A Delicate Truth

by McKnight, Zoe

  Do I even believe that? It sounds like the mature, grown-woman thing to say, but I’m not sold. The truth is that I don’t want to be alone. I think, rather, I know, that I want to be with Dylan. I want to know what we feel like without the cloud of infidelity hanging over our heads.

  Elle isn’t sold either. “But Dylan isn’t some guy you met at a bar. He loves you. Still. Even after everything that’s happened. That says a lot. Most men would’ve been done with you a long time ago. Hell, you two have a child together. This is not some fly-by-night dude.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know. If I go back now, he’ll just think I’m on the rebound. That he’s my back-up choice.”

  “But you’re the one who left Vaughn. It wasn’t the other way around. He should know that.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Every day you don’t say something is another day he grows closer to Gladys.”

  “It’s Gayle.”

  “Whatever her name is. The point is—he doesn’t belong with her. If he was really into that woman, he wouldn’t have let her catch you in his house. And he wouldn’t have written that letter.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.” She pours us both another glass of Pinot Noir, emptying the bottle. “Go ahead and let “Gayle” become Morgan’s step-mother. Picture your baby calling that woman “Mom.” How does that taste?”

  Awful. “What if he says no?”

  “And what if he says yes?”

  “But what if —”

  “What if I get cancer? What if Luke wakes up tomorrow and decides he wants a divorce? What if you lose all of your hair? We can “what if” until the end of time. Blair, you just made the biggest decision of your life. You left Vaughn. Something you’d been talking about for years, and you did it. If you can do that, you can tell Dylan how you feel. What do you have to lose?”

  After Elle leaves I replay her words. She’s right. I did leave Vaughn. It’s still surreal. Each morning when I wake up in my bed alone, I’m awed all over again. Shocked and impressed with myself for doing just what I thought I never could. Elle is right. I can do this. All I have to do is tell him how I feel. Gayle is just a co-worker he probably spent too many overtime hours with. They don’t have our history. He can’t possibly love her, let alone be in love with her. No, she’s just the re-bound, the back-up girl, someone to take his mind off of me, off of us. Once he knows Vaughn is finally out of the picture, he’ll be thrilled. He’ll want to be with me. I know he will.

  My wine-induced moxie from last night is gone. And although I’m fully caffeinated from a double shot Venti, I sit at my kitchen table slightly discouraged. I review the notes I’ve been jotting for the last hour. Dylan’s list of reasons why he shouldn’t take me back is four times as long as the list of reasons why he should. In fact, there are only two bullet points on that side of the loose-leaf. One—our daughter. And two—because maybe he still loves me. But today I’m not entirely convinced. If he does, he had the opportunity to say something, to at least hint towards it. He could have told Gayle to stay at home. Maybe even invited us to stay the night. But he didn’t. Which means he’s over me. And according to the long list of “Cons”, he has plenty of reasons to be.

  Went back to Vaughn.

  Lied about Morgan.

  Slept with him and left after I went back to Vaughn.

  I can’t read anymore. Why would he want me? Gayle may be plain and boring, but she represents a fresh start. A life with her isn’t tainted, their water isn’t muddied. Gayle is the better choice. She’s smart and has a career, plus she doesn’t have any of my baggage. Gayle. Ugh. How I hate that name, but I suppose I’d better start to accept the idea of her. After all, as long as she’s a part of Dylan’s life, she’ll be a part of Morgan’s. But then Elle’s words ring in my head. “Every day you don’t say something is another day he grows closer to Gayle.”

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I dial his number. Hastily, I flip through my notes, looking for one of the openings I’d drafted, but before I can settle on one, she answers the phone.

  I draw the phone away from my face and double-check the number.

  “Hell-o,” she repeats with a touch of annoyance.

  “Uh, I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.”

  “Blair?” she asks. I bang the heel of my palm against my forehead. Of course she knows it’s me. Playing dumb doesn’t work in the age of caller ID.

  “Gayle?”

  “Yeah, hi. How are you?”

  “Um, good. Is Dylan there?”

  “He’s in the shower. Can I take a message?”

