“I’m trying to eat healthy—I mean, healthier. I had a salad with beets and kale.”
“Beets?” The doctor raises an eyebrow. “Beets can cause urine to change color. But let’s do an ultrasound of your bladder to make sure there’s nothing else going on. We may also do a CT scan. The nurse will call you when the room is ready.”
Elizabeth, Jake, and I exchange looks. Could it be beets?
We hang out in a waiting room decorated like someone’s yacht. Sail fabric hangs from the ceiling, and the lamps are miniature lighthouses. I look at my watch for the first time: 10:00 a.m. I’m dying for a cup of coffee.
“Coffee? Tea?” I ask, stirring, feeling the need to move.
“No, thanks, “Elizabeth said. “We had some already.”
I dash to the cafeteria, afraid they’ll call Elizabeth before I return. As I follow the signs, I think about Elizabeth’s having seen the pool of blood in her toilet this morning. How frightening to wake to that. In ten minutes when I return, Jake and Elizabeth are still waiting.
An hour later, a technician says, “Mrs. Gordon, please follow me.” I accompany Elizabeth down the hallway and turn the corner to a darkened ultrasound room.
“Please lie down,” the technician says, and points to the padded exam table. “I’m going to lift your shirt so I can get at your abdomen.”
My fingers intertwine with Elizabeth’s while the technician works a small transducer and gel over her abdomen, as if she were pregnant again. My eyes barely leave my sister’s face the entire fifteen minutes of the procedure.
When we return to the doctor’s office, he hands Elizabeth a discharge slip. “The ultrasound shows a normal bladder. No evidence of metastasis. I’m positive it was the beets.”
He tells us that he’ll send the report to Dr. Varghas. “Go enjoy yourselves at the beach,” the doctor says, to himself as much as to us.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Jake says, and we leave the room.
Outside, in the bright glare of the parking lot at high noon, Elizabeth is sheepish. “Well, I guess it’s good that we checked.” I’m not going to tell my sister that she overreacted. I was onboard with all of it. If only we’d been more aggressive about the original pain in her hip.
“Of course,” I say. “It’s always better to know.”
“Yup,” Jake says, and takes Elizabeth’s hand. “Let’s get back to David, Jill, and the kids. We don’t want to inconvenience them any more than we have.” He doesn’t mention inconveniencing me.
“Thanks for coming,” Elizabeth says, and gives me a hug.
“How could I not? Talk to you guys later,” I say, unlocking my car.
“Spend the day here with us,” Jake says suddenly. “Don’t you want to see your brother?” His so-called invitation only fans my anger.
“I have to get back,” I say, irate to hear him use David as leverage. It couldn’t be more obvious. Jake is coaxing me to stay in order to exclude Richard. Have I missed this before?
Jake dismisses me with a shake of his head. He and Elizabeth walk to their car, and I speed back to Hyannis to catch the next flight.
An hour later, I land and call Lynne for a report on the book festival, which she says was great. I set an intention to attend next year.
At home, I find Richard reading on the front deck. “What’s the prognosis?” he asks.
“Beets,” I say.
“Are you kidding?” Richard rolls his eyes.
“Elizabeth ate beets for dinner, and it turned her pee red. That’s it. What a relief.” I don’t think to feel guilty or embarrassed. I’m satisfied that we took the precaution.
“You’d never drop everything like that for me.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “Of course I would.”
“Give me an example. When have you ever done something like that?”
“We’ve been through this a thousand times,” I say.
I give Richard a quick kiss on the head, climb the stairs, and I plop onto the rattan chair at the window in our bedroom. Kids toss Frisbees on the sand, and teenagers surf to shore, inspiring memories of Elizabeth and me bodysurfing on boogie boards and building sand castles on the beach. Then I remember that Richard and I have dinner plans and realize that I need to get ready. I swallow the lump in my throat and dress.
That night, we dine at Lola 41 with Nantucket friends, Debbie and Max. “I miss you,” Debbie tells me, her hair pulled back in a sleek black ponytail. Her husband, Max, whose hair has turned more salt than pepper over the last year, asks kindly about Elizabeth.
