Maybe I had the flu. My muscles ached. When I rose from bed, I became a limp noodle and cared about nothing except the next Law and Order.
“You have to get up,” Greta had insisted the previous night. “You need goals.”
Would an obsession do? How about my burning curiosity about Adam’s apartment?
Strange to have lived with someone for sixteen years, to know every piece of underwear he owned, his favorite positions for climaxing, his ATM password, and the name of the first girl he’d ever kissed, and be clueless about what his living room looked like. When I offered to drop the kids off at his place, he declined and drove over to get them.
Were there signs of women at his place? Not asking Henry to spy took great strength. I wanted to know what Adam ate for dinner. What shirt he wore. If he’d read the new Steve Berry, and if he liked it. I wanted to know how much he hated me, and if he would ever hold me again.
Maybe I should go for a walk. I should call Greta. We could go to an afternoon movie. Or Judith. I hadn’t spoken to her, except for one dreadfully stilted conversation a week after Adam left.
I ran down the list of friends I hadn’t seen for six months, women from my former book club, the real book club—but it was Sunday and everyone was with their families.
Three hours later, when I finally got out of bed, it was snowing. A nor’easter, the weather channel repeated in a loop. I watched it for half an hour.
Cheddar dripped out of the side of my grilled cheese sandwich. The bread was crisp and tight from all the butter I used to fry it. Bridget Jones’s Baby played on the small kitchen TV I recently bought. As I alternated bites of the grilled cheese with potato chips, washing it all down with a tall glass of Coke, I debated whether sleeping with Colin Firth or Patrick Dempsey would be more desirable.
Marital separation had me reverting to childhood. Watching movies on TV in my pajamas at one in the afternoon. Eating crappy food. Being alone. Debating sex partners was the only sign I matured since the age of eleven. Back then I would have wondered which one I wanted as a father.
The front door opened as I settled on Colin Firth. “Who’s there?”
“Me.” Henry raced in and hugged me. His ears stuck out a mile.
“Daddy got you a haircut, huh?” I ran my hand over his bristly flat top.
“Yeah. Yesterday. We went to the barber before Grandma’s house.”
“How about Molly?”
“She was out. There was a group date.”
I sensed Adam looking, judging, doubtless grateful to be rid of this slovenly creature before him. Embarrassment at my appearance fought with fury for caring. “What are you doing here?”
Henry looked from me to Adam, and then backed out of the room.
“I brought the kids home,” Adam said.
“I thought you’d be here at five or six.” I tugged at the ragged sweatshirt zipped over my nightgown.
“Yes. Well—” He seemed at a loss for words as he stared at me. I pushed back my flat greasy hair.
“You should have called and told me you were bringing them home, early,” I said.
“Sorry, hon.”
Hon. Marriage habits didn’t die sudden deaths. They choked and gasped as we slowly punched the air out of each one.
“Big storm outside. Didn’t you notice?” He looked at my plate.
“Stop looking at my food.” I shoved another potato chip in my mouth.
“I didn’t say a word.” He held up his hands as he spoke.
“You say it all with your face.”
“Sorry if you don’t like my face.”
This the conversation for which I pined? Fine. My turn to be the bigger one. “Truce. I was just surprised to see you so early. Having you catch me like this.” I laughed weakly as now I held my hands out, palms up, and shook my head.
He didn’t laugh, speak or smile.
“No one’s charging you by the word, are they?” I asked.
“You want to hear what I think? I’m thinking this is the crap you’re eating?” His words hit me with a barrage of fury. “Is this what you’re feeding the kids?”
“This? This is health food compared to what they’re getting.”
“This is supper?” Molly looked down at her plate as though it were Alpo.
“I think it looks good. Don’t be mean.” Henry turned to me. “I bet it’s great.”
She looked at him with loathing before turning her antipathy back at me. Tilting her head to the side, she flicked the corner of the sandwich, lifting the top layer of bread as though searching for roaches. “How much mayonnaise did you put in?”
