“I don’t even know. Anymore. Anyway, I’m too busy. Learning how to live.”
“But—”
“It will hurt. To say good-bye. Of course. But it must end.”
“No. There’s no must. We’re meant to be together.”
“We were meant to be safe. With each other.” She built a tower of tuna cans.
He dropped to Maddy and took her hand. She didn’t pull it away, just let it remain limp in his. “I know I’ve been awful. But I can be a good man.” He stared into her eyes, trying to will her back to him by force.
“Too late.” Maddy pulled away and stood. “Maybe you have to love. A bad man. To learn to love a good man. Maybe. You’ve just been. My bad man. For too long.”
“I care about you. More than I care about anything.”
“Care?” Maddy looked down at where he crouched. She grabbed her omnipresent notebook from the counter, riffled through the pages, and then stabbed her finger at the paper. “Listen: The ideal man. Bears the accidents of life with. Dignity and grace. Making the best of circumstances. That’s Aristotle. I copied it. From Zelda’s office. I so wanted to be. Dignified and graceful. But now I know. How could I? I didn’t have an accident. Of life. It was. An accident of marriage.”
CHAPTER 39
Maddy
Maddy pulled four plates and glasses from the kitchen cabinet. She bent to get napkins from below, pushing aside the stack of organic tuna Ben had brought two weeks before, evoking all over again the annoyance she’d felt as he spread the Whole Foods wares before her as though presenting offerings to some domestic goddess who had never been Maddy.
Maybe it was supposed to be like this: just the kids and her. Bashert, her grandfather would say. Meant to be.
Ben had begged her to go to his Christmas party that evening. He promised she wouldn’t be there, but why would she take the word of a man who cheated? Why trust a woman who’d jump a man while his wife was in a coma? She’d probably be there ready to grab Ben as though he were an appetizer—her personal plate of pigs in blankets.
And then there were his coworkers. Did he think she could stand being under the glare of their concern? She’d dealt with this each time she visited her own workplace, her weekly acclimation visits as she worked toward someday getting back there on a regular basis. Coworkers took her hand and asked their poor-Maddy questions with big cow-pity eyes. How are you? Really. Are you feeling better? All the while searching her face for fresh kill for the gossip bank. Scanning for brain damage.
So what do you think? Ben’s office buddies would ask each other after talking to her, holding little plastic glasses of crappy wine in their hands and eating even crappier cheese and crackers as they examined her for signs of intelligent life.
No, thanks.
Tonight Maddy planned to devote herself to conquering a major recovery objective, making dinner by herself. Notes outlined the steps she’d take, an assignment from Zelda. She’d planned the menu with her mother—something nutritious the kids would like. Nothing that required perfect timing. Maddy needed to begin with food that was patient.
Cooking supper plan:
Turkey meatloaf. Honeyed carrot pennies. Baked potatoes.
Get recipes from mother.
Start cooking three pm to eat at six.
This would be her first night making supper completely alone since the bad night.
There’d be no Ben listening from the other room for the sound of flames crackling; no Gracie at the kitchen table, pretending to do homework as she tracked Maddy’s every move; no Caleb bouncing between watching television and studying his mother. Emma wouldn’t monitor her like a miniature nanny.
Maddy’s father had taken the kids out Christmas shopping—no doubt buying entire sections of Target and Macy’s to make them happy. He’d wanted her to come, but she’d declined. Stores overwhelmed her these days. When she’d let him drag her the month before to pick out a Chanukah present for her mother, she’d barely made it through the afternoon. Clothes, jewelry, purses, sizes, colors, types, departments, negotiating, people pushing. Too multimedia, Zelda said. Maddy would opt out of consuming for now. Saving money for when she became post-Ben poor was an excellent idea anyway.
After she said no to joining them shopping, her father wanted to bring dinner back—you don’t have to keep pushing yourself, he’d said—and eat with them, but she’d said no to that also, telling him to just drop the kids off and not to come in when he did. Tonight was for Maddy and the kids.
She’d weathered his hurt tone.
