Appearances

by Sondra Helene

  Jill takes my hand. The breeze tousles her dirty-blond hair.

  “I feel terrible,” she says. “David and I could have gone, but Jake insisted that we stay with the kids.”

  “I used to think Jake really cared about me,” I say, flagging the server for two iced teas.

  The restaurant is packed. Two women with cobalt and denim blue Birkin bags walk in, scan the crowd, and sit at the table next to us. There’s a nice buzz, still noisy enough that no one can overhear our conversation.

  “I’m sick of being used,” I say. “Just because Elizabeth is ill doesn’t mean I should forfeit my respect.”

  “He knows how to push your buttons.”

  “But Elizabeth?”

  “She sticks up for you. She’s not entirely against Richard. His love for you redeems him for her.”

  “I know.”

  “There must be something good about your marriage for you to stay in it.”

  I twirl the straw in my iced tea.

  “This is a trial separation,” I say. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  “I’m glad you came to visit,” Jill says, sensing an avenue closed, but I continue.

  “It’s like I’m living two lives. One with my family and one with Richard. I used to blame him for everything. I’m not so sure anymore.”

  Jill squeezes my hand.

  “Don’t be so tough on yourself. I’m not telling you to get divorced or not get divorced. It all depends on how you want to live your life.”

  I lean back and stare into the restaurant. This conflict has not been handled well.

  Our mixed greens with grilled chicken arrive, and we spend the rest of lunch people-watching. I enjoy the weekend with David and Jill’s family, taking walks on the beach and reading Elin Hilderbrand’s novel, Summer People, with a glass of rosé. As much as I love them both and love being there, I can’t join their marriage.

  From the car, I call Richard to check in, realizing that I miss him.

  “Hey. How are you?” I ask.

  “Great,” he says, not elaborating. His tone is curt. “Where are you?”

  “The Hamptons,” I say.

  “Of course you are.”

  My heart skips, and I try to remain calm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Always running to your family,” he says. “Trying to reassure them. Meanwhile, this is the first time you’ve reached out to me.”

  His accusations hurt me, but I will myself not to cry. I don’t want to fight anymore. “What are you up to?” I ask.

  “Andrew is here,” he says. “I have to go; we’re on our way out.”

  “Who’s Andrew?” I ask.

  “A guy I met a few months ago. He’s divorced.”

  WEEKS LATER, RICHARD returns from Nantucket to Wellesley for his clothes. He enters the house when I’m standing at the door with Bentley and Bella, about to go out. At the sight of me, his lips purse.

  “I’m much more relaxed without you,” Richard announces. I realize that he has felt the same way I have all along—tense.

  I cross my arms and take a deep breath. It doesn’t look like we’re going to work things out. “What have you been doing all summer?” I ask, trying to be polite.

  “Exactly what I want, when I want to.”

  It seems as if our separation has only inflamed Richard’s anger. I look over his shoulder out the window. He has parked his Range Rover so close that it nuzzles mine. Always too close, not close enough. Now he’s here to take custody of his suits, pants, and shirts, to make a hole in the closet and finalize the hole in my life.

  Despite Richard’s anger and rudeness, I try to show compassion, putting my hand on his arm. He shrugs me off and heads upstairs.

  “Please,” I call after him.

  In the bedroom, I tug at his shirt to distract him, but he’s focused, placing one item after another inside boxes that he hauled here in the Range Rover, methodical. Then he stops for a second and meets my eyes. No matter what he says or does, I know in my heart that he doesn’t want a second divorce.

  I persist, lean into his chest. I have always fit perfectly into his arms. He gives in, hugs me closer and kisses me. His lips are warm and soft. A chill traces my spine. I could make love to him right now—but will it do any good? For years I have wished to leave Richard, and now he’s leaving me. Same same, but different. If he stays, our fights are guaranteed to continue. We haven’t done the work.

  “Think positively,” he says, grasping at his mantra. “Who knows? If we come to an understanding, my apartment could be our pied-a-terre.”

  Richard takes his first box to the car. Eventually I am standing in the driveway, dazed, while he loads box after box into the Rover’s backseat with a dismissive toss. It’s windy.

