Everything seems quieter the moment I step inside. The marble floors. The clear glass counters displaying jewelry and makeup. I ride the escalator up a floor to the apparel section, being careful to avoid the Jeff Jones Collection. Today, there’s a sale. Even Helmet Lang has a rack. My hand is drawn to a tight-fitting black dress: compressed twill, sleeveless, and with the sexiest, yet most elegant back ever. In the fitting room, I try it on. The salesperson zips me up. It’s like skin. I feel my old self coming back. I smooth my hands down the front, turn to check the rear view from over my shoulder, then turn again to check the other side. The body is still there after all.
“Wow,” she says.
“How much?”
“$268.80. Down from $448.”
“I love it.” I hand her the credit card and my old dress.
“You’ll wear it out?”
“Hell, yeah,” I say.
When she’s gone to the register, I take off my wedding ring and drop it into my change purse. Tonight, I’m not a wife or mother. I’m me. I call the Japanese salon in town to ask if my hairdresser can squeeze me in. He says yes—he’s had a cancellation!—but only if I arrive within the hour. “I’m there,” I say.
The sales clerk returns with my receipt and a scissor to cut away the tags. I stop next at the shoe department and immediately gravitate toward a Jimmy Choo sandal. It’s made of snake-embossed leather with black contrast piping and a 4” metallic heel. The design and detail, the sheer craftmanship, makes these more—much, much more—than just a pair of shoes. As Armani once said, “To create something exceptional, your mindset must be relentlessly focused on the smallest detail.” Here is proof of it. Something like awe fills my chest. This is the power of beauty.
It’s my size. I slip the one shoe onto my foot, and, oh, yes. I’m in love. In the full-length mirror, I see a transformation of myself back into the person I once was.
“How much?”
“$925.”
Ouch.
“This is the last pair,” the salesman says.
How to justify? Well, I did save more than two hundred on the dress. Besides, I don’t have a pair of sandals like these. And I’m Jeff Jones’s wife. I need to be presentable. I can’t be looking like a mismatched FOB. “I’ll take them,” I say, handing over the card.
I go 70 mph on the Bronx River Parkway, and arrive at the hair salon with minutes to spare. My hairdresser is a man named Morita. His clients refer to him as “the Magnificent.” He wears a long, neat ponytail down his back and sunglasses perched on top of his head. He assesses my hair critically—the way a designer might examine the seams of a coat—and asks what I’d like. It’s been almost a year and a half since my last trim. “Long layers?” I say, which is vague, considering the many kinds of layering techniques. Then, glancing over at the dye-job next to me with plastic wrap around her head, I add, “Highlights.”
He sets to work, lightening the hair, then cutting while we talk about our kids. I tell him honestly about Alex: not only about how tough it has been, but how clueless my husband is about the situation. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” I say, as he paints and foils the side of my head. “It’s like the real me got lost.” I try not to cry because it’s not Japanese to lose control, but my mind snags against the prenup and the many other injustices. The assistant needs to give me a Kleenex. I feel mortified that I may have embarrassed Morita, and yet, I confide that nothing I do, nothing I endure, will ever be enough to prove my love to Jeff. “I’m done trying,” I explain, and once I say it—once it’s out there—it becomes obvious. I’m not in love with Jeff, anymore.
An hour and a half after he starts, Morita’s angling a hand-held mirror behind me so that I can see the back of my head as well as the front. My normally long, flat hair falls in what seems like waves. The highlights are subtle, but they brighten my entire face. I’m free.
I smile, and the person in the mirror radiates pure love back at me.
“Okaerinasai,” he says, nodding with reverence. “Welcome back.”
What to do? Nothing comes to mind, even now, but it would be a waste to go home so soon. It’s only 6:45 pm; too early. The June weather is warm and beautiful—picture perfect for a rehearsal dinner, and so filled with new life and hope that I’m overcome with melancholy.
