Instantly Ethan responds,
You’re right. I’m sorry. Understood.
I decide what’s good for the goose is good for the gander and change my Jabber status to offline. I glance at the clock and am shocked to realize I have whiled away over two hours on Tammy’s file. I now need to work through lunch on Elizabeth’s second motion to salvage a decent billable day. I set to work dismantling the borrower’s argument that a single failure of my client to respond to a qualified written request demanding irrelevant information such as the name of the investor on his loan, the origination file, and the name and title of every customer service representative he’d spoken to over the last five years constitutes an evil plot to defraud him and others similarly situated. I have a pretty solid outline completed when a new email brings me back to reality. Comments from Elizabeth on her first motion. Sent at a quarter to five to blow up my weekend no doubt. But as I scroll through I’m pleasantly surprised to conclude these edits should deprive me of only about four hours. Not a bad first draft after all.
I decide to end my day on that high note. It’s Friday after all. I text Patrick and see if he wants to grab a drink at the bar next to For Your Child before picking up the boys. Not even two minutes pass before Patrick responds with:
I’m actually already on my way out for drinks. College acquaintance is looking to get into consulting. Don’t wait up.
My stomach plunges and my heart starts racing. Is he going to meet Marcie? No. Marcie lives in New York. What would she be doing in Chicago on a Friday night? Especially since Patrick said he’d be home tonight. Don’t freak out, I tell myself. He has gone out for drinks and career counseling before.
Still, unable to stop myself, I text back,
Really? Where?
This time five full minutes pass before Patrick texts back,
Not sure. We’re going to meet at his office and decide from there.
Knowing I’m risking coming off clingy or worse, I text back,
Oh, where does he work?
Another five minutes pass before Patrick shuts down the conversation with,
Google, Maeve. See you tomorrow.
Google is in Fulton Market. With Friday traffic it could take twenty minutes to get there by cab. By that time, Patrick and his friend (or Marcie) may already be off to a bar. But before I can pull the crazy train back into the station, I’m throwing on my coat and heading for the elevator. Upon entering the cab, I tell the driver in no uncertain terms the faster he gets me to Google the bigger his tip. The driver is thankfully sufficiently motivated by my offer and we pull up to the internet giant’s front doors in thirteen minutes flat.
I get out, toss four fives at the driver, and scan my surroundings. It’s a veritable bar and restaurant mecca. One I’ve never been to. I have no idea where Patrick would take his friend. Just then a bro in a long black coat and cosmetic glasses exits the building staring intently at his phone. I take a chance.
“Excuse me. Do you work at Google?”
He nods barely taking his eyes from the screen.
Bingo! “I’m supposed to meet a friend for a drink but before he could give me the name, my phone died. Do you guys have a favorite bar I should try?”
Now frantically responding to a text, the bro grunts. “Aviary. Up the street. Amazing cocktails.”
I offer a cursory thanks before sprinting in the direction indicated. Just up the next block I spy a grey awning with The Aviary written in script. Once outside, I slow my pace and scan the bar through the large front windows. There are dozens of virtually identical young, well-dressed men sitting at the bar enjoying fluorescent-colored drinks. But none of them appear to be Patrick. Undeterred, I turn around and make a second pass. Still, no sign of my husband. I take a deep breath and on my third pass, open the heavy front doors, and enter the drinking establishment. Unsure of my next step, I approach the hostess and ask for a drink menu to peruse. Using the menu as a mask, I make one more pass around the restaurant. No dice. I then chance a glance at my watch and see it is now a quarter past six. A curtain of shame descends. I’ll be late for daycare pickup. And for what? A wild goose chase. Jesus, Maeve. You’re better than this. I do the walk of shame back to the hostess station to return the menu. Just then out of the corner of my eye I spy Patrick’s lithe frame emerging from the bathroom. I freeze, but he makes a beeline to the bar. I dart outside and peer through the front glass. A waitress has positioned herself to the front and left of Patrick, blocking my view of his companion. The Ludacris line about a bitch being in his way goes through my mind. A moment or two passes before the waitress heads back to the kitchen, revealing the nondescript head of a brown-haired man sitting next to Patrick. So he was telling the truth. He wasn’t meeting Marcie after all. I exhale deeply before frantically hailing a cab to pick up my boys.
