Keep Me Posted

by Lisa Beazley

  Reaching JFK after the decency of the Singapore airport was about the worst thing that could happen after twenty-four hours of flying with a heavy cloud of unfinished business hanging between Sid and me.

  Tired, grimy, and restless, we were funneled into an airless and low corridor with no signs. A uniformed man with a thick New York accent appeared and started yelling, “US citizens on the left; foreign passport holders on the right.” But his arms were waving to our left when he said right and our right when he said left, and everyone was packed in so tightly that trying to rearrange ourselves while jockeying for position with roller bags and strollers and oversized backpacks that never should have been allowed in the overhead bins to begin with was an exercise in futility. Poor Lulu could almost taste her freedom and was head butting my thigh and whining and falling down and doing whatever she could to exorcise the demons of being on an airplane for an impossibly long time. Sid rubbed River’s arm as we stood there, but he looked straight ahead, ignoring her. He was probably still mad that she’d made him leave Singapore so abruptly. Finally, the line started moving, and all I could think was what a cold welcome to our country this was. I wanted to apologize to the tourists and tell them that it wasn’t going to be like this everywhere, maybe slip them some restaurant recommendations to make up for this degrading scene. We arrived home at noon and received a much warmer welcome from Mom and the boys. Homemade signs festooned the slightly ajar front door, and the sounds of home drifted into the hallway: “Yet’s ’ten I am Batman and you are a bad guy . . .” I had never really been away from the boys before, and hearing those sweet voices brought tears to my eyes. I hugged them tightly, inhaling their delicious scents, and listened with all my being to their stories about the adventures they’d had with Grandma. Mom had bagels and coffee and juice waiting for us, and we all sat around on the floor and ate and talked. Sid and I barely made eye contact, but we were too busy with the kids for it to be awkward. Plus, Mom was grilling Sid about her banishment from Singapore. After we ate, we all walked over to the small playground on Leroy Street. If you ask me, Leroy Street in the fall is the most magical place in the city. The trees have all turned the same spectacular yellow, and with half of the leaves on the ground and half still on the trees, walking down Leroy—especially in late afternoon, when the sun is low—is like passing through a golden tunnel. I recalled Sid’s letter about missing the seasons changing, and silently thanked Mother Nature for making my sister’s homecoming so special. Mom and River chased after the boys and Lulu. Sid linked her arm through mine, and a swell of relief rushed over me. “Cass. It’s so beautiful,” she said. “Isn’t it?” We walked, arms linked, for a few sidewalk squares, enveloped in the shimmering canopy. I felt proud of my city and relieved that it had redeemed itself after that horrid airport experience. “I am so sorry,” I said. “You know, I don’t think I’m mad at you. I’m not really sure how I feel.” “I was in shock for a while, too.” “You took the blog down, right?” “Right.” “So we’re, like, famous?” “I don’t know. I guess we were for a few days or weeks, but I think our fifteen minutes is coming to an end.” “But nobody knows what we look like, right?” Sid said. “Right. Well, except that lady on the plane, I guess.” Sid let out a little chuckle. “Right,” she said. We walked arm in arm, slowly, taking in the trees and the colors and our happy children running and playing. I wished that moment could last forever. I was accepted, forgiven, loved. Already my trip had been worthwhile. Lulu fell fast asleep while Sid pushed her on the swing at the park, so I walked them back home while Mom and River and the boys strolled over to look at the boats on the river. Once I cleared the dinosaurs off of Quinn’s bed and closed the room-darkening curtains, Sid laid Lulu down and whispered to me, “What did Leo say?” “Not much,” I whispered back, feeling a catch in my throat. We made it back out to the living room, and she peered into my eyes. “Cass? Are you okay?” “I don’t know,” I said, and started to cry. I had been pretty successful at pushing my anxiety about Leo to the back of my mind since boarding the plane in Singapore, but now, with my mission to come clean to Sid accomplished, the release of her forgiveness only reminded me that Leo’s reaction had been far less placid. “He’s not speaking to me, but I don’t even know what I’d say to him if he were.” By this point I was blubbering. “I mean, if you were him, what would you be most mad about? That I kissed Jake? That I aired our dirty laundry on the Internet? That I trusted the Internet?” “Oh, Cass.” She pulled me into an embrace and then walked me to the couch, guiding my head onto her shoulder. I felt so stupid. In the past thirty-six hours, she’d been thrown out of a country, left her cheating husband, said goodbye to a dozen friends she might never see again, had her trust betrayed by her sister, survived twenty-four hours on an airplane with a toddler, withstood a tiresome line of questioning from Mom and suggestions that she go to the embassy or the police to report her unfair treatment