The sun dazzled her eyes, and for a second or two Amanda was uncertain which direction to walk. Her hands were shaking and her heart pounding, and the dense heat seemed to further constrict her already labored breathing. She felt urgently that she had to get away—but to where? There was the grocery shopping to do, but she could not face that right now. She needed to be somewhere cool, anonymous, somewhere she could sit down and think straight. Amanda climbed in her car again and headed toward a mall. The nearest one was up Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda. Amanda drove slowly, aware of her unsteady nerves; several times cars accelerated up to her rear bumper, only to veer and roar past her in frustration.
She had not waited for Susie’s reaction. Was Susie dumb-founded? Furious? Amanda would probably never know. She didn’t care to know.
The windowless concrete front of a department store jutted out from the mall at an angle, like the massive prow of some futuristic galleon. Amanda parked in the gray dungeon of a covered lot and emerged from an elevator into the mall’s interior courtyard. For a while she just wandered, pausing by brightly lit shop windows advertising clearance sales. Already the merchants were seized with that peculiar midsummer impulse to restock their racks with heavy sweaters and jackets. Amanda bought herself a take-out sandwich and ate it on a bench under the shade of a gigantic potted tree. Gradually she felt her internal meters returning to normal. It was fine sitting here with nothing to do, watching the other mothers haul their wailing infants in and out of strollers.
Amanda finished her sandwich and walked around some more. Eventually she found herself at the entrance to the department store. It occurred to her that she needed a new swimsuit, and that swimsuits would probably be on sale with the rest of the summer merchandise. The purchase of a swimsuit gave new purpose to her outing.
She strode into the store and rode the escalator up two levels. But to Amanda’s disappointment, most of the swimsuits were gone—only half a dozen one-pieces were left in her size. Amanda hesitated over a black, designer bikini. It was the sort of swimsuit Christine would wear. Impulsively, she pulled it off the rack and took it into the dressing room with her more practical selections. She’d give it a go. It might even be funny.
Each suit looked worse than the last. Amanda was baffled by the cross-straps on one; another she couldn’t tug over her hips. And what was it about artificial lighting that revealed new pockets of fat that her critical eye had not yet detected at home? God, her thighs looked like topographical maps! And why was her stomach so bloated? Soon all the swimsuits except the bikini were piled on the floor. Amanda gamely tried it on—struggling with the tiny bottom and hooking the top without looking in the mirror. Then—voilà. Amanda turned around. It wasn’t … funny. It wasn’t bad, either. All her flaws were there, and perhaps more on display than they had been in the other suits, but somehow they seemed less framed. The bikini top lifted her breasts attractively and the bottom triangles barely covered what they were supposed to—could she possibly wear such a thing in public?
Amanda checked the price tag—70 percent off ninety dollars. She could afford the risk. She changed back into her street clothes and took the bikini to a register.
Amanda expected the saleswoman to police Amanda’s purchase—’I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m confiscating this for your own protection”—but the clerk, whose own figure made Amanda feel gratifyingly skinny, merely commented that the suit was “very pretty.” Amanda waited, tapping her credit card on the counter, wondering if she should buy the damn thing after all.
When she stepped back onto the escalator, Amanda began to second-guess her decision. The saleswoman had mentioned that she couldn’t return or exchange the swimsuit. And when Bob saw the bag and suspected she had spent the day idly shopping … Well, whatever—the bikini made her feel good about herself, and that was what was important, right?
Amanda passed into the glittering landscape of cosmetics. Usually she was immune to the siren calls of the clerks and would bustle by their long mirrored counters, ignoring their offers to “try the latest Seduction.” It was all shamanism, she thought, propagated by the high priests of the makeup industry. Today she intended to pass right by them—but a display of pale lipsticks caught her eye. They were similar to the delicate shades Susie wore. Amanda paused—long enough, alas, to catch the attention of one of two saleswomen, both wearing identical gray tunics, chatting a few feet away.
“May I help you?”
“Oh, not really. I’m just looking—”
“We’ve got some lovely new shades. May I show you?”
“Well—” Amanda caught sight of her own naked face in a mirror and compared it unfavorably to the saleswoman’s: she wasn’t much younger than Amanda, and not especially attractive. Her features seemed to have been arranged according to the asymmetrical principles of feng shui, especially her nose, which jutted off to one side. But the woman had skillfully used makeup to highlight her eyes and lips while minimizing the effect of her nose.
Amanda examined one of the testers. “All right.”
“Please, take a seat.”
Amanda sat herself on a tall stool while the clerk busily pulled tubes from their testing slots.
“Have you worn this brand before?”
“No.” Amanda would not admit that she bought her makeup in the pharmacy aisle of Fresh Farms where it had the virtue of being untested on animals, and also the virtue of being cheap.
“Let’s try this one.” The saleswoman brought out a pencil and a little brush.
“First let me line your lips—do you use liner?—and here, this brush helps the color go on smoothly.”
Amanda rubbed her lips and agreed the pinky beige shade suited her.
“But now look how pale the rest of your face looks.” The clerk frowned, and pushed a stray lock of hair from Amanda’s forehead. “When was the last time you had your colors done?”