***
After apologizing profusely to the daycare director for my tardy pickup, I speed through the usual bedtime routine. In record time, I’m pouring myself a glass of Meritage and ordering an old favorite, Bed of Roses, on Amazon Prime. Patrick hates this movie, but I’m a sucker for Mary Stuart Masterson’s character. The type A corporate executive who never lets anyone get close to her until a strange florist played by Christian Slater sends her flowers. Awwww romance.
After pouring myself a second glass of wine, I become nostalgic for the early days with Patrick. We met at Tommy Nevin’s Pub, a popular Northwestern hangout. We were both in our first semester—him in the business school and me in law school. Patrick knew a 1L, the slang term for first year law students, from his college days at Notre Dame and came over to our table to say hello. I was instantly attracted to him. He seemed to pick up that I was interested and asked if I wanted to play darts. We spent the rest of the night talking about our pasts. I gave the sterilized version. I grew up an only child in a boring suburb outside of Indianapolis. My father was a lawyer and my mother a homemaker (at least that was the image she projected to our friends and neighbors). Both had since passed away. Patrick grew up in a big Irish Catholic family in Chicago. And he was funny. I remember almost falling off my bar stool laughing at his stories of trying to sneak past his mother, Mary, and join his friends’ plot to sneak into Wrigley.
After a few dates, Patrick invited me to Sunday dinner at his parents’ and I fell hook, line and sinker. They were exactly the type of family I had been looking for my whole life. All four siblings gathered around the table swapping stories. Mary in the kitchen making a meal large enough to feed twice as many people. Patrick’s dad, Cormac, ribbing his kids about childhood embarrassments while drinking a beer and holding a grandbaby. I think I fell in love with Patrick’s family before him. But I did fall in love with Patrick. And we had a great relationship…at one point. Long Sunday afternoons in our apartment in Evanston watching marathon sessions of Law & Order on our cheap tube television set. Our post-bar trip to Costa Rica. Ten days of zip lining, hiking, swimming in hot springs and sunbathing on gorgeous beaches. Not to mention the many passion fruit margaritas we imbibed while talking for hours about how we could stay in Manuel Antonio forever and support ourselves by opening a decent coffee shop.
With these rosy memories floating through my head, I tell myself that our current state of affairs isn’t that perilous. Patrick was just feeling a bit lonely. It may have even been a couple night fling with Marcie that’s already over. I turn off the movie and go to bed.
When I wake and check my Fitbit, I see it’s almost four. Patrick is to my right lying spread eagle on his stomach clad only in his tighty whities. I wonder when he finally made it home. Seems like quite a late night for drinks with a college acquaintance. I get up and use the bathroom so I can hopefully sleep another three hours before the boys wake. As I pass the dresser on my way back to bed, I notice Patrick’s jeans and sweater tossed on the floor next to it. He must have had quite a few drinks. He always puts away his clothes unless he’s had a few too many. My type-A personality can’t stand the clutter, so I
pick up his things and start folding. As I make the second fold in his Bonobos dark wash stretch jeans, my hand feels something hard. Patrick must have left his ID in his pocket. But as I fish the card out, all my suspicions are confirmed. Patrick was in room 648 of the Intercontinental Hotel tonight. He must have met Marcie after I left him at The Aviary.
Chapter 8
The bell rings and my third grade teacher, Miss Devlin, instructs us to get up from our desks quietly and slowly walk to our cubbies to retrieve our things. I pull my self-portrait down from the top shelf where I stored it so it wouldn’t get rumpled in my backpack. I can’t wait to show Mom. I worked on it over four art classes. Whereas other kids had moved on to landscapes, I sat at my table mixing colors to get my green eye color and light brown hair just right. I had drawn and redrawn my mouth at least six times so that the shape was natural and not cartoonish like the other kids. I knew if Mom could see how hard I worked and how pretty I am, it would make her less sad.
