“What’s wrong?” He wiped the wetness from my cheek. “Want me to stop?”
I shook my head.
“Fear catching up?”
I nodded again, as more tears streamed out.
“Scoot over.”
I moved to the center of the bed. Adam cradled me from behind. Bending his legs, he curved the length of his body and melded to me. His tears wet my hair as he wept.
18
Myth: Society claims fidelity is the ideal.
Truth: Lip service is always given to monogamy, while movies, television, and books glamorize infidelity.
I woke cold, confused and alone. The clock on the nightstand read 5:25 P.M. Dismal winter Sunday evenings depress me in the best times. Add Molly’s accident and the realization that we failed her in a primal way, and my interior turned bleak as the atmosphere.
I hurried out and found Molly watching TV. Instinctively, I felt her forehead.
“Stop, there’s no fever.” She squirmed to see the screen, her prickly tone offering me some relief from worry. What better way to indicate recovery than by being annoyed with me?
“Headache?”
She shrugged. “A tiny one. You won’t take me to the hospital, will you?”
“No, honey. But be honest if it gets worse, we have to pay attention. Every symptom is important.”
“I know.” She looked at me without much expression. The poor thing. Her will for exasperation had returned, but without the strength to roll her eyes.
“Daddy’s in the kitchen.” Henry sat curled in the chair. “I think he should stay to make sure Molly’s okay. She needs both of you. Right?”
Molly’s casual shrug told me she agreed. Teenage shrugs are like snowflakes in Alaska, identical to outsiders, but to the natives, each has its own message. I headed for the kitchen and found Charlotte ladling soup for Adam.
“Sit,” she said. “I’ll give you a bowl. How are you?”
“Worried.” I sat, thankful to be served. My head fuzzed with the dissociation I connected with antihistamines and long naps. I studied Adam for clues to my life.
“So what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” He lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips.
“Are you staying tonight?”
Charlotte placed a steaming bowl before me. “Eat. I’ll go be with the children.”
Adam concentrated on getting the spoon into his mouth.
“So?” I couldn’t keep impatience from my voice.
“Molly will be fine. My mother will be here. You can call me if you need me. I wrote out the doctor’s instructions.” He looked self-conscious. “That’s how I cope—making sure everything’s in place. I do it for me, not you.”
“It would mean a lot if you stayed over.” I gave no voice to where he’d sleep.
“I just can’t.” He avoided my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I need you now, Adam, I wanted to say. But I only nodded and soon after we stood at the open door, fumbling for the proper way to separate. Finally, he gave me a brief hug. “I wish I could.”
Pulling my sweater tight, I shivered. “I better close the door.”
Two days later, Charlotte pushed me out the door, urging me to keep a meeting with Greta, while she and Molly planned a tearjerker film festival, starting with Wuthering Heights.
Charlotte seemed ready to stay till Molly was in college. I found it disturbingly easy to sink into her care. Maybe trading Adam for Charlotte—which didn’t seem like a bad deal—was my future. She cooked, cleaned, watched the kids, and did laundry. What had I ever disliked about her? Hell, we could build a matriarchy here in Chestnut Hill.
Boston’s serene Public Gardens, splendid even in austere early March, spread before me as I looked out Greta’s office window.
“Amazing, right? Charlotte saved me these past three days,” I said.
“And Adam gets to leave it all in your lap—yours and his mother’s.”
“He needs to work.” The urge to defend Adam was irresistible.
She snorted, an unattractive move for even the comeliest woman.
“He’s trying to move past it all, but that’s a tough task.”
“And how about you, Is? Are you trying to get over the past sixteen years?”
“Things were nice in the beginning.”
“Nice.” Greta again made that annoying snort.
“Nice isn’t a curse. He’s warm and loving and funny. And he’s a good person. Remember? Who moved you five times in three years?”
“Fine, I’ll admit it. Adam was a good mover.”