  In the shower? At two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon? Dylan only showers early in the AM and again right before he goes to bed. He doesn’t take showers in the middle of the day. Not unless he’s just coming from the gym or … or … he’s … just-had-sex. I get a visual of him on top of her and I’m sick to my stomach. And why does she feel so damn comfortable answering his cellphone? I could even see the house phone, which is more like community property, but the cellphone is the epitome of private. Everyone knows that. And she surely saw my name blink on his screen before answering. She wanted me to hear her voice, she wants to deliver the news that she’s there, in his house, mere feet away from his naked body. She’s marking her territory, and her message is clear. Dylan is mine. Baby or no baby, you and him are through.

  The old Blair would have delivered a scathing message. I’ve never had a shortage of venom in my arsenal, but that Blair is no longer. She’s been replaced with a docile, humbled version of her former self. I’m no longer armed with my eight-figure shield or spear of entitlement. Now, my circumstances are tenuous. My edge has weakened. If I get catty with Gayle, I risk angering Dylan. After all, the version she’ll tell him will surely be skewed in her favor, and I won’t be there to defend myself. Besides, any story coming from the woman who makes you orgasm will sound more truthful than that of your baggage-carrying ex. The last thing I want is for Dylan to be upset with me, even over the slightest offense, so I force myself to say, “No. No message. Can you please just tell him that I called.”

  She assures me she will, then tells me to enjoy the rest of my day.

  I cradle the phone in my hand long after she hangs up. I wonder what they’re doing right now. Is she leaning against his bathroom sink and telling him that his “ex” just called? Or did she tell him it was his “baby’s mother”, and he’s assuring her that I am, in fact, just his daughter’s mother. Or will she even tell him I called? For all I know she’s deleting my number from his cell right now. That’s what I might have done. Well, the old Blair at least. I sit at the table and berate myself for believing Elle when she assured me that he still loved me and that Gayle was just a poor substitute. A poor substitute all right. A spending-the-night, answering-his-cellphone, putting-Blair-in-her-place substitute.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Tell me what interests you about this position?”

  I rattle off my spiel. About how I've always had a knack for finding the perfect media mix for my clients. And how my ability to promote a company’s strengths resulted in brand awareness. All buzzwords plucked from my revamped resume.

  My response appears to satisfy Elaine French. She’s not only the Vice-President of Public Affairs at this hotshot PR firm, but also the woman who stands in between me and the job I need to get back on my feet.

  “So, tell me what you've been doing since…” Elaine scans my resume, her dismay evident when she notes the large gap. True, I’ve been out of the workforce for over four years, but it's not like I’ve lost all my business savvy.

  I tell her I was a homemaker. “Homemaker.” I hate the sound of that word. Clearly she does too because she nods politely and says, “Ah,” as she scribbles in her notepad. She’s also married I see, to a man of some means judging by the size of the rock on her finger. A brilliant cut solitaire. Even with my naked eye I can tell it’s nearly colorless and at least two-and-a-half carats.
It sparkles before my eyes as she plucks a speck of lint from the lapel of her power suit. I recognize the design. I had several just like it hanging in my closet when I used to work. Not that I even had to get all dressed up. My paychecks were a given. Whether I was productive or not. Whether I contributed to billings or not. Whether I even showed up or not. The suits and the corner office. The embossed business cards and my executive assistant. They were all the supporting cast to the charade that was my career. Another perk of my marriage. I had the privilege of saying I had a career without any real responsibility. I didn’t take it as seriously as I should have. But I never believed I’d need the experience to fall back on, in the same way a high school drop-out never sees the repercussions of not getting a diploma. If I knew then what I know now. They should put that on my tombstone. It’s become my mantra. I could have made something of myself, could have built a career, maybe even opened my own PR firm. Had I, I certainly wouldn’t be here, essentially groveling for a job that pays less a year than the studs in my earlobes.

  “I see,” Elaine says. “So what have you done to stay abreast of the industry these past few years? Are you an active member of PRSA or any other trade organizations?”

