The voice outside the dressing-room door jars me out of the memory. The British accent belongs to my boss, Lucille, a woman not known for her patience.
I run my fingers under my eyes, aware mascara is probably pooled there. “Just straightening up.” My voice has grown husky.
“A customer needs help in Stella McCartney. Sort out the room later.”
She is waiting for me to emerge. There is no time to fix my face, to erase the messy signs of grief, and besides, my purse is in the employees’ lounge.
I open the door and she takes a step back. “Are you unwell?” Her perfectly arched eyebrows lift.
I seize the opportunity. “I’m not sure. I just … I feel a little nauseous.…”
“Can you finish the day?” Lucille’s tone holds no sympathy, and I wonder if this transgression will be my last. She answers before I can: “No, you might be contagious. You should leave.”
I nod and hurry to grab my bag. I don’t want her to change her mind.
I take the escalators to the main floor and watch pieces of my ravaged reflection flash in the mirrors I ride past.
Richard is engaged, my mind whispers.
I hurry out the employees’ exit, barely pausing for the guard to search my purse, and lean back against the side of the store to slip on my sneakers. I consider a taxi, but what Hillary said is true. Richard got our house in Westchester and the Manhattan apartment he’d kept from his bachelor days, the one he slept in on nights when he had late meetings. The one where he hosted her. He got the cars, the stocks, the savings. I didn’t even put up a fight. I’d entered the marriage with nothing. I hadn’t worked. I hadn’t borne him children. I’d been deceitful.
I hadn’t been a good wife.
Now, though, I wonder why I accepted the small lump-sum payment Richard offered me. His new bride will set the table with china I selected. She’ll nestle close to him on the suede couch I chose. She’ll sit beside him, her hand on his leg, laughing her throaty laugh as he shifts into fourth gear in our Mercedes.
A bus lumbers past and spews hot exhaust. The gray plume seems to settle around me. I push away from the building and walk up Fifth Avenue. A pair of women carrying large shopping bags nearly crowd me off the sidewalk. A businessman strides past, cell phone pressed to his ear, his expression intent. I cross the street and a biker whips by, just inches away. He yells something in his wake.
The city is tightening around me; I need space. I cross Fifty-ninth Street and enter Central Park.
A little girl with pigtails marvels at a balloon animal tied to her wrist, and I stare after her. She could have been mine. If I’d been able to get pregnant, I might still be with Richard. He might not have wanted me to leave. We could be coming here to meet Daddy for lunch.
I’m gasping. I unfold my arms from across my stomach and straighten up. I keep my eyes fixed ahead as I walk north. I focus on the steady rhythm of my sneakers hitting the pavement, counting each step, setting small goals. A hundred steps. Now a hundred more.
At last I exit the park at Eighty-sixth Street and Central Park West and turn toward Aunt Charlotte’s apartment. I crave sleep, oblivion. Only six pills are left, and the last time I asked my doctor for a refill, she hesitated.
“You don’t want to become dependent upon these,” she said. “Try to get some exercise every day and avoid caffeine after noon. Take a warm bath before bed, and see if that does the trick.”
But those are remedies for garden-variety insomnia. They don’t help me.
I’m almost at the apartment when I realize I’ve forgotten Aunt Charlotte’s wine. I know I won’t want to go back out, so I turn and retrace my steps a block, to the liquor store. Four red and two white, Aunt Charlotte had requested. I take a basket and fill it with Merlot and Chardonnay.
My hands close around the smooth, heavy bottles. I haven’t tasted wine since the day Richard asked me to go, but I still crave the velvety fruit awakening my tongue. I hesitate, then add a seventh and eighth bottle to my basket. The handles dig into my forearms as I make my way to the cash register.
The young man behind the counter rings them up without comment. Maybe he’s used to disheveled women in designer clothes coming in here in the middle of the day to stock up on wine. I used to have it delivered to the house I shared with Richard, at least until he asked me to stop drinking. Then I drove to a gourmet market a half hour away so I wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. On recycling day, I took early-morning walks and slipped the empty bottles into neighbors’ bins.