“No one’s perfect. You forget and keep waiting for Mr. Always-Right.”
Greta picked up her teacup and settled back. “Being alone is better than settling for being slightly unhappy, but basically okay.”
“Is that how you think I was?”
“You sure made it sound that way.” She tapped her pen on her lips.
What would life be like if Adam returned? Me making balanced meals as he balanced the checkbook—slightly unhappy, but essentially fine?
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said. “Let’s get back to the ballerina.”
She put her long legs up on the desk. “You remember I love you, right?”
“Sure.” I sounded as enthusiastic as Henry when Adam declared daily flossing now would make Henry a happy adult.
“Please figure out how you want to be in this world and not just react.”
“Are you editing a Doctor Phil book? I can’t do this today.”
“Fine. Ballerina time. I got her last installment last week.”
“Please tell me we don’t end post-mortem.” I feared the ballerina’s epilogue would be her suicide note.
“No. But it definitely needs to be filed under truth is creepier than fiction.” Greta lifted the papers sitting on the side table. “‘Only now, in the odd coldness of reality, without the succor of Valium, bourbon or even cigarettes, I relax. It makes no sense, but that’s how it is, dear readers.”…’ Greta stopped. “Make sure you remove those asides she’s so fond of.”
She sipped her tea and then again lifted the page. “‘I continually held my own blocks. The pills had become bigger than my life, huge, and they were meant to be that big. They had to be, in order to stand between life’s burdens and me…’”
“She is fond of emphasis,” I said.
“Right.” Greta looked down to find her place. “Here’s the part. ‘But maybe in the process, I had become the burden. This was what I needed to change. Not change the pills, the rehabilitation centers, the junkies I hung out with, but transform myself.”…’ She looked up over her reading glasses. “Please note that ‘myself’ is underlined, bolded and italicized. Now listen to this. ‘Who I was simply reeked. That is why I called the Little Sisters of the Sacred Heart and asked to be taken in to try contemplative life.’…’ Do you want me to tell you how it ends?”
“Don’t.” I took the folder. “Tension helps my editing. Good job making me eager to work. No wonder you’re well paid and are surrounded by beauty.” I gestured at the soft-cherry furniture and oriental carpet. “You deserve it.”
She stood and hugged me. “As do you, sweetness.”
Ill will greeted me when I returned home. No television, no music. Charlotte pouted in the kitchen, stirring a pot in jerky little motions.
I leaned over her shoulder. “What are you making?”
“What’s the difference, no one will like it.”
Adios honeymoon. Au revoir, live-in.
“How can you say that? Without you, we would have starved.”
She sniffed. “According to Miss High and Mighty, my food is too fattening.”
“Molly’s at that stage of always worrying about being fat.”
“She’s skin and bones. If I were her mother, I’d worry more about anorexia than anything else. All the girls are doing it. Esther’s granddaughter was in Beth Israel Hospital for three weeks with it. Molly
will have it next if you don’t watch it.”
Goodbye, two women united. Adios matriarchy.
“Anorexia isn’t chicken pox. You don’t catch it. Becoming snappish is a good sign. Her spirit is coming back. I want that.”
Charlotte tightened her apron and bent over to load the dishwasher. “Humph. You call it spirit, I call it talking back.”
I touched her sharp shoulder blades under the velour. “You must be tired. Why don’t you put your feet up? Turn on the TV or read a magazine. People arrived in today’s mail.”
“I’ll clean up in here.” She gave a little sigh. “After, maybe I’ll watch Oprah. She’s showing plastic surgery mistakes.”
“Perfect. I’ll join you.”
“Adam called,” she said. “He’s taking Henry out for dinner after school. He’ll bring him home around seven.”
With Charlotte mollified, I went to Molly, knocking gently on her closed door.
“What?”
“Can I come in?”
“Why”
“I want to see how you are.”
“I’m fine.” She bit off the two words.