I don’t go into the beets. “She’s better,” I say.
Their son is the same age as Alexandra, and our conversation revolves at first around sleepaway camp. Then Debbie, a staunch Democrat, starts bashing George W. Bush. “We need a woman in the White House. Someday, Hillary Clinton should run.”
“Then our country would really be in trouble,” Richard says, and it’s not clear if he means because she’s a Democrat or because she’s a woman.
“Let’s change the subject,” I say. “I’ve had a rough day.” When Max looks at me with concern in his eyes and exchanges a glance with Debbie, I wish I hadn’t said anything. But before either of them speaks, Richard starts in on Mayor Menino, how he’s delayed waterfront development and hurt his bottom line—something we can all agree on. Between the four of us, we polish off three bottles of wine.
Rain catches us by surprise as we leave the restaurant, pelting us in the dark night. Fortunately, Richard thought to put the cover on the Jeep. It’s not until we’re driving home, the windows streaked with water, that my mood takes over. I allow myself one of my silent sulks that Richard says is louder than any accusation I could make.
“What’s wrong now?” Richard asks.
“Just thinking about Elizabeth. And Jake and the kids,” I say.
“They hate me,” he says.
“They don’t hate you.”
“You’re here physically, Samantha, but your mind is elsewhere, with your sister.” At first, I don’t dignify that with a response. My silence speaks for itself. Then my mood takes over.
“As if Elizabeth didn’t have enough to deal with,” I say, “she has to have you as a brother-in-law.”
“That’s it,” Richard says. “I’m done.”
“Richard—”
“No excuses. I don’t care how good it was last night. It always ends the same way. You put me down and your family first.” His voice whipsaws on my skin. I’ve heard it all, hundreds of times. He doesn’t know that I am beginning to take responsibility for our conflict, rethinking my role in our marriage, yet I want to punish him for what I haven’t even told him.
Richard’s face twists with anger; his voice is tinged with new vulnerability and a hint of desperation. “Am I not your family?” he asks.
We plunge on with our familiar battle, arguing until I no longer know what I’m saying or whose argument I’m following or who did what to whom.
Then Richard does something he has never done before. He pulls over to the side of the road. “Get out,” he says. “Out of the car.” It’s pouring.
“Are you crazy? You get out.”
“Fine, and back to Boston tomorrow. I can’t take it anymore.” Richard jumps from the Jeep into the night and slams the door shut.
Alone in the Jeep under the downpour, I choke on sobs. Eventually, I crawl into the driver’s seat and head home slowly, my vision blurred with tears and rain. Richard has finally unleashed the desperate anger bottled up inside him.
When I get home, I make a mad dash to let the dogs out and run around like a crazy woman, locking doors. I turn on the outside lights and on a whim decide to lock the guest cottage, too. I fall on the slippery brick path and cut my knees. The rain drenches my hair and a dress that Richard loves and that I vow never to wear again.
In the main house, I let Bentley and Bella back in, not caring about the prints they make or that I’m dripping rain and blood on the hardwood
floor.
Click, click, click. I turn off all the outside lights. No stars to brighten the sky, no streetlights to illuminate the road. Raindrenched, I crash on the sofa.
At two, I hear Richard turn the spare key that we keep under a conch shell in the driveway. He ignores the dogs and me on the sofa and goes upstairs. The rain has stopped, and I’m awake, so I fix a cup of tea and have it on the deck, watching the full moon waver on the ocean.
Sometimes I think Richard and Jake are too much alike, that my sister and I caused the problem ourselves for marrying strong, unyielding men. But it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the mistakes I have made in my marriage. Confiding to Elizabeth and Jill about my troubles with Richard all these years—I really should have kept my marital issues private. The problem is that my conflicts with Richard have affected my relationships.
The sky awakens with shades of pink and turquoise, another island day for all to enjoy. Richard and I have finally managed to ruin Nantucket.
At seven, I wake him. “I’m going back to Wellesley,” I say.
