“Yes. And now you have an excuse not to make love tonight.”
That one hit me right in the chest, but I looked down at my laptop. “Work, Rafe. I have work to do. We don’t all get to play in kitchens every day.”
Thus, our first fight was about food.
He was a chef. He didn’t understand that food was my enemy when it was practically his lover.
Mealtimes together, few though they were, became tense. Either I overate, resenting him for cooking something irresistible, or I barely ate, insulting him. I couldn’t tell him that eating what he considered to be a normal portion would make me gain weight. That while he ate slowly, savoring the meal, I wanted to shove it all in my mouth at once, have seconds, and thirds, then vomit it all up in the bathroom. I felt like he was watching me all the time, daring me not to eat, or daring me to starve myself, always noticing what I put in my mouth, always measuring it.
It was like living with my mother again. At night, when he was at the restaurant and I was working, always working, I’d order Chinese or Thai food, then take the empty containers down to the trash so he wouldn’t see them in the kitchen bin.
I knew I was the problem, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t find the words to talk about it—food, weight, size, sorrow, insecurity. Who would love a person with such hang-ups? The woman he’d met and dated had been confident and funny and dry. I loved him too much for him not to love me . . . which was making me hate him.
Food, my eternal foe and best friend, had come back to ruin me.
Our happiness was eroding. Our sex life suffered, because I was too worried about being attractive enough, hot enough, daring enough. I started thinking of ways to avoid sex, then overcompensated when we did do it. Rafe never knew who he was getting—someone who’d have cramps/period/migraine/sore throat, or a voracious sex beast acting out a scene from a porno.
“There is something wrong between us,” he said one night in the dark after a round of weird, insincere sex.
The words were a knife.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really stressed at work.” And then I launched into a tale of a complicated case I was working on, using every legal term I could, every detail, every coworker involved.
He knew I was lying. He wasn’t stupid.
Though he came home late every night, he started coming home later. Was he sleeping with someone else? I couldn’t blame him. Was she one of the servers, one of those naturally slender, blessed and beautiful women with great asses, flat stomachs and perky boobs?
The space between us grew deeper, a great murky sinkhole in the middle of that beautiful garden I’d glimpsed.
Meanwhile, ironically, work was going great. I didn’t love it, but I told myself no first-year ever loved work. But my briefs and input were getting me the coveted attention of the senior partner in our division, Anthony Dewitt.
He was in his late thirties, divorced, handsome, appreciative of my work and near-perfect memory. Anthony was also just a tiny bit flirty—not in any way that made me uncomfortable, but in a way that made me feel . . . special. When I handed him a brief, he’d glance through it and murmur, “Where have you been all my life?” One Friday night around seven (we had a trial coming up), he leaned in my doorway and said, “Do you have plans for dinner? Oh, wait, of course you do. You’re a newlywed. Lucky guy, your husband.”
“Actually, he’ll be working till one or two tonight,” I heard myself say.
“Want to grab something? It’s the least I can do, since you’re here, slogging away for me.”
It wasn’t an affair. But it sure as hell let me put more distance between Rafe and me, and I felt safer that way. Safer from Rafe.
Anthony was nice. We were close enough that we could share little bits of our pasts, far enough that we could keep the ugly parts hidden. Rafe, in contrast, was a hunter, tracking me, waiting for me to show myself, his gun always raised.
Anthony wore killer suits, always with a beautiful silk tie and pocket square. Just like my dad. He texted me from time to time, always about work, never anything inappropriate, but he did it more and more often as he grew to rely on me. And always in that super-friendly way. Georgia on my mind, page 4, under 3.1.4.3(d). 10-12% reduction in ozone . . . is that correct? Love, Ray Charles.
Get it? “Georgia on My Mind,” the iconic song, the only reason I could find to love my name.
That, and the way it sounded when Rafael said it.
I dropped by the restaurant at least once a week to show my support (and remind any female staffers that Rafe was married). I always made sure to be outgoing and cheerful and affectionate, trying to show Rafe how proud I was of him. Because I was. He worked like an ox, his food was magic, and the restaurant was a runaway hit, garnering a great review in the Times. He was amazing and wonderful, and he made me nervous every minute we were together.
Except for that first fight, we didn’t talk about what was really wrong. A lifetime of arming myself against my family, pretending not to care, had trained me to duck and cover any real emotions.
One rare Sunday afternoon when the weather was nice and my eyes had gotten sticky from reading case law, Rafe and I took a walk, heading for Central Park. We held hands, but it was stiff and strange and awkward, like our hands no longer fit together.
“We need to talk,” he said as we crossed Central Park West, the Dakota looming darkly.
“About what?” I was such an ass. I knew what. A little kid passed us on a scooter, his nanny following listlessly, eyes on her phone.
“About us. About how you will come to the restaurant, all sweetness and hugs, but pretend to be asleep when I come home. About how you lock the bathroom door when you are taking a shower. About the way you don’t look me in the eyes anymore.”
I swallowed. Was there anything worse than a man in touch with his feelings?