“Maeve, please get in line, dear,” Miss Devlin calls. “We mustn’t keep your parents or the buses waiting.” We all know it is Miss Devlin who doesn’t want to wait. Having been written off as a spinster by the school moms, dumpy Miss Devlin with the garish floral dresses found herself a boyfriend at the age of forty-three. He picks her up every day at precisely three-fifteen.
I quickly throw on my backpack, but keep my drawing in my hands turned toward me so as to not attract any attention. Lea already called me a “slowpoke” after she had finished her own drawing on day two. I politely didn’t mention that in her portrait her right eye is about an inch higher than her left. When I reach the end of the line, Miss Devlin starts the procession out the door and down the hall to the entranceway. We file past the mint-green lockers of the middle graders and out the large double doors.
Outside, the line splits in two. One group goes off to the awaiting yellow school buses. I remain with the other group: those of us who live close enough to the school to be picked up by our mothers at the end of each day.
For a few minutes, my friend Sara and I recount the fight that happened at recess after Bobby hit Joe in the face with a dodgeball. Joe was so mad, he ran at Bobby and tried to shove him to the ground. But Bobby, who is twice as big, stayed on his feet and punched Joe right in the stomach. Coach Wilson took Bobby to the principal’s office while Joe was sent crying to the nurse. Joe came back during readers’ workshop with an ice pack on his cheek where the dodgeball hit, the outline of a developing bruise already visible. Principal Keller must have sent Bobby home. Our class couldn’t stop speculating as to the extent of his punishment. Becky even bet that Bobby had been expelled!
Then Sara is picked up by her silver-haired grandma in her green plaid house dress who can’t stop apologizing for her tardiness. She lost track of time while making blueberry pies. She promises to bring Miss Devlin one tomorrow as an apology. That leaves just me and Miss Devlin on the stairs. A few more minutes pass and I can tell she’s getting antsy. Miss Devlin is glancing at her watch with increasing frequency and letting out longer sighs each time. All the while keeping her eye out for a certain Audi Quattro driven by her car salesman boyfriend.
Finally, I spy our silver Chrysler New Yorker coming down the street and say a silent thank you to God for answering my prayers. But then it strikes me how slow Mom is driving. It’s odd because Mom is never one to obey the speed limit. After what feels like an eternity, Mom slows to a stop right in front of the school. As she opens the door, I turn to say goodbye to Miss Devlin. Before I can say anything, Miss Devlin gasps. I follow her gaze back to my mom who is on all fours in her white tee and jean skirt. She must have tripped getting out of the car. The world seems to move in slow motion, as I watch my mom reach for the driver’s door for help getting back to her feet. Slowly, she gets to one knee before being able to drag herself back up to vertical. She sways briefly before backing up and lowering herself down to the driver’s seat. She takes a deep breath, lifts her sunglass-covered eyes and slurs, “Come on, Maevey. Time to go home.”
I take a step, but Miss Devlin grabs my arm.
“Maeve, honey, go back inside. I’m going to talk to your Mom for a minute.”
My Mom will be furious if Miss Devlin embarrasses her, so I try to break her grip and continue. “Miss Devlin, my mom is kind of in a rush. I better go.”
Miss Devlin tightens her hold, looks me in the eye and orders, “You are not to get in that car, Maeve. Go to the office and call your father for a ride. I’ll talk to your mom.”
Knowing how angry my father is going to be when I pull him away from work again, I drag my feet down the hallway. I foresee how the night will progress. My dad screaming expletives while my mom stammers out some pathetic excuse for why she couldn’t be trusted to drive me home from school on a Wednesday afternoon. The front door slamming as my dad returns to the office. Mom crying herself to sleep on the couch. It is only then that I realize I’m still carrying my self-portrait. I look down and for the first time see how truly pathetic it is. My eyes are much too big. My mouth isn’t centered and my nose takes up half the page. I sit with my back to the middle grade lockers and tear the picture over and over again. I am still shredding it into increasingly miniscule squares as my father ascends the front stairs, fuming.