  Richard’s sleeves flap on his toned and tanned upper arms. I open my mouth but can’t seem to find any words.

  He gives me one last look—a last chance—and speeds off.

  I pull my cell out of my jeans and call—who else?—Eliza- beth.

  “He took all his stuff,” I say.

  Elizabeth sighs with relief. Without Richard, her life is less complicated, and I understand. Most important, her children could one day join my family without interference.

  AT THE END of August, when Alexandra comes home, Richard and I have seen each other only once, for the sake of planning how to tell our daughter. We collect her at the bus stop in Waltham on Route 128. A swarm of emotional parents stand by their cars. Alexandra runs toward us, thinner and taller, and my eyes brim with joy and sadness. “Mommy! Daddy!” she says, almost one word.

  In the car, our bubbly daughter regales us with the names of girls in her bunkhouse and stories of how her group won the color war. She sings rendition after rendition of campfire songs and says that next summer they’ll climb Mt. Washington.

  Richard carries Alexandra’s duffels into her bedroom and turns on the Red Sox game. We’re winning eight to three, bottom of the eighth. As I begin to unpack, Alexandra blurts out, “As much as I love camp, I love being home more.” She smiles, scanning her walls, the pile of stuffed animals, and her fulllength mirror.

  To my dismay, Richard is glued to the game. “Home run,” he says over his shoulder. “Nine-three.”

  Alexandra places herself between Richard and the TV, raising her hand for a high five. When the Sox make three consecutive outs, I interject.

  “Daddy and I have something to tell you, sweetie pie,” I say. As much as I would love to put off our announcement, as Richard appears to be doing, there’s no good time.

  “What?” she asks, sensing something. Her smile fades. Alexandra feels behind her for the bed and sits down.

  “This summer while you were away, Daddy and I had a long talk. We decided it would be better for our family if he and I try living in separate places.”

  “I’ve moved to an apartment in Boston for now,” Richard says, “but Mom and I love you very much. And we still love each other,” he adds, giving me hope.

  “When? When did you talk?” Alexandra asks. “You don’t live here anymore?” she asks Richard, lowering her head. She starts to cry, but I sense she understands. For most of her childhood, she’s lived in this stressful environment—her father’s smug body language, my cries and quick retorts. She has been the closest witness of our unhappiness and the most affected.

  “We’ll still see each other all the time,” Richard says. “You’ll have sleepovers at my apartment. We’ll go to Fenway Park.”

  Alexandra wipes her tears. “Okay,” she says.

  The three of us sit, listening to the recap of the Sox game, nothing more to say.

  “Okay, I’ll call you later, sweetie,” Richard says gently. “I’m going now. Love you.” He embraces Alexandra and leaves the room.

  I lie down with my daughter on her bed. Her hair smells like sunscreen and forest air. I’m relieved that, even with Richard gone, I can still feel at home with her.

  “Mom, are you okay?�
� she asks, so mature and kind.

  “I am,” I say. “The situation was too stressful.”

  “How’s Auntie Elizabeth?” she asks.

  “Not bad,” I say. “She had a good summer. We spent a lot of time together.”

  FROM HERE ON out, Richard lives in his loft full-time but visits whenever he wants to see Alexandra. He takes her out to dinner and to ballgames, and once in a while she sleeps at his place. On occasion, he and I go still go to social events, a sporadic dinner with friends. Sometimes he stays for the weekend if we have a party or fund-raiser nearby to attend. “I thought you were separated,” friends whisper to me when they see us together.

  “We are,” I say. I don’t really know how to describe our situation, so I don’t.

  I discover that I prefer this way of being married to Richard: a lighter life with fewer fights. We actually get to enjoy ourselves. Once upon a time, I would have scoffed at running a marriage this way. When I was in my twenties, I never could have imagined “dating” my husband, if that’s what I want to call it. But life is full of compromises.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Gordons are relieved about my separation, but we barely speak about it. Elizabeth focuses on her miracle— Iressa—weekly acupuncture with Tom Tam, and monthly blood tests with Dr. Varghas.