I get in the car and drive. For a moment, I consider calling Ma to meet for dinner, but one look and she’ll know what’s going on. The last thing I need right now is Ma railing about Jeff and how she told me so.
Within twenty minutes, I find myself at a restaurant on the Hudson. The hostess asks if I have a reservation, and when I say no, she indicates there is an hour wait for a table. However, if I like, I may enjoy a seat at the bar, or, since the weather has been so accommodating, perhaps I’d prefer the rooftop bar?
“Perfect,” I say.
On the roof, I lean against the wall with a glass of Sancerre and watch the sun set over the mercury water. Right about now, Jeff would be enjoying drinks and appetizers. Possibly toasting the wedding couple. “Here’s to your future together,” he’d say.
I finish my drink. The river seems huge under this blanket of dark sky, the water silvery in the beam of moonlight. I think about the rainbow lollipops that night at The Cape. I can almost taste the cherry sweetness. That was the moment, I think now. That was the moment when I chose Jeff over the others. When I fell in love.
How young, I think. Naive.
The Hudson drifts, strong and steady, and I think: in a thousand years, when my bones are nothing more than dust, the river will remain, unchanged, indomitable. A breeze whips my hair. Is it possible to fall out of love with someone over a single incident? One which, to be fair, is not really that person’s fault?
My mind shifts gears, landing on the practical issues of divorce. What would I do and where would I go? How could I possibly handle Alexander on my own? Should I wait a couple years until he is older?
I think about Ma. She’s bitter and alone. Full of blame. What, exactly, do I tell her?
“Would you like another glass of wine?” the waiter asks.
I turn to say yes, and find it’s not the waiter after all. The stranger’s a lean 6’2” or so, late 30s or early 40s, light brown hair, brown eyes. He’s wearing a grey suit that fits a little too loosely about the sleeves and torso, but with his height he can pass it off.
“William,” he says, offering me one of his two glasses. When I hesitate, he adds, “It’s Sancerre. I asked.”
My phone rings. It’s Jeff. I realize it’s already close to 10 pm. The dinner is probably over and either Jeff’s on his way home or he’s at a bar with the wedding party. I drop the phone back into my purse and take the glass offered to me. “Thank you, William,” I say. “What brings you here tonight?”
“Fate?”
We laugh. Our glasses touch. His gaze is so intense, I can feel him reaching, trying to take root inside me.
I don’t look away.
Blood
“Get him a full day private,” I tell Jeff as I check the blind spot and change lanes. We’re on our way to Stratton. It’s 6 PM and getting dark out. The snow’s coming down like sticky balls of cotton. In the three years since our last visit, Jeff has opened retail stores in London and Hong Kong, and Alex, now ten, plays travel hockey. The tournament in Massachusetts got cancelled this weekend due to rink issues, so Alex wanted to ski. The resort’s projecting heavy snow: eight inches overnight, another three to four in the early morning, and late-morning sunshine. What luck. Jeff and Alex are thrilled.
“Yes, seven,” Jeff says. He’s on the phone with the lodge, making dinner reservations.
“I don’t want a private,” Alex says from the back seat, too busy gaming to look up.
“Tell them to transfer you to the ski school,” I tell Jeff.
“No, don’t,” Alex says.
; “For three, correct,” Jeff says, louder, gesturing with a wave of a hand for us to be quiet.
“We can get an instructor who can ski at your level,” I say, glancing at Alex in the rear view mirror. “That guy Tommy, remember? The college kid. Maybe he’s still there? You really liked him.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Alex says.
“How about 6:30, then?” Jeff asks, plugging his ear with a finger.
“It’s your first time out in years, Alex,” I say.
“I’ll be fine.”
“What was that?” Jeff asks, into the phone. “Six? Nothing later? You sure?”
“Don’t worry,” Alex says. “For once, just trust me.”