“I just like some privacy in the bathroom, that’s all. I don’t need an audience when I shave my legs.” My cheeks were hot with shame.
“What is going on, Georgia? You are not happy. You are on that phone of yours all the time.”
“Well, I have to be! I’m a first-year associate, Rafe. And I am happy. I’m just . . . busy. And yes, marriage is an adjustment.” Tell him, idiot, begged some distant, well-adjusted part of my brain.
My self-loathing about my body, my lonely childhood, my brother’s endless campaign of hate, Big Kitty’s obsession with my size, my father becoming a family man only after he’d left me behind . . . all of those things had tattooed my soul, and the words inked there said not enough.
This marriage was built on sand. The woman Rafe fell in love with was fiction.
I didn’t have the words to tell him those things.
He stopped walking and looked out over the Sheep Meadow, where couples were lying on blankets, soaking up the sun. Four or five kids were playing tag, and one little girl was spinning in a circle, giddy and laughing.
“Do you want a divorce?” He didn’t look at me.
“No!” Did I? Did our marriage already have an infection that couldn’t be stopped? “Do you?”
“No.” His eyes were so sad. We continued walking, but I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
But the word had been spoken, and the infection turned into gangrene. We all know what the cure for that is. Amputation. To soften the blow, I started to justify to myself why divorce would be for the best.
We’d rushed into this, after all. We’d only known each other a year before getting married. We were from different cultures (his, warm and loving; mine, repressed and cold). Our work hours were ridiculous. We were a case of opposites attract.
All of a sudden, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him smile. At me, anyway. He smiled at work all the frigging time. The thought made me angry and guilty and heartbroken all at once. I missed the old me, the one who was c
onfident and quiet. The one who’d been appreciated for being wallpaper, the one who was never expected to . . . well . . . shine.
And then there was Anthony, my boss—steady, constant, easy. Rafe simply wanted more than I could give. Anthony didn’t need anything other than my good cheer. If there was a level of flirtation beneath our work (and there was), it was harmless.
Right.
When our department won our case, Anthony took us all out for dinner—three lawyers, two spouses. “Where’s your husband?” Anthony asked me. They’d met once or twice, when Rafe had come to my office to take me to lunch. “I love that guy.”
“He had to work, unfortunately.” The truth was, I hadn’t told Rafe about this dinner.
“We should’ve gone to his restaurant, then!”
“It wasn’t a good night for him,” I lied. “A private party.” Shame curled around my heart like an ember.
“Well. I was hoping he could be here for this.” He handed each of us a small, narrow box. Inside was a Cartier watch, absolutely stunning.
“Kind of a tradition at the firm,” he said. He put it on my wrist, his fingers perfectly neutral, and did the same with Nana, the other female lawyer on the team. Did his eyes linger on mine? Did it matter?
For whatever reason, that dinner was the point of no return. Rafe got quieter and quieter, his hours and mine making it so we were almost surprised to see each other.
Rafe brought up counseling. We went to one session, where the therapist opened with, “Most couples who come to counseling are already finished with their marriage.” For the next forty-five minutes, we gave stiff answers and received nothing in the way of advice on how to fix our sorry state. We never went back. Rafe stopped trying to talk, to knock down the wall. After all, I’d spent twenty-nine years building that wall. That motherfucker was sturdy.
I continued to do well at work, though a creeping realization was dawning . . . I didn’t like being a lawyer. It was like I was cursed with this memory, my ability to formulate those tortuous, endless legal sentences. There was no challenge for me, no thrill, just the dredging up of facts and making connections between case law and our clients’ issues.
But there was Anthony with the compliments, the slightest edge of chemistry between us bringing an energy to the workday, the conversations, the many, many texts. We went from talking only about work to something slightly more personal—a text from him at nine p.m.
You have to watch Breaking Bad. I think we should hire Saul Goodman. Why hasn’t anyone told me to watch this show?
Me: I’m sorry. I thought you lived in America. Breaking Bad has been over for years. Plot spoiler . . .
Him: Don’t you dare. I want Walter to live a long and healthy life as drug lord of the desert, teaching Walter Jr. his craft.
Me: Sounds like a Father’s Day Very Special Television Event.
It was harmless. Mostly. And then came the inevitable blurring of lines. A text saying I looked extra nice that day. A second later, another text, saying if that was inappropriate, he was sorry.
I told him it wasn’t, and thanks. Also, I liked his purple handkerchief and tie combo. Very dapper.
A month later Rafe and I acknowledged our first anniversary with an awkward dinner and lovemaking afterward. We didn’t bring up the misery of this first year.
A few weeks after that, he came home at ten p.m., which was early for him. I had been working and eating out of a quart of pork lo mein, having polished off two egg rolls already. I jolted out of my chair when he came through the door, horrified that he’d caught me bingeing.
He sat down on the couch across from me and just looked at me for a minute. The shame of my meal sat between us—the wrappers, the dirty plate, the half-empty bottle of wine. The history of me was on that coffee table. I hated him for seeing it and sucked in my stomach hard, wishing, wishing, wishing I hadn’t gotten fat again.