“I haven’t—”
“May I just try something more—if you have time?”
Amanda made a show of checking her watch. “Not really—”
“It will just take a second.”
“I really only need lipstick.” Amanda had not actually intended to buy the lipstick but could see no other way of extricating herself from the saleswoman’s chair.
“That’s fine, that’s fine. But you’ll be amazed how fabulous I can make you look.”
The other saleswoman was listening to their conversation, and drifted over.
“Oh yes, you must let Gina do you. Gosh, Gina, look at her eyes! You’re so lucky to have such big eyes.”
Amanda, who had never thought of herself as having especially large eyes, wilted under the pressure of the two saleswomen.
“Well—if you can do it quickly.”
“Of course.”
The first saleswoman rummaged under the counter and brought out several trays that resembled artists’ palettes. Then she took some sponges and began dabbing at Amanda’s face as if at a canvas.
“You have such beautiful skin. What do you use on it?”
“Um, soap. A little moisturizer.”
The clerk paused, worried. “My goodness, you need to take better care of it than that! Do you see these little lines?”
Amanda was well aware of them.
“We have a product that takes care of them. I’ll show it to you afterward. Now look—see how well this foundation covers?”
Gone were the circles below Amanda’s eyes, the red blotches on her nose and chin. The other salesclerk watched approvingly until another customer drew her away.
“I’m not finished,” the first saleswoman continued. She produced a case of brushes. For the next few minutes she worked intensely on Amanda’s face, instructing her to look up or look down as she painted around Amanda’s eyes, or to turn her head this way and that as she added color to Amanda’s cheeks.
“Now, look again.” The woman moved the standing mirror closer to Amanda, and angled it so Amanda could see her whole face.
“Gorgeous, huh?”
“It’s—it’s very nice,” Amanda replied—untruthfully, for she was astounded by how much prettier she appeared. Her skin—it had that elusive, rich glow of Christine’s.
The clerk stood back to appraise her. “Now if you plucked your eyebrows a little bit, and tied back your hair perhaps—perfect. But my job is done.” She smiled.
“Which cosmetics did you use?”
“Let me assemble them for you.”
“Oh, I don’t think I want to buy all of them—”
“It’s not much. I’ll just get you the products that are essential.”
The saleswoman rooted around some drawers and pulled out a number of small, gold-banded boxes. She lined them up in front of Amanda.
“This is the rouge, the eye shadows, the lipstick, the lip pencil, the eyeliner, mascara, foundation, powder … will you need brushes?”
“Uh, no.”
“It’s important to use the right brushes.”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you want me to show you the moisturizing cream you should use?”
“I don’t think so.”
The woman raised her eyebrows.
“I’m sure.” Amanda’s mind was quickly trying to calculate how much the cosmetics would cost, and what she could ask the clerk to take back without seeming to be unable to afford them.
“All right then. I’ll ring these up,” and the saleswoman took them away before Amanda could protest. When she returned from the register, the saleswoman said, “The total is one hundred ninety-seven dollars and fifty cents with tax.”
Amanda panicked. That would wipe out her housekeeping budget for the next week. How would she explain it to Bob? How could she explain it?
“I don’t really need the lip pencil—or the mascara. And I have an eyeliner already.”
The clerk made no comment but removed the offending items. She went away to ring it up again.
“The total now is one forty-nine sixty-seven.”
Amanda could not send anything else back at this point. She either had to tell the saleswoman she would not take anything but the lipstick, or somehow squeeze the money from the household expenses. The woman was beginning to wrap the boxes in pink tissue paper. Amanda bought time for herself by rummaging through her handbag for her wallet. She could probably find a way, she reasoned, if she cooked a lot of pasta and used up the cans of chickpeas and tomatoes at the back of her cupboard. But then the whole sorry predicament of Bob’s job came crashing down upon her—what if he were fired? What if he found out how much she had just thrown away on cosmetics at a time like this?
And yet, and yet—why should she not do something nice for herself, especially at a time like this? She was not like some wives, always demanding new things. Christine would spend this sum of money without thinking about it. Why couldn’t Amanda indulge herself once in a while, too? And Bob was being so awful to her these days. She deserved to do something nice for herself—
Amanda presented her credit card to the saleswoman and allowed her eyes to rest covetously on the beautifully wrapped boxes, all hers.
The clerk returned with the card. “Do you have another? This one was declined.”
Mortified, Amanda searched through her wallet and pulled out the card she and Bob reserved for emergencies.
The clerk snapped it up and turned on her heels, pausing to simper at an elegantly dressed woman who was examining bottles of nail polish. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
Amanda signed the slip, and the saleswoman thrust the package at her.
“Have a nice day.”
Amanda thought it best to leave her new purchases in the trunk. She assumed Bob and the children would still be at the museum, and was surprised to find the front door unlocked.
“Hello?” she called into the house.
There was no answer.
“Bob? Ben? Hello?”
The back door was open as well, but the yard was empty. Was it possible Bob left the house this way when he went out? No—a floating bucket in the wading pool indicated recent activity. Amanda, worried now, returned to the front hall and stood by the staircase.