I brace myself for a grumpy response, for Richard to roll over and pull the covers over his head, or to protest. But, to my surprise, he sits, awake.
“Samantha, I have something to tell you. A few weeks ago, I rented an apartment in Boston. I planned to move there after the summer—I’ve given it a lot of thought. I think it’s best that we live apart for now. You know what?” He smiles. “I almost canceled it the night you got here. I’m glad I didn’t. It hurts, but your family is still in the way.”
I stare at him, trying to process. “You rented an apartment?” He’s leaving me?
“A loft in the South End.”
Seeing something in my face, Richard raises his hands appeasingly.
“Let’s view it as a trial separation. Maybe it can still work out between us. We’ll both have a lot of time to think,” he says.
I move closer to my husband, looking into his deep-set emerald eyes. I bury my head in his chest, speechless, reaching for comfort from the man who is hurting me. Richard puts his arms around me and kisses me like a child.
“Let’s keep the house intact,” he says. I can see that he has it all figured out, months of planning and rumination. “I’ll just take my clothes. I’ll buy furniture for the apartment.”
I imagine him clearing out his suits, leaving a hole in our shared closet, hangers rattling, just as I did with my summer tops, pants, and skirts this morning in Nantucket before he woke. All of this premeditation, and I find myself on the receiving end of one of Richard A. Freeman’s venture capital deals.
“I’ll drive you and the dogs to the airport now,” Richard says, pulling on the same khaki shorts and T-shirt, still damp from the night before.
Richard carries my bags and tosses them in the back of the Jeep. He flings open the driver’s side door and slides in. I climb onto the passenger seat and put Bentley and Bella on my lap. We drive to the airport in silence.
“It’s time for you to start choosing us first,” Richard says when he hands me my suitcases at the curb. “Figure out a way to do that and still be there for your sister, and we can stay married. Safe flight.” He pecks me on the cheek.
Choking on emotion, I wave goodbye with Bentley and Bella’s leashes. It feels awful to be the person put on probation. I suddenly regret having taken Richard for granted.
Now that I’ve gotten what I asked for, it’s time to figure out whether it’s what I really want.
From my car on the mainland, I call Jonathan Mann. Not quite believing my own words, I tell him that Richard and I have separated. I’ve had Jonathan on retainer since Brooke’s bat mitzvah. It feels safer that he knows.
“I advise you to file for divorce immediately,” he says, to my surprise. “Now that you’re separated, you need to protect yourself.”
Thinking about divorce, I get dizzy—I hang up the handsfree and pull over to think. Thank God Alexandra’s at camp. We’ll wait until she gets home to break the news. No need to upset the rest of her summer. I pull back onto the road.
Thoughts of Richard living alone in his South End loft cloud my mind. My car creeps into the next lane; another driver leans on his horn and gives me the finger. I swerve back and glance at the speedometer. I’m going seventy, fifteen over the limit. I check my rearview mirror—thankfully, no police. I slow down, and now other cars zoom by, drivers craning their necks to see who could possibly be driving so poorly.
Separating from Richard is what I thought I wanted. Now that it’s happening, I feel like a failure. Not because I’m getting dumped—because we couldn’t make our marriage work. It speaks to the inadequacy of our love, how we let all these hurtful events eat away at us, an emotional erosion, until we were no longer us.
In my driveway, I stare up with new eyes at my home, ticking off what Richard will claim as his. Pieces from our crystal Lalique collection and some of his favorite, signed sports memorabilia for sure. I unlock the front door and urge myself to be rational, walking through the empty house, past photos of Richard, Alexandra, Harrison, and our extended families. Richard will also certainly want some of these. I wonder if he’ll take a picture of me to his new apartment. I put my face in my hands. What have I done? I unpack my clothing and place my jewelry in the small safe in my closet.
Later, I call my parents, sister, and brother with the news. “Richard’s moving out,” I say. It is not unexpected.
Chapter Seventeen
The next week, I drive to Elizabeth’s summer home in New Seabury, and she does her best to distract me. We take a yoga class on the beach, swim in the bay side of the ocean, eat raw food, and make Reiki appointments.