  Richard and I don’t wear our wedding bands anymore, but I know Jake feels betrayed that I haven’t pulled the trigger and gotten a divorce. As coparents, Richard and I have occasion to speak on the phone almost every day. I revel in my freedom, but I can’t help but feel it’s a false truce. All it takes is a friend saying, “I saw Richard at Davio’s last night at the bar” to inspire embarrassment and jealousy. For my part, I’m pouring any energy I might have had for dating into supporting my sister through her partial remission.

  In early October, Elizabeth and I are in her bedroom. “I need to focus on the positive,” she says, slipping on a pair of heels. “Positive affirmations.”

  Elizabeth’s birthday is coming up, and I decide on the spot to throw her a party. But it would need to be announced and planned; she is not a fan of surprises.

  “How about I throw you a forty-fifth at my house?”

  “I’m not sure I want a party,” Elizabeth says. “What’s there to celebrate? I still have cancer. On the other hand, I can’t believe I’m still here.”

  “It will be something to look forward to,” I say. “Focus on the positive?”

  Despite Elizabeth’s stubbornness, I sense an inkling of excitement.

  I hire MAX, my usual caterer, and find a piano player to entertain us with show tunes and ease us with classical. I choose an invitation bordered with pale tulips and roses in an elegant script that reminds me of Elizabeth. I want the afternoon to be perfect.

  The day of the party, Elizabeth and my mother arrive early. Seeing the two of them standing in the doorway makes me thank God for Iressa. My mother is wearing a loosely draped beige pantsuit; her dark-blond hair is coiffed and shining. Elizabeth’s hair has grown back thick, with a new wave. She wears it short. She looks elegant in suede chocolate pants, a signature cashmere turtleneck, brown lizard boots, and matching bag.

  “What a vision,” I say. “You’re stunning.” I squeeze their shoulders and invite them inside. I, too, have a new outfit for the occasion: beige leather pants, calfskin ankle boots, and a white silk necktie blouse.

  I check my watch. It’s exactly noon.

  “Everyone will be here,” I say, my voice frenzied.

  I scurry around to place the orchids in tall vases. The house is full of flowers. Perfumey lilies, colorful tulips, and yellow sprays take up residence in the foyer and the dining room, so different from those arrangements that last year took over the Gordons’, blooms marking celebration and hope.

  Taking requests from our favorite Broadway shows, the pianist practices before the guests arrive. The caterers hoist silver trays crowded with champagne flutes and take their stations at the door.

  Jill has flown in from New York. She, Jane, and Robin,

  Elizabeth’s best friends, are the first to ring the bell. Their eyes widen when they enter, smiles on their perfectly made-up faces, glowing like teenagers who’ve just arrived at the prom.

  “Such a treat to see you,” Jill says to Elizabeth. Her devotion to our family humbles me.

  “Elizabeth, you look wonderful,” Jane says.

  “Short hair flatters you. Makes you look young,” Robin adds.

  They’ve all seen Elizabeth in her wigs, scarves, and baseball caps; now they revel in her new hair. Elizabeth blushes and grins at her friends’ compliments, wrapping a curl behind her ear, but I can tell she’s holding back. To look so good and still have cancer in your bones and your lungs are hard truths to reconcile.

  Soon we’re greeting Auntie Gloria, who looks stunning in her tweed Chanel pantsuit and chunky gold necklace. She was devastated upon hearing the news of Elizabeths cancer and calls her every day to try and cheer her spirits. Auntie Gloria is like a second mother to us. Over the next fifteen minutes, nearly fifty of Elizabeth’s friends and relatives pour in, so many of whom brought dinners, sent flowers, left challah on the Gordons’ doorstep, or drove Brooke and Lauren home from school. Today, they enter with spirited eyes, ready to celebrate a life extended.

  “What a terrific day,” Auntie Gloria remarks. My mother, too, seems joyful, though later she will tell me she felt like an ostrich with her head in the sand.