  There’s a look of expectancy on her face, as if she’s hoping I’ll surprise her and say something that’ll change the trajectory of this interview. More to avoid disappointing her than to salvage my chances, I consider lying and saying, “Yes.” But judging by her flawless appearance and meticulous desktop, I can tell this woman leaves nothing to chance. She most likely has her follow-up questions on deck. Her next inquiry will surely be “Well, do you know so-and-so?” or “What did you think of the last conference?” So, I admit my memberships haven’t been active in years, then follow-up with mention of charity volunteer work. It does little to impress her.

  Another blue scribble to her pad.

  Then she jumps to what looks to be one of the last questions on her list, indication she’s ready to move on to the next candidate. I’d snuck a peek at the young woman just before I was escorted to Elaine’s office. Although she was a bit unpolished, she was at least ten years my junior, and there was a hungry gleam in her eye. Hell, I’d hire her over me too. The driven recent graduate vs. the stay-at-home mom with the expired skill set. Elaine’s blank expression is quickly replaced with a wide, exaggerated smile. The corporate game face. The one reserved for business associates, higher-ups and candidates she has no plans to hire.

  “Well, Blair. It was a pleasure to meet you.” She stands and reaches over her desk to shake my hand. “I have several other candidates to see, but I plan to make a decision by early next week. I’ll be in touch. Thanks so much for coming in today.”

  The send-off. I know it well. I’ve heard several versions of this same sentence over the past few weeks. Between those and the slew of “Thanks, but no thanks” emails, my self-confidence is taking a beating. Elle tells me not to be discouraged, that eventually an offer will come, but I don’t see what she sees. Instead, I see a dwindling bank account, a never-ending legal battle and a dismal future of ‘just getting by.’ It’s a life that terrifies me. A life I don’t want for Morgan. But I don’t have the luxury of worry or fear. I have to keep forging ahead until I find something.

  “Well, I didn’t want to bring this up, because I know you wanted to do this on your own,” Elle tells me on one of our daily phone calls, “but I think you should at least consider it.”

  “What?” I ask as I roll down my pantyhose and breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I spoke to the guy in my HR department,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  “And there’s a position in the marketing department. Although the pay isn’t great, it is a management role, and there’s room for advancement. I already briefed him on your background and qualifications so…”

  I’m literally sitting at the edge of my seat. “I’m listening.”

  “There’s only one thing—”

  “Unless it involves me sliding down a pole, I’m in. When can I interview?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have to. If you want the job, it’s yours.”

  “Are you serious?” I’m already considering daycare arrangements for Morgan, paying down my bills and moving into a larger apartment.

  “The job is in Atlanta.”

  Atlanta? “You’re kidding right?”

  “No, it’s here. We’d actually be working in the same building. You on the third floor, me on the fifth. How cool is that?”

  “Atlanta? What about their office in Manhattan?” I know I sound ungrateful but I’ve never considered moving out of the tri-state area, and least of all to Georgia. It works for Elle because she has Luke and the liberty of flying back and forth whenever she pleases. What would I do in a suburb of Georgia?

  “I tried, but they’re fully staffed. This position is new, and before they even started looking for someone I suggested you. To be honest, I’m surprised they even went for it considering they’ve never met you, but the director of HR owes me a favor. I’ve actually been working on this for a while, but I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was a done deal. And I also was hoping you’d find something up there, but…”

  …but, since you’re an unqualified loser who can’t find her own job, I found one for you. Logically, I know Elle has been thinking no such a thing, but my ego is unsettled. I can’t seem to accomplish anything on my own. Everything I have, had or will have seems to be a gift from someone else. At what point will I be able to rely on myself? It’s embarrassing. I don’t dare tell Elle any of this because I don’t want to appear ungrateful. My feelings have absolutely nothing to do with her generosity but everything to do with my failures.

  “Oh, Elle. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll take it. I’m emailing you the job description right now. It says the start date is in two weeks, but I explained your situation, and they’re willing to let you start next month. We can start looking for a place this weekend. Or you can stay with us until you find something.”