Chapter 9
After three tentative rings of Zara’s doorbell, I depress the button fully and let it continue to ring until I hear a sleepy but angry voice answer the intercom.
“Listen, asshole. I have no problem calling the cops. Go sleep it off elsewhere.”
I take a deep breath to steady my voice before responding apologetically, “Zara, it’s Maeve. I know it’s late, but please let me in.”
“Maeve!” Zara exclaims. “Are you okay? Come straight up.”
The door buzzes and I hurry through the entrance to the elevator bank. Zara lives in a hip two-bedroom flat in the newly revitalized Fulton Market district. Not far away from where I was stalking Patrick earlier this evening. A fresh flash of anger surges through me. When the elevator doors open on the fourth floor, Zara is standing there wrapped in a cute monogrammed white, silk robe that falls to her knees. The sight of her waiting with open arms undoes me. Tears stream down my face as she envelops me in a hug and squeezes tightly. As I start to sob into her shoulder, she gently ushers me across the hall to her apartment.
Once through the door, Zara morphs into caregiver mode. She leads me to her comfortable aubergine couch where I immediately curl up in my usual corner. Zara throws a warm wool blanket over my legs and sets off to the kitchen. She returns minutes later carrying a wooden tray filled with two wine glasses, an open bottle of pinot noir and a large Hershey’s bar. She pours approximately a third of a bottle into a wine glass and hands it to me. She then gets herself settled with a similarly large pour before curling into the opposite end of the couch.
Taking a bite of chocolate and washing it down with a sip of wine, she bluntly inquires, “So, your ‘save my marriage’ plan isn’t going as well as you had hoped?”
Her brutal honesty breaks the ice and makes me laugh, a feat I would have thought impossible a moment ago.
When I recover I admit, “I guess you could say that. Patrick apparently snuck out to shag Marcie tonight.”
“Marcie? I thought it was Macy?” Zara questions.
“I think he was using a pseudonym to give me the slip. I found a Marcie Spellman on his company’s web page who seems to fit the bill: same practice group as Patrick, attractive, athletic, successful. Basically just better than me.” With that I take a long sip of wine.
“Stop it!” Zara orders and slaps my leg. “I’m sure she’s a bitch and I’d hate her,” she says, giving me one of her sarcastic grins.
“Well, bitch or not, it seems my husband enjoys fucking her.” Saying it out loud makes the hurt that much more intense. Without realizing what I’m doing, I grab one of the white marble throw pillows behind me, bury my mouth in it, and emit a long primal scream
. Once Zara recovers from her shock, she sits her glass next to mine and crawls over to my corner to wrap me in a big hug. After a few minutes, my frustration subsides and I relax into Zara’s embrace resting my head against her shoulder. We lie like that for what seems like an hour. Finally, as I’m starting to doze off, Zara gets practical.
“You need to text Patrick and let him know you’re here. Tell him I had boy trouble and asked you to come stay with me. Tell him I’m in a right state and you’re staying through Saturday. He can handle the boys for once. We’ll have a girls’ day.”
Happy to let her take care of the details, I hand her my phone, pull the blanket up to my chin and close my eyes.
I awake at almost ten to the same tray as last night, but this time filled with two steaming mugs of coffee and accoutrements. Zara is wearing a Lululemon ensemble of black leggings and a green strappy-back tank, her pixie hair held back from her face by a merlot headband. I’m now acutely aware of my swollen, red eyes and puffy face. Zara sits down purposefully at the far end of the couch to lay out the day’s itinerary.
“I know that movement makes you feel better so I’ve signed us up for the ten forty-five hot yoga class at Zen. Then a boozy brunch before our two o’clock massages at The Peninsula.” As I start to interrupt, Zara reads my mind and adds, “You can borrow clothes.” She then looks me in the eye and raises her index finger. “One rule: No talking about Patrick until we’re back here for dinner and movies. You deserve an afternoon of pampering and no stress. Deal?”
I let out a sigh of relief. “How can I resist? I can’t recall the last time I’ve had a day off. Thank you.” My love for Zara swells in my chest as I wrap my hands around her large “What Would RBG Do?” mug and take my first sip of coffee.
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