“That all?” the guy asks.
“Yes.” I reach for my debit card, knowing that if I’d gone for expensive wines rather than fifteen-dollar bottles, the charge wouldn’t have cleared my checking account.
He packs the bottles four to a bag, and I push the door open with my shoulder and head for Aunt Charlotte’s, the reassuring heft pulling down my arms. I reach our building and wait for the arthritic elevator’s doors to creak open. The journey up twelve flights takes an eternity; my mind is consumed with the thought of the first mouthful sliding down my throat, warming my stomach. Blunting the edges of my pain.
Luckily my aunt isn’t home. I check the calendar hanging by the refrigerator and see the words D-three p.m. Probably a friend she’s meeting for tea; her husband, Beau, a journalist, passed away suddenly after a heart attack years ago. He was the love of her life. As far as I know, she hasn’t dated anyone seriously since. I set the bags on the counter and uncork the Merlot. I reach for a goblet, then replace it and grab a coffee mug instead. I fill it halfway, and then, unable to wait a moment longer, I raise it to my lips and the rich cherry flavor caresses my mouth. Closing my eyes, I swallow and feel it trickle down my throat. Some of the tightness slowly eases out of my body. I’m not sure how long Aunt Charlotte will be gone, so I pour more into my mug and take it and my bottles into my bedroom.
I slip off my dress, leaving it crumpled on the floor, and step over it. Then I bend down to pick it up and place it on a hanger. I pull on a soft gray T-shirt and fleecy sweatpants and climb into bed. Aunt Charlotte moved a small television into the room when I first arrived, but I rarely use it. Now, however, I’m desperate for companionship, even of the electronic variety. I reach for the remote and flip through channels until I land on a talk show. I cup my mug in my hands and take another long drink.
I try to lose myself in the drama being played out on-screen, but the topic of the day is infidelity.
“It can make a marriage stronger,” insists a middle-aged woman who is holding the hand of a man seated beside her. He shifts in his seat and looks down at the floor.
It can also destroy it, I think.
I stare at the man. Who was she? I wonder. How did you meet her? On a business trip, or maybe in line for a sandwich at the deli? What was it about her that drew you in, that compelled you to cross that devastating line?
I’m clutching my mug so tightly my hand aches. I want to hurl it at the screen, but instead, I refill it.
The man crosses his legs at the ankle, then straightens them. He clears his throat and scratches his head. I’m glad he’s uncomfortable. He’s beefy and thuggish-looking; not my type, but I can see how he’d appeal to other women.
“Regaining trust is a long process, but if both parties are committed to it, it’s very possible,” says a woman identified as a couples therapist on the screen below her image.
The drab-looking wife is babbling on about how they’ve rebuilt trust completely, how their marriage is now their priority, how they lost each other but have found each other again. She sounds as if she’s been reading Hallmark cards.
Then the therapist looks at the husband. “Do you agree trust has been reestablished?”
He shrugs. Jerk, I think, wondering how he got caught. “I’m workin’ on it. But it’s hard. I keep picturing her with that—” A beep cuts off his last word.
So I got it wrong. I thought he was the cheater. The clues were present, but I misread them. Not for the first time.
What separates a fling from a marriage proposal? I thought Richard was just having some fun. I expected their affair to blaze hot and extinguish itself quickly. I pretended not to know, to look the other way. Besides, who could blame Richard? I wasn’t the woman he’d married nearly a decade ago. I’d gained weight, I rarely left the house, and I’d begun to search for hidden meanings in Richard’s actions, seizing upon clues that I thought indicated he was tiring of me.
She is everything Richard desires. Everything I used to be.
Right after the brief, almost clinical scene that officially ended our seven-year marriage, Richard put our house in Westchester on the market and moved into his city apartment. But he loved our quiet neighborhood, the privacy it afforded. He’ll probably buy another place in the suburbs for his new bride. I wonder if she plans to quit work and devote herself to Richard, to trying to become pregnant, just as I did.