  More charity. It’s not enough that I’m sleeping on her mattress every night and living in her parents’ condo, but now I’m supposed to move to Buckhead and stay in one of her guest bedrooms? Then get up each morning and ride shotgun to her job? I’m overwhelmed. When did I become this woman who subsisted off of hand-outs? I used to sign the checks that went to charity. I used to hire staff and give directives. I used to feel pity for single mothers and people who lived from check-to-check. Now, I’m one of them. My emotions bounce from shock to appreciation to embarrassment to downright sadness. This proposal shines a glaring light on my inadequacies.

  “I know it’s a lot to digest. I didn’t mean to throw it all on you at once but I hope you’ll at least consider it.”

  I tell her I will.

  “And stop beating yourself up, okay? I know you would do the same thing for me if I were in your shoes. Everybody needs a hand at one time or another.”

  It’s funny how words of kindness can bring you to tears. Elle’s acknowledgement has just that effect on me. I’m bawling. I’ve been trying for so long to hold all of these feelings in, to handle the daily rejections and keep a smile on my face, but I no longer can. A waterfall of tears find their way down my cheeks and onto my pillow. Elle holds the line in silence as I cry for grievances long gone. For the obvious, like the roller coaster ride my life has taken, but also for deeper reasons like the death of my marriage, the break from my sister and the alienation of my mother. And most recently, the loss of Dylan.

  After I’ve drained my eyes, I cradle the receiver to hear Elle’s voice. “Are you okay?”

  I begin to explain, but she cuts me off and tells me I don’t have to, that she understands. She goes on to say that she doesn’t want to pressure me, but I only have until Monday to decide.

  By nightfall I have another log of “Pros” and “Cons” in my notepad. This one is strikingly different than the last; it includes a guarantee. T
he job is mine if I want it. The last list bore a huge unknown. Would Dylan take me back? And although I never went through with “the talk,” I have my answer. Funny enough, Dylan’s name has also found its way to this new list. He’s noted on both sides of the solid blue line. Under the “Pros” (of taking the job in Atlanta), because leaving New York means leaving him. Letting go of the past and moving on. Not stumbling over landmarks of our history. Not driving past a restaurant where we once dined, or the marquee of a show we once saw, or a corner where we once met. Leaving New York means leaving a chunk of my memories behind. But his name is at the top of the list of my “Cons.” If I do take this job, I’ll be leaving him. We’ll still have to share custody, but he’ll no longer be within arms-length. Our visits will all be planned well in advance. There will be no impromptu visits, no random bumping into each other, no opportunity for him to change his mind about us. I will literally be out of sight and eventually, out of mind.

  THIRTY-TWO

  From day to day, hour to hour, I go back and forth on my decision. Common sense dictates that I go. It’s the chance to start over that I’ve been craving. A new job, new city, a place where no one knows me or rather who I used to be. I can become my own woman, not the ex-wife of the rich football player, nor the ex-mistress of the professor. I’ll just be Morgan’s mom.

  This is unfamiliar territory. It will be the first time I’m making a big decision by myself. Up until now the most significant choice I’d ever made was to attend Syracuse, where I met Vaughn. It was what Dr. Phil refers to as a “defining moment.” One that truly changed the path of my life. And maybe a move to Atlanta will do the same.

  I feel old. Although I know that in the grand scheme of things, I’m not. Thirty-four is hardly old. A third of my life is behind me, but nearly two-thirds remain. I’m not too old to start over. I recently read a five-page article in O Magazine about women in their forties and fifties who changed their lives. If they can, why can’t I? Maybe I can even meet someone. Maybe one of Luke’s doctor friends or the like. Someone who’ll accept me despite my shortcomings and who’ll even learn to love Morgan. It’s totally possible. People do it every day, and although my self-esteem isn’t what it used to be, I’m astutely aware that, on some level, I’m still a catch. Stress has taken its toll, but it’s nothing a little Restylane and Clairol can’t fix. I’m still a pretty woman. Beautiful even. Yes, this is God’s way of clicking my reset button. He wants me to have a second chance. And maybe I can even mend my relationship with Norah and Mom. Well, maybe that’s going too far; I’m not ready to deal with them yet. But hopefully, in time. This is the point where I typically waver. When I would begin to backpedal and second-guess myself, but no, that’s the old Blair. The new and improved version will be decisive and forward-thinking.