Get over yourself, Dad.
For the third, maybe fourth time, Maddy checked the list of ingredients. Her mother had typed the recipe in an extra-large font—once again treating her as though she’d been blinded rather than become a slow reader. As though one disability begat another. Her mother still had a hard time realizing bigger didn’t help, and shouting instructions didn’t make them any more intelligible.
“Just be patient, for God’s sake,” Maddy kept telling her mother. “Let me do it my way. Who cares?”
Damn. The recipe wasn’t making sense.
Carrots, butter, honey—these things were supposed to go together?
She crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor.
Then she picked it up.
Boo hoo. Poor Maddy.
She willed herself to snap out of it.
Poor victimized Maddy.
People didn’t just want to pet pathetic victims—they also wanted to kick them. Crying gave away her power, and God knows she had little enough clout left.
She smoothed the recipe paper, trying to erase the wrinkles, and then she read it in her usual welcome-to-the-slow-class way.
After peeling and then laying out the carrots in straight lines, she sliced them into discs. She needed hours to cook because no one trusted her to use the food processor—including herself—and she had a need these days to make everything equal. Quite different from before, when she’d smack the knife into vegetables at random angles and lengths, rushing them toward the pot.
She tipped the plate of carrot discs over the pot and slid them into the bubbling mix of butter, honey, water, and brown sugar. NOT TOO MUCH SUGAR, her mother had written, shouting even through the paper. YOU’RE NOT MAKING DESSERT!!!!
Using an old wooden spoon, Maddy made gentle strokes through the liquid. At moments, being slow bestowed a beatific aura upon her. As though she were a nun. An instant became pure unto itself. Now, when she hugged Gracie, she was doing nothing but embracing, not mentally beginning the next step, not pulling away from her daughter so she could fold the laundry.
Of course, now she had another problem. Transitions. She could stay in that embrace for a year. Zelda promised it would come together. Like a recipe. Her brainpan had to reduce it to the right brew; she was making reasoning essence, Maddy reduction.
Ketchup, breadcrumbs, and an egg folded into the ground meat to become a slick thick blend. She stirred in dry onion soup mix. Then she remembered to turn back to the stove and stir the carrots again. They’d almost begun sticking—but that was okay. She’d almost burned food plenty of times before the accident.
• • •
Two hours later, when she heard the door open, she hurried to the hall to greet the kids. “Okay, you guys. Into the living room. No arguments. It’s almost ready.”
Emma looked uncertain, Gracie worried, and Caleb hungry.
“Really. It’s all fine. No more than five minutes.”
“Here,” Caleb said. He handed her a white bag with a spot of grease, meanwhile hiding something behind his back. “From Grandpa.”
“You look pretty, Mommy,” Gracie said.
Maddy took the bag from Caleb and then twirled in the garnet-red silky dress Vanessa had given her. “For a special night,” her sister had said. Maddy couldn’t imagine a more wonderful occasion than this dinner.
She threw kisses and returned to the dining room. Gently, carefully, she lit candles, fi
lled glasses with ice and sparkling water, and hit the dimmer switch. It looked normal, like something she might have done before.
Better. She didn’t think she’d lit candles for a long time.
Once more she smiled. And then knotted her brow.
Something was wrong.
She looked around. Nothing was out of place. Lemon oil scented the air along with cinnamon candles.
What was incorrect? An odd energy tilted her balance in the wrong direction. She walked the perimeter of the room, stopping, staring, four times, until the lack of equilibrium clicked into place.
Where there once were two gleaming cobalt wedding glasses, deep blue veined with twists of gold, now there was one. Had one of the kids broken the missing glass?
That seemed so unlikely.
Her mother would know. Meanwhile, forget that. At least she’d figured out the problem of what was lost. She could hear Zelda lecturing her: Concentrate on the good.
On the table went the covered meatloaf dish. The dish of sweet carrots. The potatoes. Butter. Sour cream.
She walked out to the hallway and called for the kids. “Dinner!” She wanted to say it over and over.
Dinner!