“I do trust you,” I say, which isn’t a total lie. What I don’t trust is the ADHD. In my mind, it’s like a giant, frenetic glob. When Alex gets excited, upset, or shaken up, he gets swallowed up by its static. By the time he was seven, he’d suffered three concussions. The first when he was 1 1/2, from climbing onto a kitchen chair and falling; the second when he was three, from swinging on the furniture. And the third when he was five, from playing Evel Knievel on his bike.
“Now look what you made me do,” Alex gasps.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he groans.
“Jones,” Jeff says. “Yes, Jeff Jones.”
“Alex,” I say, lowering my voice and watching him in the rear view mirror. He glances up and catches my gaze, his brows furrowed and mouth pinched tight. “I want someone with you the first few runs. Just until you get your ski legs back, okay?”
“No,” Alex states.
“Oh, you do?” Jeff says into the phone. “I think that might work.”
“I’m fine.” Alex turns his attention back to the game.
“But—” I say.
“I said, I’m fine!” he yells.
“See you this evening,” Jeff says, slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket.
“You hung up? Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“About what?” Jeff asks.
Behind us, Alex starts another round of Minecraft. I can’t see it, but I can hear the rapid motion of his thumbs over the keyboard.
“A private,” I say. “For Alex.”
“Oh, he doesn’t need a private,” Jeff states, checking his email.
The corner of Alex’s mouth twitches upward, just slightly. The dynamic duo. Nothing penetrates the two. I get a flash of him snowboarding down a black double diamond—pure recklessness and intensity—and feeling suddenly dissatisfied, veering off trail into a woody thicket.
“Jeff,” I insist.
“It’s fine, Amy,” he says. “I’ll go with him.”
“Yeah,” Alex says. “He’ll go with me.”
I stare at Jeff. He turns 64 next month. With the aid of Viagra and his latest “secret” affair, he has the notion that he’s as virile as he was in his twenties.
“You can really keep up?” I say.
Jeff stiffens. “Of course I can.”
“Of course he can,” Alex parrots.
“Okay,” I shrug. In the past, this kind of exchange with Jeff would frustrate me. Make me resentful. Today, however, I feel a strange mix of detachment and resignation. Neither of them knows, but this is our last weekend together as a family unit. I’m leaving. No more hemming and hawing. This time, it’s for real. My suitcase is already at my sister Georgie’s. So, in the end, do I really need to win this battle?
“Welcome to Vermont,” the sign reads. “The Green Mountain State.”
Jeff’s phone rings. Whenever his office calls, there’s a strum of the guitar. At the moment, however, it’s a regular ring tone. “Hello?” he answers with his fake voice. “Mm hm… mm hm… a very big order… Yes, that’s right…Okay, then, see you Monday.”
Whatever. I actually feel sorry for him. He still thinks I’m going to be jealous or hurt about his escapades. But, really, it’s like that quote the Jewish Community Center put on the facade of their building by writer Elie Wiesel: “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.”
The only thing I’m uncertain about is why he hasn’t asked for a divorce. He’s the one with the prenup, and yet, despite his infidelities and mine, he’s careful never to put the “D” word on the table. Whenever I do, he always finds a way to assuage the situation. Two years ago, he immediately dropped the affair, swore he wouldn’t cheat again, and brought me up to the same house in Cape Cod where we spent our first summer together. It’s like an elevator. Every time I get inside, he jams his foot in the doors, jarring them back open.
When we get onto route 279, I follow the trail of other SUVs with skis or Thules bolted to the rooftops. The car directly in front of us has an “Of course I’m awesome, I’m a Stratton” bumper sticker. We pass a stream I don’t recall ever seeing before. Could we have all missed the exit to route 9? The snow’s coming down harder, forcing traffic to slow to 30 miles per hour. My chest aches with tenderness. I’ve decided Alex will stay with Jeff. He’s older; in all likelihood he’d want to be with Jeff anyway. There’s really no choice. I start as a floor salesman at Bloomingdale’s next week, and it will be a while before I have enough saved to get my own place.
“Oh,” Alex startles, looking up from the game now.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Guilt is like the snow. Sticky, cold, and silent as it falls.
