I began opening drawers, scanning countertops, even pulling things out of cupboards. Where could they be?
“Juanita, Brad’s keys? Where are they?” I called again. I heard her slam the lid down on the washer. The boys were looking at me funny, their curly heads cocked to one side. They’d never seen Mommy play this game before. They could sense my panic, and they’d even stopped throwing Cheerios.
“Brad’s keys. Juanita, they’re not on the key rack,” I yelled again as she came into the room.
“No, they are not there,” she said. Which was irritating because I’d just said that.
“Where are they?” I asked, pulling wine corks, thumb tacks and coupons from our kitchen drawers. This was the last thing I needed after another sleepless night.
“Mr. Brad took them.”
I froze. “He what?”
“He took them. You missed. He go to work already,” she said again, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, instead of the biggest deviation from our normal routine. She picked up Timmy from his high chair, grabbing Benny in the other arm, and crooned to them in Spanish as she carried them out of the room.
And I was left standing in the middle of my messy kitchen, staring after her, dumbstruck.
Brad had left already?
I looked up at the clock. It was only six forty-five. Brad leaves for work at seven fifteen. He couldn’t have left already. Juniata must be wrong. Brad can’t find his keys by himself. That’s the one thing he still needs me for. He’d done the unthinkable, strayed from the uneventful, comfortable, utterly sanity-grasping rhythm that was our mundane lives.
And it was then I realized what I’d been missing all these months. That it isn’t the monotonous, predictable rhythm of our lives that keeps him going, it’s the escape he finds outside our life. Our life that ends when he grabs those Mercedes keys and leaves Yucca Drive and his dull wife behind.
Leaves her behind for what? His perky young receptionist? A beautiful, rich client? The hip coffee barista at Starbucks?
Ella, I’m leaving for work early so I can go screw Sierra. She may have a ring in her nose and pink hair, but she’s a minx in bed and serves one hell of a mocha frappuccino.
That thought haunted me as I forced down my burnt toast, threw on a pair of sneakers and drove to the gym. Maneuvering my SUV down I-15 to the two-story 24 Hour Fitness on Rainbow Boulevard to meet Mary, images of Brad screwing some twenty year old who smells like French Roast assaulted me from all angels until I found myself choking back dry tears. Even now as I power walk my way through last month’s issue of Cosmo on the treadmill beside Mary’s, my husband’s affair is all I can think about.
“I think my husband is having an affair,” I say.
Mary looks at me like I’ve just admitted to being from Mars.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
“Ella, you’re being paranoid. Brad’s not having an affair.”
“He could be.”
“Right. And I could be crowned Miss America.”
“Statistics say thirty percent of all married men cheat.”
“Where on earth did you get those statistics?”
“Cosmo.”
“Well, they can’t be right. Ella, you’re fine. Brad’s not cheating.” Mary puts her headphones on and turns her treadmill up.
God, Ella, how awful for you! Brad is a shit for cheating on you, you deserve much better than that. Tell me all about it, sweetie, and here’s a shoulder to cry on if you need it.
Though I can’t really fault Mary for putting her head in the sand. Isn’t that just what I’ve been doing for the past six months? Playing Susie Homemaker while my husband plays the hokey pokey with some bimbo.
I will myself not to think about it. Not to think about where he really might have been all those nights he’s had to “work.” The nights he’s come home smelling like perfume and explained it away as chemicals from the dermabrasions. God, was I really that gullible? He’d said he had to stay late because Karen Richardson’s facial peel wasn’t healing right.
Oh God. Is my husband screwing Karen Richardson?
I reach over and tap Mary on the shoulder. Reluctantly, she pulls her headphones off one ear.
“How do you know?” I ask. “How do you know Brad’s not having an affair?”
Mary purses her lips like she does when she’s thinking really hard.
“Why do you think he is?” she asks. Which gives me no reassurance at all. Because people only answer a question with a question when they have no good answer to the first question.
“He comes home late all the time. And he left early this morning. I think he’s avoiding me.”