It was always about weight.
“I read your texts,” Rafe said quietly. “While you were asleep last night, I took your phone to see where your attention has been.”
There were probably hundreds of texts from Anthony by now. I’d never erased them. All of them bespoke intimacy, friendship, humor. All the things Rafe and I had lost.
I started to defend myself, then stopped. Technically, no, Anthony and I had never crossed a line. But my toes were on that line, and even if I never would’ve cheated on my husband, I had wanted another man to come between us.
The shame burned.
“I think it is time that we consider a separation, Georgia.”
I wanted to cry. To beg him to start over with me. To tell him I’d be different.
“So you’re pulling the jealous Latin husband, then?” I said instead. “I didn’t think you were so insecure.”
“You are the one who is insecure, Georgia! Do you think I have missed the fact that you have a problem with eating, with your weight? And yet I love you for more than those things. Why does that not matter as much?”
“So your love should erase every bad thought I’ve ever had? I’m sorry. It’s not that simple.”
“You refuse to talk to me about it. That is not love. Instead, you have turned to this other man.”
“Why would I ever imagine you can understand? You’re a chef. You just don’t get it.”
“So I have to become obese in order to love my wife? Is that what you are saying?”
“Did you just call me obese? Wow! Wow, Rafe!”
The fight was ugly. We both yelled. And when I said my last words to him, words so horrible that I hated myself like I never had before, he covered his eyes.
My heart broke.
“Get out,” he said quietly, not taking his hand away.
I had made him cry, and self-hatred punched me hard. “Rafe—” I began.
“Please, Georgia. Get out.”
Step by step, I had ruined the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me, ground it into the dirt because losing him was easier than living with the fear of losing him. The stupidity of it, the cruelty of my heart, was something I could not bear. To have hurt Rafael, the kindest, most wonderful person I’d ever met . . .
“Okay,” I whispered.
That one small word ended our marriage. It was better that way. I was just skipping ahead to the inevitable ending. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
CHAPTER 13
Marley
Stop eating when you’re sad.
(It’s not on the list, but it sure as hell should be.)
“Yes, Mom! I’ll be there,” I said. “Don’t you dare call the police again.”
“Honey, it was that one time.”
“One time for me, one time for Eva.” I tucked the phone against my ear and turned the crank on the pasta maker. Gluten free for the Goldbergs, gluten full for the Levinsons, so I had to make two batches and didn’t have time to argue with my mom. And yet, arguing was the song of our people.
“Fine! Sue me! I was worried. I’m your mother, I love you, you were late, and I pictured you dead in a ditch with crows pecking out your eyes.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“You’ll understand someday. When you have kids of your own.” The familiar threat/plea/prayer.
“If that happy day ever comes,” I said patiently, “you can teach me your positive visualizations. Crows pecking, ditches, dying. And just for the record, I told you I wasn’t coming that one time. I called you, texted you and e-mailed you.”
“Honey, it was our family dinner night. You never forget!”
“I didn’t forget, Ma. I had a hair appointment. The one time in the history of my life I missed a family dinner! Dante misses all the time, and you never harass him.”
“Sweetie, this is not harassing. This is love.” She paused. “Also, your brother saves lives for a living.”
“You didn’t answer your phone!”
“I was having highlights done! I didn’t hear it ring.”
“So? Of course I was worried. I still worry.”
The unspoken hung in the air. I lost one child already. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, too. I softened. “Mom. I am coming tonight, so rest easy. I’ll see you in just a few hours. I have to go, okay? I’m cooking. Love you.”
“I love you, too, baby.”
I smiled, tapped end with floury fingers and got back to work.
The kitchen was the best part of my apartment. And listen. This apartment was fantastic.
Unlike my best friend/landlord, I didn’t go crazy with colors. It was very tasteful down here, the kitchen and living room walls the color of wet sand, the trim painted white. I had a gorgeous brown leather sofa and a floral-print armchair. Lots of framed photos, lots of plants, including pots of herbs on the kitchen windowsill, more planted in the courtyard garden, which burst with plants—flowers, hydrangeas, a little Japanese maple tree, boxwoods, and a lilac tree whose scent made me drunk in the spring.
All my doing. Georgia had a black thumb; I loved growing things. Loved flowers. Loved bringing them to Georgia, who was always so charmed, and to my mom, who would always snap a shot and put them on her Instagram account, the better to shame Eva, who did things like forget Mother’s Day.
Also, I hated having downtime.
Being alone was okay if I was super busy. Being quiet and alone . . . I hated that. That’s when the not-here of Frankie dragged me down.
People love twins. It’s a universal delight, and faces light up all across the world when they hear the magic word. Twins! You’re so lucky! How fun!
What do you do when you were like me? I hated telling people I had a twin who’d died. It was too huge, too sad. Once, a long time ago, I’d asked Dante not to use the word twin, and in a rare moment of pure empathy, he’d hugged me long and close. “I wish you and I were the twins,” he’d said, even though he was three years younger, and I cried so hard I think I scared him.
Good Luck with That Page 14