  I watch Elizabeth work the crowd and hope she’s enjoying the moment. I run upstairs one last time to reapply lipstick, then slip the tube into my pocket. As I run down, out of the corner of my eye, I spot my mother standing alone on the deck. She’s facing away from the house, and her shoulders are slumped. I join her through the French doors.

  “Mom?” I say, closing the door for privacy.

  “Oh! Sorry!” she says, dabbing the corner of her eye with a cocktail napkin. “I just needed a minute.”

  “I thought you were having a good time.”

  “I am,” she says, and laughs at the contradiction. Though I’ve seen my mother cry a lot more recently than I ever have in my life, this moment seems different. I’m stunned.

  “These are happy tears,” she insists, but I’m not convinced.

  My mother surveys the backyard, the trees and bushes crisp with the oranges and yellows of early autumn, soon to welcome deep reds.

  “She has so much to live for. . . .” She trails off.

  “I know, Mom. I hope so, too.”

  My mother reaches over and rubs my arm, unable to say anything else, but the moment feels unresolved. There’s something deep that she wants to express but can’t. I know the feeling—it must run in the family.

  “Let’s get back in,” I say. I don’t want Elizabeth to see anything upsetting.

  Hooking elbows, my mother and I join the party just as the caterers serve lunch. Bubbe’s antique China flowered cups and saucers shine next to my sterling silver and fine Baccarat glasses. Silver candelabras are lit on the dining room table, and by evening their tapers create waterfall sculptures of wax.

  Women chat and fill their plates with mesclun, grilled salmon, and crispy baguettes. I have always thrilled at having a sizable dining room that fits, comfortably, twenty-five. How I’ve looked forward to gathering my whole family at this table for holiday meals, delighting in the details of a floral centerpiece, pressed linen napkins, and the heirloom butter dish. Now my family is split and has no need for this room.

  But today the warmth of everyone’s faces and the easy laughter reassure me of a future for us and Elizabeth. We sing “Happy Birthday,” followed by enthusiastic applause. I serve cake baked and decorated at a favorite local bakery, with frosting whipped into designer bags and shoes. Elizabeth bends to blow out the candles, then clinks a fork against her glass.

  “Attention, please. First of all, I am completely overwhelmed. Thank you.” She tosses me an extra big smile. “Thanks, as always, to my s
ister, Samantha, for throwing this party. Ever since we were kids, she has been by my side. It is not an exaggeration to say that she saved my life.” The room’s chatter quiets into trembling lips and liquid eyes. Elizabeth goes on to thank everyone for their friendship and support, how lucky she is to have them.

  Jane and Robin present Elizabeth with a beautifully packaged gift. She unwraps the navy paper and opens the box to reveal a turquoise-and-gold Van Cleef bracelet.

  “We thought this looked like you,” Jane says. “Everyone contributed.”

  “Oh my God!” Elizabeth says, slipping it on her petite wrist, to oohs and aahs.

  I close my eyes to summon the few words I want to say and raise my glass.

  “Elizabeth, I am blessed to have you. Happy, happy birthday.”

  I draw her in for a warm embrace and live the moment with my sister, celebrating life in all its fragility.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Life alone with Alexandra is unexpectedly satisfying. I drive her to middle school every morning and to dance lessons in the afternoons. Richard and I continue to see each other on some weekends and occasionally go out for dinner. Sometimes I miss our ordinary life, hanging out on the couch, watching TV, grocery shopping, and how Richard announces the headlines every morning as he reads the Globe. When we’re together, he never mentions my family, except to ask how Elizabeth is doing, which I appreciate. Just the asking satisfies me. He doesn’t need to hear the details. “She’s better,” I say.

  Richard continues to deposit money monthly into my accounts, and I continue to pay the household bills. Even though I have filed for divorce with Jonathan Mann, my attorney, I don’t push it. I see my therapist once a week.

  Catherine and I discuss how marriages are made strong through the resolution of conflicts, the compromising of differences. Richard and I haven’t been able to do that. When I recount events in which I thought Richard was rude or in the wrong, I try to look at them now through a new lens. Richard is not a villain, and I do not have a halo on my head.