in Singapore, and not cracked once. Yet here I was, literally crying on her shoulder. I got up and grabbed a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, sitting back down on the couch to dry my eyes and blow my nose, stuffing the damp little wads into the cardboard hole in the middle. Sid tried to comfort me, but when I revealed that I’d told him everything only about twenty minutes before I’d left for the airport, squeezing him in like an afterthought, even she had to admit that it didn’t look good for a loving reunion with him that day. “But he’ll come around. Don’t you think?” she asked. We had to wait only a few hours to find out. We were all there, discussing whether to order Chinese food or walk up to have Mexican on Fourteenth Street, when Leo came home from work. He gave Sid and the kids all big hugs, but not me. My heart pounded in my ears and I self-consciously wondered who else had noticed the snub. To keep the tears at bay, I busied myself with minutiae—wiping the countertop, separating the mail, putting shoes away—while he chatted with Sid and River. He was keenly interested in Sid’s dramatic expulsion from Singapore (which meant he’d at least read the messages I’d sent). When River asked him to weigh in on the Mexican-versus-Chinese-food debate, Leo said he wouldn’t be joining us for dinner, that he was going to stay at his brother’s place in Jersey for a few days. He worked the practical angle, but I knew what was really going on. Until then I hadn’t really allowed myself to seriously imagine him leaving me, but hearing those words made my mouth go dry. Mom spoke up first. “Oh, Leo. No, no, no, no. We think alike! I moved my flight to this evening. So you can stay!” She put her hand on his shoulder and looked at me. “This poor guy has been sleeping on the couch. I’m sure he’s ready to have his bed back.” “No—it’s fine. I’ve already talked to Stevie.” He nodded to Sid and me. “I’ll let these guys have the run of the place. You know how they are together. I’d only be in the way.” “Oh, Leo. You really don’t need to. We could get a hotel,” said Sid. “Don’t be crazy,” Leo said, giving Sid a sideways squeeze. “Well, we’ll be renting a car and driving back to Ohio in the next few days, so you’ll have your home back soon.” I decided I should probably speak. “Are you sure, hon?” I said, wondering if anyone noticed that my voice was shaking. Without looking at me, Leo crouched down and talked to Joey and Quinn. “I get to have a sleepover tonight with my big brother Stevie while you guys have a sleepover with your cousins. How cool is that?” “Cool!” Joey agreed. “Mmmm. But, Daddy. That means you won’t be here, at your home,” Quinn said. This was more than I could take. I made a beeline to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face while trying to stop imagining more conversations about Mommy and Daddy sleeping apart. I looked like I had aged ten years. A red and itchy spot—possibly a hive—had appeared on my cheek, and I rifled through my Kiehl’s samples for something with “soothing” on the label. I could overhear River helping with the boys, asking if he could sleep in their room and talking about how much fun they’d have. God, he was a great kid. He probabl
y knew why Leo was leaving; he’d read the letters, after all. I felt bad for him and mad at myself, because I knew he adored Leo and had surely been hoping to spend time with him. Is he thinking that I should be the one leaving? The thought added to my anxiety, and I had to sit down on the toilet and take a few deep breaths. When I came out of the bathroom, Leo was nowhere to be seen. I made my way through the crowd in my living room and found him in the bedroom getting his things together. I wanted to break down and beg and sob when I saw the size of the bag he’d packed. Instead, I silently handed him the letter I’d written that first night in Singapore. But after he left I found the envelope, unopened, on the bed. By eight thirty that evening, Mom was safely on her way to the airport and River had fallen asleep in Quinn’s bed while reading him a dinosaur book. Sid and I took photos of them with our phones; they looked so cute and comfortable that we decided to leave River there. (Also because his other option was the living room couch.) Lulu had slept all afternoon, so she was awake but looking at books and babbling contentedly to herself—something I’ve never seen either of my sons do. Is independent, quiet play something I could teach them, or was it too late? I sighed and mentally added it to my list of failures. Even though I was exhausted, going to bed didn’t appeal. Plus, I wanted to be around in case Sid felt like talking. She was organizing her luggage, which was piled high in the entryway, moving clothes around so she, Lulu, and River all had things in a single bag, saving them from the game of Jenga required each time they needed something from their luggage. I fixed us each a vodka and orange juice, concluding that it was the perfect drink when your body didn’t know whether it was morning or evening. She leaned back and looked in at the clink-clink of ice cubes in the glasses. “Nightcap?” I said. “No, thanks. Do you have any tea?” “Only peppermint.” “My favorite kind.” I turned the kettle on, feeling disappointed that she wasn’t joining me for a drink. When her tea was ready, I set it on the square edge of