Dinner!
Dinner!
She straightened a plate of croissants—ones that had been in the bag delivered by Caleb. Not part of her menu, but what the heck. She’d never been an extremist.
Not that she remembered.
The kids ran in as a pack, as though they’d been biting their nails out in the living room, waiting to see if she’d burn the house down.
“It looks beautiful, Mommy! Like a picture,” Caleb said.
“You did a great job.” Emma’s hug felt like a kid’s embrace again. Gracie came up with her hands behind her back. “Here.” She thrust a large bouquet of yellow freesia at Maddy. “From us. Grandpa didn’t pick them out—we did.”
“And we paid for them,” Caleb said. “Well, mainly Emma. From her camp money. But I gave a dollar that Grandpa gave me last week.”
“Me too,” Gracie said.
Delicate perfume rose from the flowers, and she inhaled. “My favorites.”
“That’s what I said! I picked them out!” Caleb said. “I win.”
“We all win.” She hugged her son. “We all win.”
“Not all of us. Daddy isn’t here,” Gracie said.
“He’s at the party, remember? He had to go,” Emma said. “For work. He could have come for dinner if we wanted, right, Mom?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” Feeling magnanimous and having the power to bestow wishes in the candlelight warmed her. “Who’s ready to eat?”
Emma helped bring in the dishes and placed them on the trivets Maddy had miraculously remembered to put on the table.
She ladled out carrots and cut slices of meatloaf. The kids forked up potatoes.
“Mmm. Delicious, Mom—really, really great,” Gracie said.
“I did. A good job. Right?” She took a forkful of the vegetables and nodded for compliments.
“Right!” Gracie said.
Each bite they took gave her more pleasure. “More?” she asked when they’d scraped their plates.
“Daddy!” Caleb yelled.
She turned and saw Ben behind her, a finger up to his lips.
“Surprise, Maddy.” He put one hand on her shoulder, and with the other presented a wrapped bouquet. “Merry two-days-before-Christmas.”
“Flowers.” She didn’t take them. “The kids beat you.”
“Big deal, Mom,” Emma said. “Dad’s are probably prettier. Open them.”
She unwrapped what were, no doubt, a true dozen red roses, Ben’s go-to gift. Instead, she found a rolled-up scroll of heavy embossed paper tied with a riot of colored raffia.
“Open it, Mom,” Gracie begged.
Their frenetically happy tension induced a sudden desire to leave, turn on the television, go to sleep.
Her unsteady hands plucked at the knot until the bright pieces of straw let go. Then, using both hands, she tried to unroll the large sheet of watercolor paper.
Ben moved her plate and glass, brushed off crumbs, and removed the silverware, making room.
“I made it!” Caleb yelled. “See, Mommy. I drew it all.”
Caleb’s Chagall-like portrait had them floating in the air. Maddy wore a white dress, gold stars dotting the fabric. They were crossed, Ben’s body bisected by hers. His white suit made him appear part cowboy, part preacher. Silver moons peppered his clothes. Surrounding them were smaller portraits of Emma and Gracie and a self-portrait of Caleb, who hung over her shoulder as she examined the picture.
“It’s lovely.” She took Caleb’s face between her hands and lifted it up toward her own. “Thank you, honey.”
“It was Daddy’s idea. He said you’d like a family picture for Christmas. Gracie traced the letters. We’re going to frame it!”
“It’s just beautiful.” She smiled and held back from punching Ben.
“And there’s this.” The envelope Ben handed her felt like his mother’s expensive stationery. “Go upstairs and read it. Please. The kids and I will clean up. And then we’ll have dessert. Your mom told me what you made. I brought ice cream for them.”
He had to gild the lily, couldn’t leave her brownies alone. And she hadn’t made them; her mother had. Maddy had never baked before. Did Ben think she was going to start now?
She pinched her lips together so she wouldn’t scream and swear. Then she climbed the stairs.
• • •
Her hands shook as she read the letter one excruciating word at a time.