“For God’s sake, it’s a tuna cheese melt. You act as though I never made one before.”
“Not for supper.”
“Yes, she has,” Henry said. “When Daddy worked late.”
“I guess every night is a ‘Daddy worked late’ night now, huh? Well, I can’t eat this. I have to lose five pounds in the next two weeks.”
I got up for milk to re-fill Henry’s glass. “What’s in two weeks?”
“I told you.”
“So tell me again.”
“I’m going to that party.”
“I don’t remember your talking about any party so important it required starving.”
“You never listen to anything I say.” She threw her napkin on top of her plate. “If Daddy were here you wouldn’t be serving us slimy tuna sandwiches for supper.”
“It’s not just a tuna sandwich,” Henry pointed at the cheese. “She made a melt. And there are carrots. Isn’t that diet food?”
“Henry, don’t worry.” I rubbed his arm. “She doesn’t have to like the supper I made.”
“Everything Henry does is fine. He’s perfect. It doesn’t matter if I eat or not.”
“Molly, I can make you something different. Just please, tell me what it is you want!”
“What I want can’t happen.” She shook her hair in front of her, hiding the tears running down her face. When I put my arms around her, she promptly shrugged them off. “Everything is your fault.”
Steady snow hypnotized me into a Zen driving trance. Fifteen minutes after leaving the Massachusetts border, I blasted the Dixie Chicks, needing something energetic to keep me from drifting off the road. In two hours, if I didn’t have a rollover, my brother Thomas and sister-in-law, Diana would be by my side. Despite my misgivings, I was determined to make their anniversary party, even with warnings of whiteout conditions bearing down.
I loved my brother enough to face our mother and snow. Plus, there was no one to warn me not to drive into a blizzard. Greta was in St. John on some publishing junket, likely lying under a thatched hut, waves lapping at her feet while she read books so hot and new they were only available to insiders and God while I gripped the wheel, one wrong steer away from being mangled in an icy crash.
Before leaving the house, I had considered calling Judith, eager to mention the drive, positive she’d warn me off the road. Or better, she’d call Adam, already in Vermont on a ski trip with Molly and Henry. He’d race back to Boston. Crying, wailing, begging me not to drive in the storm. I was too precious. The image pleased me; until I remembered we weren’t in high school, and Adam had never wailed in his entire life.
A tractor-trailer bore down on my suddenly tiny Camry.
“Thank goodness you made it here safely.” Diana held her Great Dane by his collar as she opened the door.
“Is he okay?” I nodded at the dog straining away from Diana and toward me.
“Don’t worry. He’s only being protective.”
Exactly what people say as their animal measures you for meat.
My little brother walked into the hall and hugged me off the ground. Thomas’s navy blue soul is laced with veins of hot red emotion.
“You’re here,” he said. “I watched the weather report like a fiend.”
“Don’t hurt your back, Thomas,” Diana winced when he lifted me up for the second time.
; “She’s having a hysteria fit about the party,” he stage-whispered in my ear. “Every molecule is arranged for full effect.”
I peeked into the enormous living room. Etched crystal vases, looking as though NASA cleaned them, were stuffed with tall flowers. The grand piano could double as a mirror. Sparks shimmered from the chandelier.
“Where should I hide my stuff?” My scuffed leather bag, which had looked fine back in Chestnut Hill, now, laying on the expanse of their intricate parquet floor, morphed into a hobo’s sack.
“Follow me.” Thomas carried my luggage toward the guest room. Sometimes, when looking at my brother, I believed my father’s essence came through. Though Thomas possessed a masculine version of my mother’s beauty and had inherited her love of all things English, he humbly accepted it—neither overly proud of his genetic gifts nor ungrateful. He had no meanness, no superiority. He just happened to be good at everything. Perhaps my father had been similarly well equipped to face the world. Working as a vice-president in Diana’s family business—they manufactured peppermint candies, the ones you might see in bowls on the way out of restaurants—didn’t bother Thomas. He never questioned his ability to do the job, whether related to the owners or not.