my couch on top of a book. “How are you?” I said, leaning in the doorway and hovering over her. She looked over her shoulder at me. “I was just going to ask you the same thing. But thanks. I’m okay.” “Are we okay?” “Always,” she said. “You’re sure you aren’t mad? I think I’d be a little mad.” I was trying to comprehend the gulf between hers and Leo’s reactions. True, Leo had the kicker of minor adultery to contend with, but those were her letters, her private thoughts, and I’d shown them to the world. “You’re all I’ve got right now. I can’t afford to be mad at you.” “That’s not true,” I said. She shrugged and turned back to her suitcase, withdrawing a small pile of clothes before zipping the case back up and hoisting it back to the top of the pile. Then she got Lulu a sippy cup of milk and plopped on the sofa. “Do you want to talk about Leo, or do you need to sleep?” she asked. I sat on the opposite end of the couch, turning my whole body to face her. “No. I don’t want to sleep yet. I just can’t believe he’s gone.” “Oh, Cass. He’s just gone because we’re here. He’s not gone-gone.” “I mean, maybe that’s part of it, but he’s pissed. He’s never left just because my family is here. He loves packing this place with people, and he loves you guys. He’d sleep on the floor—he doesn’t care.” “Well, he’s allowed to be mad. Give him a little time. You’re just going to have to wait and see what he decides to do,” she said. “That seems a little passive,” I said. It occurred to me then that Sid had probably always been too passive. All her life, she’s been presented with an endless stream of opportunities: People are constantly wanting to take her places or introduce her to people. As a side effect, she was never selective enough with her boyfriends. Being the kind of person who sees the good in everyone combined with a weakness for romantic gestures meant that she usually ended up with the guy who made the strongest play. Had she ever fought for anyone? Would she even know how? She’d always been larger than life, mythical and perfect to me, even as an adult. I’d chalked up her romantic hardships to bad luck. But could it be that I was better at relationships? This revelation—while immature and competitive—steeled my resolve to save my marriage. Not the noblest of motivators, perhaps, but I would take all the help I could get. Lulu came over and handed Sid a book. We rearranged ourselves on the couch to make room for Lu, who sat on my lap as Sid read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? When she finished the book, Sid said, “All right, let’s get you ready for bed.” “No bed!” came Lulu’s reply. To her credit, it was about ten in the morning in Singapore and she had napped until dinnertime. I didn’t see her going to sleep anytime soon, although Sid looked exhausted. “Maybe a bath first.” Sid scooped her up and carried her off to the bathroom. Now all alone and midway through my second screwdriver, I was feeling helpless and frustrated about the Leo situation, but also buzzy from the globe-trotting and booze and sisterly forgiveness. I texted Leo, Make it to Stevie’s? Instead of staring at my phone, hoping for a response, I opened the rejected letter. There was no sign that he’d read it, so I sat at my tiny hallway desk right outside of the bathroom listening to Sid and Lulu sing “I’m a Little Teapot,” and scanned it in. If he didn’t respond to my text or become open to contact by tomorrow, I’d e-mail it to him. I did a “Slow News Sisters” search and skimmed the articles and message boards. Nothing much new, but still a disconcerting amount of chatter and speculation. Sid and Lulu came out of the bathroom, and I quickly switched to the New York Times, so Sid wouldn’t see what I was looking at. I kissed them both good night and stayed at the computer, skimming the headlines. In an effort to gain a modicum of perspective, I forced myself to read an article about sex trafficking and one about a couple of firefighters in Minnesota who died on their very first call. It was heartrending. They were kids—twenty-two and twenty-three years old. One of them was engaged to be married and the other had recently lost his father to cancer. I pushed all of my selfish interests out of my head for a minute and tried to imagine what their families must be feeling. The buzz from my phone made me stop breathing for a second as my mind lurched back into my own particular mess. The phone was on the kitchen counter, only about four steps away, but as I strode across the room, I processed a dozen or so thoughts, from best to worst possible responses, while also telling myself to just calm down because it might not even be from him. It was from Leo. Y (for “yes”) was all it said. So he had made it to Stevie’s. Accepting the one-letter response as progress, I drained my screwdriver and went to sleep on the couch. Leo texted me again the next morning to say he’d stop by to visit the boys after work and before going to Stevie’s, a routine he kept up for the next few days. He would come in and wrestle with the boys and play dinosaurs while I tried to interact at an appropriate level for someone being punished. After a while, he’d take them and River for pie at the Hudson and then bring them home, keeping his interactions with me purely perfunctory. In fact, he barely looked at me when he came and went. I’d been telling myself his