“He’s a doctor, Ella. Don’t they all keep odd hours? Medical emergencies and all that?”
“He’s a dermatologist, Mary. Botox injections are not a medical emergency.”
“Well, did he say why he was late?”
“A patient.” I picture Karen in her matchy robe, standing on the porch as she waves to her husband, her hair and makeup perfectly glued into place. I’d almost prefer he was screwing Sierra.
“Well, there you go,” Mary says, shrugging her shoulders. “He was with a patient.”
“It was my neighbor,” I say. I don’t know why I can’t let this conversation die the death that Mary so obviously wants it to. I know her mother’s divorce track record. I know it’s making her uncomfortable, but someone has to listen. My husband may be screwing the president of the Homeowners’ Association!
I think back to the last conversation I had with Karen. She came over to finalize some amendments to the Association budget. We were sitting in my Laura Ashley living room, watching Days of our Lives and Karen started talking about soap opera affairs. She was talking about Bo and Hope and how even though they have been together forever and are the show’s perfect couple, they’ve both cheated on each other. Never mind that Hope was drugged by Stefano, it was still cheating. Under the right circumstances anyone could cheat. I didn’t agree with her. But I didn’t disagree. I nodded and smiled and pretended I followed the soap too, even though I can’t stand to watch happy couples making out in the afternoon.
But now I wonder if circumstances were right between her and my husband.
Brad, I’ve been drugged by an evil villain. Take me now, quickly, so I can justify screwing you to your wife as I serve her weak decaf at our next Homeowners’ Association meeting.
“Ella, Brad is not having an affair.” Mary takes a sip from her water bottle.
“Mary, do you realize I have gained seven pounds since I got married? Men don’t like it when their wives let themselves go.”
“Oh, come on. You didn’t let yourself go. You had twins.”
“Yes. And they are nine months old now and I still weigh seven extra pounds.”
“I have no sympathy,” she says looking down at her own figure. Mary isn’t fat, just pleasantly plump. Something she may or may not be aware of. So, I drop the issue.
“Brad is not cheating on you. You are fabulous. And I,” she says, stepping off the treadmill, “am pooped. I’m going to sit in the sauna for a while.” And she does just that, leaving me alone with my Cosmo and its adultery statistics.
I step off my own treadmill and position myself on a thigh flexor machine in the long row of Cybex machines. I look at myself in the wall of mirrors. Is Brad cheating on me because I’m overweight? I carefully inspect my reflection as I begin my first set. It’s not an entirely unappealing image, but there is a truth to the fact that my body has changed since the twins were born. It’s not the dancer’s body I always had. It’s more of a mother’s body now. Comfortably padded in some places and a little saggier in others.
I remember when I first found out I was pregnant, I asked my doctor about the stretch marks. He laughed and said, “Well, they’re a fact of pregnancy.” A fact of pregnancy? No one told me about this. No one told me my body would be irrevocably scarred for life. Why isn’t this on the box of condoms a
long with the STD warnings? Warning: failure to use this product may result in unsightly stretch marks, saggy breasts, thinning hair and occasional loss of bladder control. Trust me, teen pregnancy rates would drop in a heartbeat.
Not that I regret getting pregnant. I love my boys. I just don’t love the stretch marks, which though faded with time, still run like silvery little fault lines across my once perfect belly. I don’t love the little rim of baby fat that sits on my middle no matter how many crunches I do. And I really hate that there is no amount of push-ups in the world that will perk my breasts back up to topless revue standards again.
Karen Richardson adopted her daughter from the Ukraine. I bet her breasts aren’t saggy.
I finish my set, turning away from my depressing reflection to move on to the bicep curls. I lay my towel out on the cushions so as not to touch the places where other sweaty bodies have touched and pause to a sip from my sports bottle when a Barbie clone, all cute and perky and definitely not anyone’s mother, sits down at the machine beside me. She begins doing tricep lifts, and my jaw drops open when I see how much weight she’s lifting. Who knew a skinny thing like that could be so strong?