Thomas and I kept each other safe when we were little. I cooked and cleaned and made sure he had clothes for school. Babs kept some measure of control, refraining from smacking me and throwing things against the wall if Thomas was around. My brother was a natural-born golden boy, a deflector who liked taking the easy ride through life.
“So what’s happening with you and Adam?” he asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“Does he still hate you?”
“Very much so.”
“Mom keeps asking why you won’t take him back.”
“She’s worried that I’m not out shopping for a new husband.”
“Do you ever think you’re a tiny bit hard on her?”
Thomas lived in an alternate universe, where Babs possessed a soul.
“Will you try to get along with her? This night means a lot to Di. She’s happy you and Mom will both be there. Don’t make her regret it.”
“Best behavior, promise. I’ll turn the other cheek no matter what.”
Babs and Ken arrived after breakfast the next morning. Diana’s countdown to party time jazzed to a brittleness resembling shards of her family’s candy. My self-appointed job was not letting Babs throw me. Today was the first day of the rest of my life as a full-fledged grown-up person. Not a doormat or whipping girl; not a reactive teenager.
An adult.
“Are you hungry?” Diana looked anxious when Ken grinned. I sympathized. She wanted to freeze-frame everything until the first guest walked in the door.
“You bet. We hardly had a bite of breakfast,” Ken said.
My mother made a sound signifying that, in truth, Ken had eaten his weight in meat and bread that morning.
“Well, maybe it was enough for you, Sugar.” He looked at me, his partner in pigging out. “She’s upset because I had hash browns at the hotel.”
“Along with the cheese omelet and white toast dripping with butter. Followed by three cups of coffee with cream. Look at you.” She addressed Diana. “Look. His shirt stretches around the buttons.”
Her words slid off Ken’s Teflon surface. I pulled my sweatshirt away from my torso, hoping to give an impression of loose clothes on a thin body and not the hundred grilled cheese sandwiches piled up on my midriff.
“For goodness sake, it’s been a heck of a trip.” Ken turned back to me. “We didn’t get into New York City until after ten last night, and then the roads up here set my nerves on fire. I haven’t driven in snow much, you know.”
“You deserve food, Ken,” Thomas said. “Leave him alone, Mom.”
“Fine. Eat what you want. I’ll just have a cup of coffee.”
Ken squeezed my shoulder. “So, how have you been, honey? You holding up?”
“Her appetite hasn’t been affected by the ordeal.” My mother’s eyes drove up and down my body, not fooled by my camouflage.
“Not company conversation.” I gave a big phony smile.
“You’re not a big girl. You can’t carry extra on that frame. It just pops right out.”
I reminded myself that I was a calm, mature adult. “I appreciate your concern, but you’re making me uncomfortable.” I brought out a to-the-manor-born quarter-smile, one worthy of the Queen of England.
“Stop trying to sound like a self-help book.” Babs ran her hands down her sides, following the line of her body from midriff to thigh. “I don’t stay this way by eating what I want. Learn about control.”
“Okay. I gained weight. Many pounds. After Adam left and I stopped having sex, I entered my sublimation stage.”
“Don’t be disgusting.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Are you saying sex is disgusting, Babs?” Ken laughed and pinched her behind.
She squirmed away with a tense smile. Thomas stepped between us, hands up, palms out. “Time out, teams. Kitchen. Table. Sit.”
My mother grimaced as she walked down the hall. “I’m sorry, Thomas, but she looks awful.”
“She’s right here, Mom,” I said. “Don’t talk as though I’m not here.”
“Fine, I’ll talk to you. How much weight have you gained?”
“Stop,” Thomas pointed to a chair. “Sit.”
My mother lifted the coffee cup Diana silently placed on the table. “The two of you never change. Always sticking together.”