I rested my head on the door. Was there a patron saint for mothers of teenagers? “I’m not talking through the door.”
Molly grunted. I entered. Dirge-like music played. With her stuffed Dalmatian locked in her arms, she lay face-up on the bed, knees opening and closing on the dog’s tail, lost in an old flannel shirt of Adam’s.
“Grandma mentioned that you were a little cranky.”
“Oh please. Not wanting to eat her damn soup makes me cranky?”
“Grandma may be difficult, but she adores you.” I sat on the rocking chair.
She dropped her knees and sat up, crossing her legs. “Everything is so awful.” Her voice cracked with sobs.
“Honey, honey.” I went to the bed, drawing her into my arms. “Baby, where does it hurt? Tell me. We’ll take care of it. I promise.”
She looked up, her face red from crying. “We’re not a family anymore.”
Crumpling, she came into my arms and we rocked against each other. I opened my mouth to reassure her and realized I had nothing to offer.
Not being able to hug away heartbreak is the worst part of parenthood.
19
Myth: Affairs almost always spell the end of marriage.
Truth: More than 50 percent of marriages survive infidelity.
Charlotte handed me a frying pan to dry. Once alone, I could stop pretending I washed or dried pots using any method but a Darwinian survival of the fittest: throw them in the dishwasher and let the best one win. For now, I dried.
Molly’s outburst appeared to have lanced her fear and sadness. She lay in my bed, reading, eating apples sliced by her forgiving grandma. A soft Chopin CD played.
“It’s time I left,” Charlotte said. “You all need time alone. Enough is enough.”
“I’ll miss you. I only survived because of you.” After blinking away threatening tears, I hugged her and for once she accepted without pulling away. “Face it—you’re my only real mother.”
Bobbing her head like a startled bird, she gave a shy grin. “I always tried to treat you like my own daughter.”
I hugged her and smiled back, thinking of Judith. “You succeeded.”
“That must be Adam.” Charlotte turned towards the sound of the door opening. After untying her apron and hanging it up in the pantry closet, she briefly touched my forearm.
“Mom, we’re home.” Henry entered, holding out a white bag like a prize.
“What’s that?”
“Ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” I repeated. Adam stood behind Henry, hands in the pockets of his khakis.
“Your favorite,” Adam said. “Chocolate ginger. From Cabot’s.”
Adam remembered my favorite ice cream? How long had it been since we had it?
“None for me.” Charlotte picked up her phone. “I’m ready for my own bed and, no argument, I’m taking a cab. Last time I met the nicest man. He and his wife came here from Russia. She left him when they got here. I think she was using him to get here. Can you imagine? And he’s over seventy.”
“I’ll drive you, Mom. I’m beat, anyway.”
I held up the white bag of ice cream. “Don’t you want to stay?”
“Yeah, Daddy, you should stay. Wait a sec, I’ll call Molly.”
Before Adam could open his mouth, Henry ran up the stairs, and Charlotte called the cab company.
“Seems like the tribe has spoken,” Adam said. “They’re determined to see us eat ice cream together.”
“That hasn’t happened in a long time.” I put the bag on the counter. “Not counting frozen yogurt.”
He nodded. “I can be quite a tight ass, can’t I?”
“I guess you can.”
We looked at each other, unsure of our next lines.
Frantic energy overtook the four of us, the kids frenzied in their happiness.
“More? Please?” Molly held out her bowl, scraped clean.
“Me too?” Henry snuck a look at Adam.
“Don’t forget me,” Adam said, initiating a cheer from the kids.
I studied what was left of the quart container. “Let’s kill it.” Molly and Henry tossed balled up napkins at each other as I divided the remains.
“Be careful.” I pulled out a rubber scraper to capture the last bit of chocolate ginger. “Henry, watch you don’t hit Molly’s bruises.”
“Oh, Mom, I’m fine.” She stuck her tongue out, and Henry wrinkled his face back.