Over lunch Elizabeth says, “Richard could never take you away from me.”
“Of course not. Don’t ever worry about that,” I say. “Whether we stay married or not, he’ll never come between us.”
For the rest of the summer, I spend Monday through Wednesday with Elizabeth on the Cape, the days Jake commutes to Boston to work. He feels safer when I’m there. Elizabeth is beginning to act like her old self, but we don’t discuss Richard. After all these years, she has finally reached her limit.
When I’m home alone in Wellesley, I have too much time to think, vacillating between relief and despair. Are in-laws essentially interlopers to Richard, people who cannot be trusted? Was it wrong for my parents to list me as the sole trustee on the Israel bond they purchased for Alexandra, instead of listing us jointly? I begin to appreciate the deep wounds of trust on both sides. I can’t divorce my family for Richard, but should I divorce Richard for them?
In August, my brother invites me to spend a weekend in Sag Harbor, where they have a house. It’s the part of the Hamptons that reminds me most of Nantucket. Early Saturday morning, I load my bags and the two dogs. It’s an hour-and-a half car ride to New London, three ferries, and, once I’m on Shelter Island, still a fifteen-minute drive.
“Auntie!” Little Brittany shouts when I pull up. Her brother, Justin, is behind her.
“Where are the dogs?” he asks.
I open the door, and Bentley and Bella jump out, turning excited circles.
David and Jill walk down the drive.
“I would ask about the trip,” my brother says, “but all I want to know is how you’re doing.”
“Careful what you wish for,” I say, and shrug.
David gives me a hug. “Come, give me your bag. Let’s talk.” We settle into crisp white sofas in the living room, and Jill hands me a bottle of Fiji water.
“Maybe I should have treated Richard better,” I say, sighing.
“You’ve been unhappy for so long,” David says. “Now you both have time to weigh your options.”
“You never know,” Jill says.
“I’m so happy to be here, to get away,” I say. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
That afternoon, while David and Jill run errands, I stroll along the boat basin and walk the docks. People are relaxin
g on yachts, sipping wine in the sun.
I recognize a boat from Nantucket harbor last summer, The Perfect Prescription, so named because its owner made his money in pharmaceuticals. Richard and I have viewed this pristine yacht many times, admiring the captain and his whiteuniformed crew. The nostalgia makes me wince. At this moment, my husband could be reading a newspaper in his beach chair, or out for oysters and drinks, while I’m here, watching our life slip through my fingers.
The next morning David, Jill, and I take a boot camp class on the beach with a New York City trainer, ten of us doing squats, burpees, sprints, and light weights at the ocean’s edge. We get back to the house, and I walk the dogs in my workout clothes with Brittany and Justin.
“Auntie, I wish Alexandra came with you,” Brittany says.
“She’s still at camp,” I say, and bite my lip, missing her.
“We got a letter,” Justin says. “She loves waterskiing.”
“I know! One ski!”
“When will we see her again?” Brittany asks.
“Soon. Rosh Hashanah.”
We turn left, circling the block. The kids fill me in on tennis and swim lessons, how they can’t wait to go to sleepaway camp in Maine like Alexandra in a few years. I notice my easy smile, how much I adore this time, how often I feel at ease outside Richard’s interference. I think about mentioning our separation to my niece and nephew, but something tells me they already know.
After a shower, David takes the kids to the beach and Jill and I walk into Sag Harbor for lunch. A collegiate, tanned hostess seats us on the waterside patio, a wall of windows inviting the outdoors in, and with enough noise to discuss things privately.
“Tell me everything,” Jill says, my confidante and voice of reason. I relate the comedy of the beet incident in hindsight, and how it ruined things between Richard and me.
“Bottom line, he said I’d do anything for Elizabeth but not for him.” I skip the Jeep ride and Richard’s dramatic jump. “I told him I was going back to Boston, but he one-upped me. He’d already rented an apartment. He almost canceled the lease, but the beets were his last straw.”
Appearances Page 16