Her attention returned to Diana, whose glossy debutante pageboy, graceful body and angled face were attractive enough for my mother to admire, but not so striking that Babs needed to dislike her. “I hope we didn’t make you uncomfortable, dear.”
“You should be proud of your children.” Diana gave her Queen Elizabeth tight smile. “Of what a great job you did.”
Ken put his arm around my mother’s shoulders. “Of course. We’re proud of every one of you. Let’s save this girl-talk for later.”
Thomas picked up two suitcases and nodded at me. “Would you take the other one?”
Babs closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “Open the garment bag after you hang it up and take out my dress and Ken’s suit, Isabelle.”
Biting down on my tongue and then chewing my lips, I headed to the large guest room where my mother would sleep, or do whatever vampires did at night.
“Can I kill her now?” I threw the garment bag on the floor and then threw myself across the bed, nicely mussing up the white chenille spread.
Thomas lifted the bag, unzipped it and hung each item. “Just yes her.”
“I’m sick of that.”
“Can you get sick of it some other time than at my tenth-anniversary party?”
It was six o’clock. Drinks were at seven. I stood in front of the closet, inspecting my meager choices and hating everything. Even being on the phone with Babs plumped up my thighs and made my hair limp. Up close and personal, I can’t even breathe.
Black emerged from my suitcase: Black silk shirt. Black crepe pants. Black wool dress. Black skirt. Black shoes. Black underwear. My wardrobe was in mourning. I twisted my ring and tried to prevent an anxiety attack.
Which would be the most slenderizing?
That would be the black Gap sweatshirt.
I needed to calm down. Think accessories.
No matter how many ways I wrapped the pink and black scarf over my black tunic-type blouse, my body remained visible. I threw it on the bed with the other dead clothes. My multi-colored velvet wrap was longer, wider, and covered greater area, but I resembled Stevie Nicks trying to cover up.
My mother walked in as I pinned the scarf into a strategic position.
“Could you knock?” I asked.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” A thin wool robe covered the peeking out silk slip. Flawless makeup showed off the diamond choker sparkled at her neck. Or perhaps it was vice-versa
.
“No, Mom. It’s a figment of your imagination.”
“Don’t be juvenile.”
“What do you want?”
My hips strained at the tight straight skirt. I should have worn the pants.
She pawed through the jewelry on my dresser with her little claws.
“Here.” She held out my choker of small gold beads. “This will pick up the bronze in the scarf and the gold will highlight your face.”
“Did you come to insult me?”’ I batted away the necklace she offered.
She looked surprised. “I came in to ask you to put a fresh coat of clear on my nails.” She held out a bottle of nail polish. “And I never meant to insult you, only encourage showing off your pretty face.”
I grabbed the polish and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sit down.”
“No, no. We need something firmer. Come over here.”
She sat at the antique leather lady’s desk. “Pull over that chair for yourself.” She gestured toward a small armchair, which I obediently dragged over.
“I can’t believe how after years of marriage you learned nothing.” She laid her hand on the desktop, fingers spread.
“I wouldn’t say that.” I smoothed a coat of polish over her index finger.
“You’re making it too thick.”
“This is clear polish, Mom.”
“See. Exactly what I’m talking about. Clear or red, you should put it on correctly. Imperfections always show. Always. The older you get, the more they show.”
Was this how Molly felt when she rolled her eyes?
“If the polish is too thick, it chips,” she said. “Color or clear.”
“Do you ever get tired of criticizing me?” I asked. “Do you even see me?”
She looked up, her face impassive: maybe confusion, maybe Botox, maybe both. “I don’t sit around thinking of ways to make you miserable. I’m only offering help.”
She waved her hands around to dry as I capped the polish bottle.
“Women need to take good hard looks at themselves every day. We can’t afford rose-colored glasses. It’s still a man’s world, Isabelle.”
19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Page 10