“Can we go to the movies to see the X-Men festival at Coolidge Corner?” Henry asked.
“Yeah, let’s go.” Molly looked over at me. “Why don’t we all go?”
Quiet sheeted the table.
“We’ll see, honey.”
She glared, telegraphing my power to fix or wreck her life.
“Daddy and I will talk about it, okay?”
She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Adam put a hand on her arm. “Let us figure it out.”
“They’re great movies,” Henry said. “What do need to figure out?”
Molly went to Adam’s chair and put her arms around his neck. “Please stay.”
“Please, please, please?” Henry’s right leg bounced up and down as he pleaded.
Adam looked happier than he had in far too long. “If Mom says yes.” He looked over the top of his glasses at me.
Adam settled on the couch with the kids, I read the last chapter of the ballerina’s story, on the corner chair, and every one of us snuck looks at each other.
In the end, the ballerina escaped the world. She closed by writing: As I contemplate entering the Convent of Mercy, I celebrate my future. The Abbey in Edinburgh houses many sanctuaries for the spiritually wounded. I pray to lose my soul in the ministry of the Lord, and, in this work, find my own measure of peace. My future will be held by our Lord.
“Okay, kids, time for bed.” Adam picked up the remote and clicked off the TV.
Molly crossed her arms. “I don’t go to bed the same time as Henry.”
“You do when you’re recovering from head trauma.” He lifted her curtain of bangs and inspected her abraded skin. “By the way, don’t think this attention to recovery will spare you a talk about responsibility, alcohol, drugs and parties. This is a respite, not a reprieve.”
Molly shot off the couch. “Come on, Henry,” she said. “Let’s put each other to bed. Why don’t you come in my room and we’ll read together till we fall asleep?”
Henry jumped up, almost tripping on Molly as he followed her.
“I’ll make sure he brushes his teeth,” Molly threw over her shoulder. “You guys relax.”
“Jeez, I know I should brush my teeth.” With those words, Henry took a step closer to the dreaded years of adolescence. “Night.”
“Our children are conspiring. What do you think?” Adam sat beside me. “I miss you.” He ran his hand over my thigh. �
��Do you miss me?”
Hours later, familiar comfort mixed with the eroticism of the untested as Adam outlined my body with his hands. My mind raced as I tried to open myself to Adam’s caresses—uncertainty choking off my heat even as I enjoyed the sensations from Adam tracing my shoulder with his lips.
“Jesus, this feels so good,” he whispered against my skin.
I could only answer by wrapping my legs tight. His hands dug into the mattress as he slowed down. His face tightened as he stopped, but soon, quickly, whispering apologies and love, he shuddered and finished.
We stayed locked until the air cooled and forced us apart. I reached for the quilt.
“Having you cover me is comforting. You don’t appreciate the most important things till they’re gone.” He stroked my back. “Why can’t I find more than cliché to express myself?” He smoothed the empty pillow beside him. “Lie down.”
I remained sitting up, murmuring meaningless sounds.
“That was wonderful.” Adam put his arms behind his back and exhaled. He stared as though I were a brand-new woman. “I thought about us, Is. Thinking is all I did while we were apart. This entire time, I never dated anyone. I never even thought about it.”
“We’ve only been apart two months, Adam. Not dating doesn’t deserve the Medal of Honor.”
Adam tightened as I scrubbed away his glow. I was being ungrateful, especially considering how we got here, but I couldn’t sit back and lionize Adam for not going to bed with someone for two whole months. I couldn’t say Welcome back and thanks for forgiving me. Now, back to how we were.
He punched the pillow up behind him. “Don’t you want me to come back? You seemed upset when I left the other night. And my mother. Every day she tells me what a saint you are. Suddenly she’s your number one fan.”
“You want to come back because Charlotte encouraged you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I want to come back because I love you. And Henry and Molly. I want us to be a family. I need you next to me and I’ve been too angry to face it.”
19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Page 13