Maddy,
I read some books. The kind I usually dismiss because I think I am too good and smart for them—Angry Men, Couples Needing Books to Make Their Marriage Work, Men Who Women Should Leave. You know the type.
I want to fix everything. I want to make it all better, or at least a lot better. I want to be with you while you heal.
I want you to like me again.
I.
I.
I.
Every sentence began with a plea about him. She crumpled up the letter and threw it away without finishing his argument for taking him back, afraid his words would drown her. Bury her in bullshit.
The bedroom door opened. Ben held out a cup of tea.
This husband who wanted to heal her, make it all better, this particular husband didn’t even give her time to finish the letter if that’s what she wanted. He didn’t even remember how long it took her to read these days.
He didn’t even knock.
“You always have. So many words,” she said. “I wish I did.”
Ben set the cup on the night table and lowered himself into the rocking chair. “Maddy. I understand. Finally. Please. I can’t breathe without you.”
“You’re breathing, Ben.”
“I’m not being dramatic. I honestly don’t have a clue what I’ll do without you and the kids.”
“The kids will still be. Your kids.”
He sat forward. “Not in the same way. I want to wake up and go to sleep in the same house as them.”
“See. Still about you. You. You. You.”
“Right. You’re right. I’ll work on it. The anger. The self-pity. Everything. And you’ll concentrate on healing.” He stopped. “Am I asking too much?”
She thought about it, trying to find the words, the words that he’d taken from her. Wondering if she’d always be thinking about what she couldn’t do or say.
“Ben. What happened to the glass?”
“The glass?” A befuddled expression came over him. He tipped his head to the side as though to better receive her words.
“Our wedding glasses. The blue ones. There’s only one now. Where’s the other?”
He pressed his lips together as though keeping words from her.
“Tell me.”
He rocked forward and pulled at his wedding ring. The way he avoided her eyes told her part of the truth without
a word. She wasn’t surprised when he spoke.
“I broke it. I was angry. And I threw it at the wall.”
“Were you angry at me?”
“No. I was angry at what happened to you.”
“And in this anger about me . . . Missing me. Worrying about me.” She had to stop and catch her breath, holding up a hand to prevent Ben from interrupting. “Did you think about me? Me coming home? Me loving those glasses? Me looking for them?”
“I guess I was only thinking about me.” He put his hands out, palms up, as though offering himself on a platter of shame. “I hated myself the moment I did it. It was wrong. I have no excuse. Nothing to offer but apologies. I’m so sorry.”
It was just a glass. No more, right?
But it wasn’t replaceable. Those glasses witnessed their marriage.
Freud took aim, and the pair was irretrievably broken in half. Ben had smashed it in a moment of anger. Heartbroken anger, she was certain, but nonetheless anger that took precedence over all else at the moment. Even as he mourned her, he’d broken off yet another piece of them. She’d been crushed in absentia.
“I’ve changed,” he said. “You’ll see.”
“You want. Forgiveness. That’s never too much to ask. Of course. I can forgive you.” She stopped to breathe, putting a finger to Ben’s lips to keep him quiet. After a moment she continued. “Otherwise. I won’t. Live right. Not with. Anger. Weighing on me. Renting all that space. In my head. But. Can I live with you?”
“Because of . . . ?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. All of it. The sex with her, it was for you, I know. Soothing. Like candy. You were a baby.” Maddy paused, desperate to form truthful words. “But. You’re not. A baby. You’re a man who didn’t try hard enough.”
“It will never happen again—never.” Ben grabbed her hand. His touch smothered her, made her feel as though her hand were dying. She swore she could feel him now on her flesh—as though he were spreading his molecules on her. She pulled away, wiping her hand on the blanket. Wanting to wash off his touch.
“I know I wasn’t perfect,” Maddy said. “But you snapped our hearts. I can’t forget. What you’re capable. Of. Such rage. That you. Forget everyone. But yourself.” Her sentences were getting shorter, worse, as though Ben’s pressure, his pounding need to return, pushed her backward. If she let him come home, maybe everyone would get better except for her.
Accidents of Marriage Page 33