“Hello?”
She heard the muffled sound of a man’s voice in a room upstairs. Amanda crept up to the top of the stairs to listen. The voice was coming from behind their closed bedroom door. The children’s rooms appeared empty.
She edged toward their door. It sounded like Bob speaking to someone, but the conversation was one-sided—there was no other voice. She opened the door.
Bob was sitting on the end of the bed, talking on the telephone. He was still wearing his robe and boxers. He looked at her but did not hang up.
“Uh-huh. I realize that, but listen—”
“Where are the children?” Amanda whispered.
“Huh? Could you hang on a moment?” Bob covered the bottom of the receiver. “What are you asking me?”
“The children—where are they?”
“They’re playing outside.”
“No they’re not.”
“They were a minute ago.”
“They’re not,” Amanda insisted. “The doors are wide open and no one’s there.”
“Just a moment.” Bob returned to the phone. “May I call you back in a few minutes? I have to deal with something here.”
Bob rose and retied his robe.
“You’re not even dressed!”
Bob walked past her without answering and began calling for the children. She followed him to the backyard.
“They were right here.”
“You left them alone—with a wading pool?”
“There’s only a little water in it.”
“Bob, children can drown in one inch of water! You know that!”
“I just stepped away for a second!”
Amanda was growing hysterical. “Where the fuck are they, Bob?”
Bob searched among the scrawny bushes as if they might be hiding behind them. Amanda ran to the front walk.
“Ben! Sophie!”
Bob joined her. He looked worried now too but was trying not to show it. “They can’t have gone far.”
“You’ve lost them! You’ve lost our children!”
“They’re not lost. Look, you go that way.”
They jogged up and down the short block calling out the children’s names. When there was no answer, they returned to the driveway of their house.
“I’m getting in the car,” Amanda said frantically. “I’ll drive around the streets. Do you think we ought to call the police?”
“Not yet.”
They heard the phone ringing inside. Amanda dashed ahead of Bob to answer it. It was Marjorie, who lived three doors down and was the mother of Hannah.
“Amanda—you’re there!” she exclaimed. “Ben and Sophie are at my house. I’ve been trying to reach you, but your phone has been busy for the past hour. I even sent Hannah over to knock on the door, but no one answered. Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Oh, Marjorie, thank you.” Amanda was breathless. “I’ll be right over.”
She hung up and turned to Bob. “They’re at Marjorie’s.”
He raised his hand as if to say he had known that all along; the gesture had the same effect as if Bob had just casually tossed a match into a pile of oil-soaked rags.
“How dare you!” Amanda erupted. “How dare you act like that! You didn’t leave them for ‘just a second’! You were on the phone for a whole hour!”
“It wasn’t that long.”
“Yes, it was—Marjorie just said so!” Amanda grabbed up her purse and keys. “And who the hell were you talking to anyway? Grace Bertelli? I can’t take this, Bob. I just can’t take any more of this.”
The children were sitting in front of Marjorie’s television set sharing a huge bowl of popcorn.
Amanda practically fell upon them and held their bodies tightly to her. Ben squirmed.
“Mom—it’s Space Rangers.”
“I’m sorry for this, Marjorie,” Amanda apologized. “Bob, he’s … home sick today. I went out to do some shopping and, well … he must have fallen asleep. Thank God they’re okay.”
“They rang my doorbell and said they were explorers from another planet,” Marjorie said, amused. “I’m just glad I was home.”
“So am I.” Amanda clapped her hands together. “Okay kids, time to go.”
“But Space Rangers isn’t over yet!”
“Who wants to go to Burger Chalet?”
“Me!”
“Me too!”
Amanda hustled them down the sidewalk and into the car. Through the screen door, she saw the shadow of Bob in his bathrobe, waiting for them. Go to hell, she thought.
Chapter Seventeen
THE NIGHTMARE WAS indifference. It was always indifference. She never dreamed about divorce, or illness, or death. Instead her life would be shown exactly as it was, except that Bob no longer cared about her. This time she came home and found Bob speaking on the phone to Grace Bertelli. He didn’t bother to hide the fact from her. He said, “May I call you back in a moment, Grace?” and when Amanda confronted him—“Why?” she yelled soundlessly, “why?”—he merely shrugged. “I just got bored.”
Amanda awoke with the terrible sense that there was no division between the nightmare and her real life. Bob was not sleeping beside her. She opened her eyes, instead, to the sight of the living room, and the bed she had made for herself on the pull-out sofa. In the past, when they had fought, it had been Bob who slept down here; Amanda had always claimed the territory of their bedroom. Last night, Bob seemed determined to punish her for taking the children out rather than bringing them home directly; in his mind, Amanda’s defiant act trumped his negligent one of losing them in the first place.
“I did a stupid thing,” he’d argued, “but you were deliberately cruel, taking them away before I could see them. You had no right to do that. Didn’t you think I was worried, too?”
“No,” she’d replied, “no, I didn’t think you were worried, because I didn’t think you cared—I don’t think you care a damn about any of us.”
“You really think that? You really think that, don’t you?”
Amanda Bright @ Home Page 21