Jeff turns to Alex.
“My swim trunks,” Alex says. “You pack them?”
“Oh, no,” I say. “It slipped my mind.”
“Mom!” Alex barks. “How could you forget? You know everyone hangs at the pool at night—”
Jeff shushes him. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” Alex says. “You always say everything’s fine when it’s not.”
Alex does have a point.
“Your mother will pick one up in the morning,” Jeff says.
“I will? I mean, I was planning to rent skis.”
Jeff’s brow twitches. Typically, I spend these weekends catching up on sleep, getting a massage, and running errands. It’s the reason I don’t own skis.
“Fine,” Jeff says. “I’ll get them.”
Alex makes a tsking sound through his teeth and shoots me a hostile, penetrating look. Jeff purchases clothes based on design taste. He remains unaware, almost belligerently so, of Alex’s sensory issues. If the suit isn’t loose enough or the fabric is anything other than sweat-wicking or breathable, Alex’s eczema flares up. To a certain extent, it will anyway; Alex is sensitive to chlorine. He needs the “right” suit in order to reduce potential misery.
“Which stores carry swim apparel?” Jeff asks.
Alex catches my gaze in the rear view mirror. Please, he says, silently.
Fine. I roll my eyes. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, mom.” Alex smiles and pats me from behind. I would have done it anyway, but today, there’s the added reason of making this weekend as perfect as possible. If he’s going to remember something, I don’t want it to be that I wouldn’t run a simple errand for him.
The next day, the boys are out the door by 8 AM. They want to hit the slopes as soon as the lifts start running. I remain in bed, aching and exhausted. Not just the physical body, but the soul. I dread hurting Alex; possibly even losing him.
Jeff texts at 9 AM. He’s made a reservation for noon at the Japanese restaurant. If I’m going to rent skis and hit the bunny slope, I need to get going. A long, hot shower fogs the bathroom mirror. I wipe a hand over the glass. My reflection appears, then slowly, slowly vanishes.
By the time I get skis and poles from rentals, it’s close to 11AM. Only an hour before lunch. God forbid I’m late, and we lose our reservation. The Great Jeff Jones would get stuck eating cafeteria fast food like everyone else. Since I’m going on the bunny s
lope, the easiest and shortest trail of them all, there’s definitely time for a run. The guy paired up with me on the lift line has hair down to his shoulder blades, the front pulled back into a ponytail holder. No mustache or beard, but the type Ma would derogatorily refer to as “Jesus” because she hates men with long hair. There’s something about his eyes. One’s green, one’s blue. We get to talking. I tell him about Alex, whom Jeff’s probably killing himself trying to keep up with right now.
I ask Jesus what he does, and he tells me he teaches a personal development course. All the while, I pay attention to the timing of the lift. For every pair of skiers who get off, another gets scooped up and carried away. When we get to the front of the line, I’m nervous about pushing off and timing it so that I make it onto the lift correctly. “Put the poles in your other hand,” he advises.
I switch hands. The chair circles toward us. The attendant grabs hold of it and scoops it beneath us. I’m seated, but the tip of my right ski dips forward and I lose my balance. Even as I feel myself lifting into the air, my ski dangles like it’s going to tow me off.
Jesus draws me back with one arm and tugs the safety guard down with the other. My heart pounds so hard that it’s all I can hear. For a moment, I’m lost, full of trepidation. Maybe it’s how I’ll feel when everything comes crashing down. When I’m alone.
“You all right?” Jesus asks.
“No.” Tears gush down my face, “Yes, oh my god, I’m so sorry, it’s just—” I choke it all back.
“It’s okay,” he says. “We all have our moments.”
Then I’m crying in front of a total stranger and I don’t care. All the hurt and sadness I’ve hoarded throughout my marriage comes flooding out.
The lift jerks to a standstill. The chairs rock in unison. Forward and back. Forward, back.
I brush the tears away with my fingers. “What’s happening? Why’d we stop?”
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