I start my first set of curls, slowly up and down, but instead of watching my own form in the mirrors, I’m not ashamed to say my gaze strays to Barbie. She’s lifting twice what I am, and there’s not even a bead of sweat on her evenly tanned forehead. I look at my reflection. I’m sweating like a pig. Barbie is dressed in a cute pink pair of spandex capris, a pink cropped top with faux crystals across the front that spell out “Diva.” She’s even wearing a matching pink tie on her sun-bleached hair. She has the coolest running shoes, gray and pink with little see-through lifts in the back that make her look ready to spring into action at any second.
I turn back to my reflection.
I’m wearing baggy gray jogging pants and a navy blue Nike top. My hair is pulled back into a no-fuss ponytail with thin little wisps escaping on the sides. My shoes are non-descript white cross-trainers from Big 5. Boring.
God, if I was married to me, I’d cheat too. I am so damn boring. I have an average sized nose, average size chin, pale eyes, pale skin, pale hair. Nothing about me stands out, and I’m not one of those women who’s blessed with a personality that stands out either. Not like Kit who’s so magnetic or Mary who’s quirky. I’m just… boring.
I do one last set of curls then decide to join Mary in the sauna. I don’t think I can stand sitting next to Sporty Barbie any longer without suddenly having the urge to slit my wrists. Or hers.
After peeling off my sweaty Nike blah outfit in favor of a big white towel, I step into the steamy depths of the sauna room. The thick air makes it suddenly difficult to breathe, but my muscles relax instantly as I sink down next to Mary. She’s deeply engrossed in an issue of People.
“He’s not having an affair,” Mary says, as if she’s been contemplating the issue this whole time.
I shift beside her on the teak bench and look into her sincere brown eyes. I’m tempted to tell her. Tell her that Brad and I have been living separate lives for the last six months, and we’re as good as strangers now. Tempted to tell her that my neighbor is perfect and stands on her porch every morning like an orange juice commercial to say goodbye to her husband, then screws my husband at the Rejuviskin clinic.
But I don’t. Why kill Mary’s faith in men too? Besides, if Brad is screwing Karen Richardson, what good would telling Mary really do anyway? Sure, it would be nice to talk to someone about it, but I just don’t think Mary’s that someone. I’d feel more guilty about shattering her belief in happily-ever-after-that-ring-drops-on-your-finger than comforted. Besides, I’m setting her up on a blind date tomorrow, I can’t ruin her faith in men now.
“No,” I say instead. “You’re probably right.”
I’m spared further discussion as two women walk into the sauna to join us. Just my luck it’s Sporty Barbie and her clone, Tanning Salon Barbie. Perky, blonde and abnormally shaped, I swear they should have the Mattel logo stamped on their feet. One takes off her towel and lays it on the bench, sitting comfortably nude in front of us. I suddenly feel self-conscious, tugging my towel tighter around myself. Mary’s cheeks turn red, and I’m not sure if it’s the fact this woman’s double D’s are in her face or if it’s just the heated steam.
The nude turns to her friend. “I totally nailed that turn, you know? I was so totally there. But did she say anything? No. I still had to practice until, like, three in the morning.”
They’re dancers. I should have known with bodies like those. I should have recognized those cellulite free legs and impossibly tight bellies. I used to have those.
“Malia is such a bitch. I remember when Dana was the lead captain. Now, she was good.”
“No joke. Dana rocked.”
Oh, I know Dana! “Dana Hunter?” I ask.
Both Barbies turn and look at me as if noting my presence for the first time.
“I dunno, I think so,” one of them answers.
“Black hair, tall, little mole right here?” I ask, indicating my upper lip.
“Yeah, that’s her,” Sporty Barbie says, looking at me with curiosity now.
“Oh, I used to dance with her. In Jubilee.”
They both look me up and down. I’m acutely aware that I’m only wearing a towel as Tanning Salon Barbie raises her plucked eyebrows in disbelief.
“You used to dance?” she asks, with a little half snicker quirking her lips.