absence was due to our overfull house, but I knew in my heart that was merely an excuse for him to avoid me. I had twice convinced Sid to stay a few days longer, fearing the hard truth I’d have to face if her exit didn’t immediately lead to his homecoming. Before long, the cold shoulder started to wear on me, and I half seriously thought about having Sid pass him a note with “Yes” and “No” check boxes, junior-high style. Are you open to reconciliation? Will you come home? Are we getting divorced? Do you still love me? One morning three days into Leo’s absence, Sid and I leaned against the windowsill in the children’s room of the Hudson Park Library while Lulu and the twins played with the little slide, rocking horse, and assorted cast-off toys donated by neighbors. “Mom keeps sending me listings for houses in their neighborhood,” she said. “So you’re really going back to Ohio?” “Well, yeah. Where else am I going to go?” “Stay here!” I couldn’t believe that anyone who’d spent time in New York wouldn’t do everything they could to stay. “Cass, oh my gosh, we have way overstaye
d our welcome. Your poor little apartment is bursting at the seams.” “You have not. I love having you here. I mean, don’t get me wrong—an extra bedroom or two would make it a whole lot easier, but you can stay as long as you want.” “Thanks, hon. That’s sweet. But we need to get going—and pretty soon. I’m looking forward to getting back. I’ve missed working.” “Couldn’t you work here? Midwives and home births are all the rage—you’d probably be delivering celebrity babies over on Charles Street in no time.” “I’m just not a city girl, Cass. I move at a totally different pace than you do.” “I guess.” “Plus, if we leave, then Leo can come back.” “But what if he doesn’t?” “Oh, honey,” she said, squeezing my arm. “This is hard. I know.” My phone buzzed. It was a rare message from Leo. He had some free time in an hour and wanted to see the boys. Could we meet him at Bleecker Playground? Sure, I responded, resigned to my role as social secretary. We went to the park a bit early so the kids could eat their snack—rice cakes and grapes—before Leo arrived. I wanted the boys to be at their best each time they saw Leo that week, so I always made sure their hands were clean, their noses were wiped, and they weren’t hungry—hoping that their adorableness would outshine my failings and lure him home. When he arrived, the boys both wanted to swing, so Leo and I stood beside each other pushing in silence. After an awkward minute, I told him about the plan Sid and I had set in motion the day before. “Hey, we were thinking about getting out of the city this weekend.” “Cool,” he said. “Yeah, the walls are kind of closing in on us at home. Sid’s luggage alone is taking up half of the living room. She’s headed back to Ohio next week, so we thought it would be a fun thing to do before she goes.” “Sounds good. You guys should go,” he answered. “Well, I was thinking we could all go.” “I’ll think about it.” He was being so aloof, and while part of me understood that he needed time to process or heal or think or whatever, most of me wanted to burst into tears and hash it all out right then and there. Instead, we continued pushing in silence until it was time for him to get back to work. He said his goodbyes—extra warm for the boys, cool for me—and headed off. That night after the kids were in bed, Sid and I ate a late pasta dinner and drank a bottle of red wine. Just as we sat down, my phone buzzed with good news from Jill, the broker I’d been e-mailing with for months about homes in Westchester County. I told her I needed a better feel for the area, and asked if she knew of anyone who would rent us their house for the weekend. While we ate, Sid asked me about seeing Leo earlier, and in retelling it, my impatience and frustration with his inaccessibility grew stronger. “What about that letter? Did you ever e-mail it to him?” “No. I was sort of waiting for a glimmer of hope.” Lulu woke up crying then, and Sid went into the bedroom to comfort her. I sat and finished my wine, thinking about the letter. I needed to get it to him, I’d decided, but the energy between us was so stiff and formal that it became a nerve-racking decision, almost like confessing to a work colleague that you were in love with him. I opened another bottle of wine and poured myself a glass, wishing Sid would reappear to cheer me on. As I sipped and waited, I began to feel less vulnerable and more agitated. I took the bottle to the hallway desk and found the scanned letter I’d saved on my laptop. Be bold, I coached myself. And then, perhaps going a little too bold, I did something I’d thought about once or twice but quickly dismissed as too risky, too foolish: I uploaded the letter to the blog, made it public again, and sent Leo an urgent e-mail with the link. To be safe, I sent him a text that said, Check your e-mail. Thx. I got up from the desk, feeling a bit shaky, and stood in the middle of the living room and finished my wine. Dear Leo, I’m sorry about so many things. First, I deeply regret betraying you. Please know that kissing Jake wasn’t about him or me having feelings for him. It was about me being a ridiculous, needy mess. And—while I arguably still am—I know that with you by my side, I’ll come out of it. I can see now that I’ve been in a downward spiral since I lost my job, and to a