I can’t believe I have any tears remaining, but more slide down my cheeks as I refill my mug again. The bottle is nearly empty and I spill a few drops on my white sheets. They stand out like blood.
A familiar haze settles around me, the embrace of an old friend. I experience the sensation of blurring into the mattress. Maybe this is how my mother felt when she had her lights-out days. I wish I’d understood better back then; I felt abandoned, but now I know some pain is too fierce to battle. You can only duck for cover and hope the sandstorm passes. It’s too late for me to tell her, though. Both of my parents are gone.
“Vanessa?” I hear a gentle knock against my bedroom door and Aunt Charlotte enters. Behind her thick glasses, her hazel eyes look magnified. “I thought I heard the television.”
“I got sick at work. You probably shouldn’t come any closer.” The two bottles are on my nightstand. I hope the lamp is blocking them.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Some water would be great,” I say, slurring the s slightly. I need to get her out of my room quickly.
She leaves the door ajar as she walks toward the kitchen and I pull myself out of bed, grabbing the bottles and wincing as they clink together. I hurry to my armoire and place them on the floor, righting one when it nearly topples over.
I’m back in the same position when Aunt Charlotte returns with a tray.
“I brought some saltines and herbal tea, too.” The kindness in her voice ties a knot in my chest. She places the tray by the foot of my bed, then turns to leave.
I hope she can’t smell the alcohol on my breath. “I left the wine in the kitchen for you.”
“Thank you, honey. Call if you need anything.”
I drop my head back to the pillow as the door closes, feeling dizziness engulf me. Six pills are left.… If I let one of the bitter white tablets dissolve on my tongue, I could probably sleep through until morning.
But suddenly I have a better idea. The thought shears through the fog in my mind: They’ve only just gotten engaged. It isn’t too late yet!
I fumble for my bag and grab my phone. Richard’s numbers are still programmed in. His cell rings twice, then I hear his voice. Its timbre belongs to a bigger, taller man than my ex-husband, a juxtaposition I always found intriguing. “I’ll get right back to you,” his recorded message promises. Richard always, always keeps his promises.
“Richard,” I blurt out. “It’s me. I heard about your engagement, and I just need to talk to you.…”
The clarity I felt a moment ago wiggles away like a fish through my fingertips. I struggle to grasp the right words.
“Please phone me back.… It’s really important.”
My voice breaks on the last word and I press End Call.
I hold the phone to my chest and close my eyes. Maybe I could have avoided the regret ravaging my body if only I’d tried harder to see the warning signs. To fix things. It can’t be too late. I can’t bear the thought of Richard marrying again.
I must have dozed off because an hour later, when my cell vibrates, it jolts me. I look down to see a text:
I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more to say. Take care. R.
At that moment a realization seizes me. If Richard had moved on with another woman, I might be able to eventually patch together a life for myself. I could stay with Aunt Charlotte until I’d saved enough to rent my own place. Or I could move to a different city, one with no reminders. I could adopt a pet. Maybe, in time, when I saw a dark-haired businessman in a well-cut suit turning a corner, the sun gleaming off his aviator shades, I wouldn’t feel my heart stutter before I realized it wasn’t him.
But as long as he is with her—the woman who blithely stepped up to become the new Mrs. Richard Thompson while I pretended to be oblivious—I will never have peace.
CHAPTER
FIVE
WHEN SHE TOOK a good look at her life, Nellie felt as if she’d been splintered into several different women during her twenty-seven years: the only child who’d spent hours playing alone in the creek at the end of her block; the teenager who’d tucked her babysitting charges into bed, promising no monsters lurked in the darkness; and the social director of the Chi Omega sorority who’d sometimes fallen asleep without bothering to lock her door. Then there was the Nellie of today, who’d walked out of a scary movie when the heroine was being cornered, and who made sure she was never the last waitress to close up and leave Gibson’s Bistro after the one A.M. final call.