You are, like, seven pounds too heavy to be a dancer and way too stretch marky. Maybe in your dreams Dullsville, but you are so totally not a dancer anymore.
“Well, it was a long time ago,” I concede, wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. The Barbies are still staring at me, and I feel Sporty Barbie taking stock of my every cellulite ripple as her gaze rakes me over. Tanning Salon Barbie is staring at my I-breast-fed-twins chest. I have a sudden and overwhelming urge to be fully clothed. I turn to Mary, who’s been silently watching the exchange. “I’ll meet you outside,” I mumble and quickly exit the sauna. I snatch my clothes from my locker and barricade myself into one of the bathroom stalls to change.
I used to dance.
That’s about the heart of it. I used to do a lot of things.
It all happened so fast and every step of the way I thought it was exactly what I wanted. Marriage, kids, a house in the suburbs. And now here I am. Living the exact life I asked for. And all I want is to go back to a time when I was a Barbie twin too.
Now, I could understand if Brad was having an affair with one of them. Wouldn’t that be funny? He’d be having an affair with who I used to be before he turned me into who I am now.
* * *
That night I meet Brad in my bedroom. Odd that I’ve come to think of it as my bedroom. It used to be ours. Just like we used to have a life. Now he has his life and I have mine. Only my life is as Ella Brad’s Wife so I’m not even sure if it really counts as my own anymore.
I’m just emerging from the bathroom, having gone through my nightly skin ritual of cleansers and copper infused collagen lotions. Brad’s pulling shirts out of the closet, stacking them on the bed for the dry cleaners. I feel oddly vulnerable that Brad’s caught me in my flannel nightgown with my skin all red and shiny from my exfoliating scrub. It’s almost like he’s a stranger that shouldn’t see me undone like this.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to notice my presence and say something. Only he doesn’t.
Sylvia has the twins down in bed, and Juanita’s gone for the day, and it’s just Brad and me alone in our too-big bedroom, a thick silence in the air between us. I wonder if he ever feels this kind of awkward silence when he’s with Karen Richardson. Or are they just too busy screwing each other’s brains out to care? I wonder what he’d say if I asked him what he was really doing today at the clinic. Would he bother to deny the affair if I confronted him? Honestly, I can’t bear to find out.
“We’re having a h
ouseguest,” I say instead.
“What kind of houseguest?” he asks, without bothering to look at me.
“A friend.”
“Jesus, Ella, don’t you think this place is full enough as it is?” Brad sighs and turns around to face me. “Who is it?”
I pause, suddenly losing my voice as he stares at me. He has the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen. That was one of the things that first attracted me to Brad. His eyes. They were so soulful, like there was so much untold hiding behind them. He was closed and mysterious, I never knew what he was thinking, but I could tell by those deep eyes that it was something significant. Something amazing that he was just waiting until the right moment to share with me.
Only he never does.
“Ella?” he says again, clearly impatient with me.
“We’re having a houseguest,” I repeat stupidly. “Julio is coming to stay here for a few days.”
“Julio?”
“David’s… roommate.” I hesitate to say boyfriend because even though David is about as subtle as a steamroller, Brad and I have never discussed the fact that he’s gay. I don’t think Brad has any gay friends. Dermatologists are not gay. Well, that isn’t true. Dermatologists don’t tell other dermatologists that they’re gay. In fact, I would venture to say there’s at least one person on staff at Brad’s clinic who has actually dated David. But I won’t tell Brad that.
“Is David staying here too?”
“No. Just Julio. David’s parents are in town, and he needs the room.”
“Great. So suddenly we’re a hotel?”
“He’s my friend.”
Brad’s eyes narrow. “Are these the same friends you went out with the other night?”
“Yes. Why?”
Brad just shakes his head, pulling another soiled pair of slacks out of the closet and adding it to his growing pile.
“Look, Julio needs somewhere to stay so…” I pause. Knowing Brad hasn’t gotten the significance of this yet. That we only have one guest room, and having a guest means he’ll have to sleep in his boring wife’s bed. “So, he’s staying in the guestroom for a few days.”
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