sprawled on the rug with a comic book, looked up the moment we walked in.
“Great, huh, Dad?”
Adam crossed his arms. “It looks terrific. Do you like it, Molly?”
“I need to go to my room. I have a test tomorrow.”
“A week before Christmas?” I tried to sound casual.
She spoke to the ceiling. “I go to Newton South. So, yes. Can I go upstairs now?” she asked Adam.
“Sure, honey.” He began picking up his tools.
“Remember, Maman and Grandpa Ken are coming tomorrow. You need to clean your rooms. I’ll be inspecting, so if there’s anything you don’t want me to see, put it away.”
“I don’t have anything to hide, Mom.” She gave Adam a kiss and then surprised me by hugging Henry.
Back in our bedroom, you could get emotional hypothermia. Adam left the bathroom. I went in.
I sank on the closed toilet lid.
I was terrified of everything. Finding a way to let Adam know I loved him. And why I slept with Guy. And how I managed to have both those emotions live in the same world. How could I explain my fear that if I didn’t do something, I might grow unhappy enough to leave him?
I couldn’t bring up anything about Adam, but I didn’t know how to talk about Guy without talking about us. How lonely working at home could be.
Not a reason for an affair.
The pressure to stay home with the kids. The boredom.
Not a reason for an affair.
How my life had shrunk inside the walls of this house.
And you choose to fuck someone instead of talking to me? I could hear Adam.
Yes. I slept with Guy to avoid facing how unhappy I was at home.
I rummaged through the cabinet till I found an emery board and began filing my nails, listening through the door for the opening notes of the news. Eighty percent of the time Adam fell asleep before the weather started. I played the odds.
Silence. No television music, no loud reporters. I took out my cuticle nippers.
“Isabelle?” Adam said through the door. “Are you coming out before midnight?”
“Right out.” I used an impatient tone so he’d know I struggled with big problems like ragged nails. After washing my hands and face and slowly patting them dry, I opened the door and came out.
He stared while I took off my robe and pulled a worn Gap tee shirt and flannel pajama bottoms from the dresser, holding them uncertainly for a moment. Should I put on a decent nightgown? I rushed the shirt on, avoiding his furious eyes.
He sat up straighter, punching the pillows into shape and pulling the covers higher up his chest. Casually, as though it were perfectly normal, I crossed the room to the wooden rocker where we tossed clothes and the heathery-purple afghan Judith crocheted for our last anniversary. I pushed aside Adam’s jeans and sat.
“Why?” Pain and anger hurtled from him. “Why did you do it?”
“I was insane. Unhinged. If you want, I’ll tell you a million times. It didn’t mean anything. It was never serious. I love you, Adam.”
“You loved me, so you fucked him? His dick was that great? You couldn’t resist?”
“Adam, please stop. This isn’t you.”
“Adam, stop,” he mimicked. “Sorry. You never screwed around before, so I never talked like this. At least I assume you never did it before.”
“Of course not.” I said this as though having not cheated before was some tremendous accomplishment for which I should get credit.
“I want to know what you did in bed with him that was so damn great.”
“Do you think the bedroom is what this is about?” Pressing my fingers to my temples, I tried to stop my growing headache from erupting into a volcanic migraine.
“Was it something else? I was insensitive, and he wrote fucking poetry? Brought you roses that you sighed over before dumping in a trash can on your way home?”
I shredded a tissue into microscopic bits.
“Where did you do it? His office? A motel? The fucking Ritz?” He took a phony calming breath. “Just tell me where.”
“Some motel on Route One. Up by Malden, or Lynn, or somewhere.”
“Did you drive there?”
“What does that matter?”
“I’m just trying to picture it, okay?”
“Right.” Resting my elbows on my thighs, I lowered my head down and spoke through my arms and my hair. “We met at a restaurant and then drove to the place.”
“Who drove? What restaurant?”
“He drove. I don’t remember the name. Some Italian restaurant in Malden.”
“He drove. So you left your car there at the no-name restaurant, huh? Too busy thinking about the motel to remember which one?” He grimaced. “What about the sex? Did you go down on him? Of course you did. Did he?”
I stood so abruptly the afghan slipped off the rocker. “I’m g
oing downstairs. Don’t follow me. I need to get some sleep.”
“This isn’t over.”
“It’s over for tonight.”
I pulled the afghan from the floor and crept to the kitchen one soft step at a time, where my stash of Ambien was hidden on the highest shelf, behind the use-for-company-only crystal. Adam didn’t approve of sleeping aids.
13
Myth: Adultery is only a moral crime.
Truth: Adultery is illegal in 23 states
(though rarely enforced).
Punishments range from fines to life imprisonment.
“Merry Christmas, Isabelle.” My mother leaned in for air kisses. Ken wrestled in three suitcases and then almost knocked me over with a bear hug.
“Stop. You’re going to smother her.” My mother shrugged off a cashmere coat. Next to her airy chiffon blouse, my silk looked like a trucker’s shirt.
“So, what did our gourmet chef make for dinner?” Ken rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready for a home-cooked meal.”
My mother blew out a puff of impatience. “He’s been going on about your food for days.”
“Don’t get mad, sugar,” Ken said.
“You act as though cooking is some master art.” My mother looked me up and down, making no attempt to hide her inspection. “Do you have a storm of fattening food on the stove? Did you look at the diet I emailed? Fiber and protein. That’s the charm.”
“I got it, Mom.”
“Did you try it? Staying in front of the wave is paramount.”
I wondered if Adam would still fix my teeth—despite hating me—because at the moment I clenched them hard enough to snap off.
She touched her trim waist. “Weighing myself every single day is my secret.”
“Merry Christmas, remember? The season to forget calories.”
“Chocolate tastes divine, but delicious is a slippery slope from one day to the next. Especially as you get older. Though you look lovely!” My mother’s feigned warmth went as far as the top of her immobilized brow. “Where shall I freshen up?”
“The guest room and bath are all set for you. Just holler if you need anything.”
19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Page 8