lesser extent since I had the boys. Being a mom to these two wild, amazing, beautiful creatures is hard work—and when I started doing it full-time, I was surprised (and embarrassed, to be honest) at just how unsuited I felt for the job. I wasted so much time and energy being aggravated that my prekids marriage, lifestyle, body, career . . . all of it . . . was just gone. The irony is that I thought I wanted a change; what I didn’t realize was everything had changed, yet there I was, trying like mad to cram my fatter, messier, truly altered self into my old life. Like an idiot fish, I was swimming upstream, fighting the natural current of life. No wonder I was always exhausted and cranky. What I should have been doing was growing with you into a life that makes sense for who I’ve become—and am still becoming. (It’s clear to me now that you’ve been doing this gracefully all along.) God, what a loser I’ve been . . . Don’t you worry though. Your wife’s glory days are not behind her! I feel a second act coming on. If you’ll give me the chance to build a loving, grown-up marriage with you, I can promise you that I will come out of this a better wife, a stronger mom, a wiser soul. Also, I think maybe I got my midlife crisis out of the way a bit early. So there’s that. Please forgive me. Your loving wife, Cassie Posting that letter was hard, and not just because I knew other people would read it and that it might backfire, but also because I wasn’t sure I was saying the best things in order to win him back. I worried it was too much about me and wondered if I should have made it more of a love letter. But I wasn’t firing on all cylinders when I wrote it, and I didn’t want to wait until I was, because who knew when that might be? Within thirty minutes, I had four comments, including: “Good luck, Cassie! Xoxo”; “Don’t believe her, Leo. She only cares about herself. She obviously just doesn’t want to be a single mom”; “You have a beautiful soul, and you deserve happiness. Everyone makes mistakes. If he is smart, Leo will forgive you”; and “Cassie, have you tried asking the Lord for help? See my blog jesussaves for helpful tips.” I was so spooked by the responses that I deleted all of the letters except mine to Leo. I nearly deleted that, too, but in my panicked (and slightly inebriated) state, I had convinced myself to at least try to achieve salvation through the thing that had brought me so much grief. I had even begun to wonder if the blog was what had alerted the authorities to Sid’s bank operation. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this blog owed me something. Give me back my marriage, stupid! I wanted to yell at the computer. When Sid finally came out of the bedroom, I was pacing. She looked like she had fallen asleep in there and didn’t have plans for remaining awake much longer. “What’s going on?” she asked. When I told her what I’d done, her eyes went wide. “Should I take it down?” I asked her imploringly, showing her the page open on my computer. Blinking, she considered this, and in a groggy voice said, “Give him a chance to read it. It’s kind of awesome and romantic.” I liked that thought, and I had convinced myself that it was necessary—desperate times, desperate measures and all that. Sid and I sat together on the same little desk chair and watched in amazement as more comments rolled in, my mood brightening considerably, thanks to the mostly supportive remarks. I half expected to see a reciprocal comment appear from Leo himself. Ten minutes later we were still sitting there in silence, staring at the screen. In the quiet, after the freaking out stopped, two realizations set in. One was that this public letter to Leo wasn’t going to be the thing that won him back. The second was that something awesome was happening nonetheless. Goose bumps appeared on my arms as it came to me: These people knew me. That I never invited them in suddenly didn’t matter. They were in, and they were rooting for me. I stopped feeling violated and started feeling validated. I had witnesses to my pain and my growth, and that was a powerful feeling. The vulnerability increased, yes, but as it did, a great love and acceptance welled up from deep inside of me. After what I’d been through, to find anything other than misery and embarrassment in a blog’s comments section—a pla
ce most people rightfully think of as the Internet’s seedy underbelly—was a shock. It was disorienting, this sensation of entering a physical place of peace, like stumbling onto a magnificent church in the middle of a war zone. And I was a sinner ready to join the saved. I could have climbed onto its altar and cried, Here I am. I’m flawed and ugly and beautiful, too, but I’m doing my best and I will be okay. I wanted to be sure Sid was feeling it, too, but I didn’t know how to explain it to her without sounding completely nuts, so I poured us each another glass and said, “You know, I think our people here deserve to know you left Adrian.” “You’re not serious.” “Come on. I did it!” “You’re drunk.” “A little bit.” She looked at me skeptically while I stared back at her with the slightly crazy, glassy gaze of a zealot. With a look more mischievous than anything else, she took out her phone and e-mailed me the photo of the letter. “I never even gave this to him, you know. I only wrote it in case he didn’t come home before we left.” Adrian,