The preschool also saw a version of Nellie: the teacher in jeans who’d memorized every Elephant and Piggie book written by Mo Willems, who dispensed organic animal crackers and cut-up grapes, and who helped children create handprint turkeys for Thanksgiving. Her coworkers at Gibson’s knew the waitress who wore black miniskirts and red lipstick, who would join a tableful of rowdy businessmen in tossing back shots to earn a bigger tip, and who could effortlessly palm a tray of gourmet burgers. One of those Nellies belonged to the day; the other, the night.
Richard had seen her navigate both of her current worlds, though he obviously preferred her preschool-teacher persona. She’d planned to resign from her waitressing job right after they married, and her teaching job as soon as she became pregnant—which she and Richard hoped would happen quickly.
But not long after they’d gotten engaged, he suggested she give notice at Gibson’s.
“You mean quit now?” Nellie had looked at him in surprise.
She needed the money, but more than that, she liked the people she worked with. They were a vibrant group—a microcosm of the passionate, creative types who flocked to New York from all over the country, drawn like moths to the bright city. Two fellow waitresses, Josie and Margot, were actresses trying to break into theater. Ben, the headwaiter, was determined to become the next Jerry Seinfeld and practiced comedy routines during slow shifts. The bartender, Chris, a six-foot-three dead ringer for Jason Statham who was probably single-handedly responsible for drawing female customers into the place, wrote scenes for his novel every day before he came to work.
Something about their fearlessness, the way her coworkers exposed their hearts and chased their dreams despite the rejection they continually suffered, spoke to a part of Nellie that had been switched off during her last year in Florida. They were like children in that respect, Nellie realized—they possessed an undaunted optimism. A sense that the world and its possibilities lay open to them.
“I only waitress three nights a week,” Nellie had said to Richard.
“That’s three more nights you could be with me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re going to stop traveling so much?”
They’d been lounging on the couch at his apartment. They’d ordered in sushi for Richard and tempura for her and had just finished watching Citizen Kane because it was his favorite film and Richard had joked that he couldn’t marry her until she’d seen it. “It’s bad enough that you hate raw fish,” he
teased. Her legs were slung over his and he was gently massaging her left foot.
“You don’t need to worry about money anymore. Everything I have is yours.”
“Stop being so wonderful.” Nellie leaned over and brushed her lips against his, and though he tried to turn into a deeper kiss, she pulled back. “I like it, though.”
“Like what?” Richard’s hands were running up the length of her leg. She could see his expression turn intent and his deep-sea eyes darken, the way they always did when he wanted sex.
“My job.”
“Baby”—his hands stilled—“I just think of you on your feet all day, then you have to run around and fetch drinks for jackasses all night. Wouldn’t you rather come with me on some of my trips? You could have had dinner with me and Maureen last week when I was in Boston.”
Maureen was Richard’s older sister by seven years; they’d always been close. After his parents died when he was a teenager, he’d moved in with her while he finished his schooling. Maureen now lived in Cambridge, where she was a professor of women’s studies at the university, and she and Richard spoke several times a week.
“She’s dying to meet you. She was really disappointed when I said you couldn’t come.”
“I’d love to travel with you,” Nellie had said lightly. “But what about my Cubs?”
“Okay, okay. But at least think about taking a painting class at night instead of waitressing. You’d mentioned wanting to do that a while ago.”
Nellie hesitated. This wasn’t about whether she wanted to take a painting class. She repeated, “I really do like working at Gibson’s. It’s only for a little while longer, anyway.…”
They were quiet for a moment. Richard seemed as if he was about to say something, but instead he reached down and pulled off one of her white socks, waving it in the air. “I surrender.” He tickled her foot. She squealed and he pinned her hands above her head and went for her ribs.
“Please don’t,” she said between gasps.
“Don’t what?” he joked as he continued.
“Seriously, Richard. Stop it!” She tried to wriggle away, but he was on top of her.
The Wife Between Us Page 4