Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  “Keep it.” His full lips bend into a conciliatory smile. “I can pay her tuition.”

  Here he goes again, sounding generous when really he’s trying to buy me off so he can boast to others about how fair he’s been. He’s never understood this about me: I don’t care about hoarding money or things. Never did and never will. “And I can afford to contribute.”

  Some might consider me lucky because, along with my suitcases, I take a comfortable nest egg and alimony—enough that I’m not panicked about establishing a career after all these years at home. But he’s still gotten off pretty cheaply for betraying me and our old dreams. Naturally, I don’t share my feelings or let him see my pain.

  “Fine, Anne.” He rolls his eyes and checks his watch. “Jesus, I’m trying to be a decent guy.”

  Too little, too late.

  A laundry list of insults cycles through my mind like ticker tape, but I literally bite my tongue when another image of Katy’s splotchy face from this morning flickers through my mind. All the time spent filling her life with love and opportunity means very little in light of one inescapable reality: by letting our family fall apart, Richard and I have fundamentally failed our daughter.

  Condemning my husband is pointless. However we got here, the result is the same.

  The brokers return, confirm the payments, congratulate us all, and quickly show us out. Even though I never loved that house, the finality of what’s happening hits me like a board to the face. My married life and home are truly lost to me. There will be no going back. No fixing what broke. I’m starting over at thirty-seven. That prospect festers like an ulcer. All I know is how to be a wife and mother.

  My hands tremble for a split second as I grapple with my purse strap. Please, God, don’t let Richard see my strength falter. His affair humiliated me. He can never know how badly he’s hurt me, too.

  The buyers walk ahead of us, holding hands. The woman is decked out in a Trina Turk “Vanah” dress, diamonds and sapphires in her ears and around her neck and wrists, and cute platform espadrilles. Her husband is attractive in a Tom Hardy way and carries his success like Richard does—chin up, shoulders proud.

  I can picture him—much like my soon-to-be ex—proudly moving into that home that has three times more space than any family needs. What he doesn’t yet know is that four stories and a dozen rooms make it too easy to slink away from each other for entire evenings. Bit by bit that disconnect—the physical space between each person—becomes the sort of emotional distance that loosens family bonds. Not that you see it happening in the moment.

  I’ve often wondered whether Richard and I might’ve stayed together if we’d remained in the two-thousand-square-foot home we’d previously owned. Questions like that keep me up nights.

  A decade ago, we were excited. Happy. A young family on our way up. The problem with rising so high so fast? When you fall—and that fall will come, usually when you least expect it—you smack the ground so hard a part of you dies.

  Once reanimated, you feel more like a roamer on The Walking Dead than a person.

  Richard leans in as if he might kiss my cheek, but stops short when I flinch. “Good luck, Anne. Hope you don’t die of boredom in that small town.”

  His condescension pricks the ugly bitterness that has blistered beneath my skin since his May confessional.

  “Well, I survived life with you, so how bad can Potomac Point be?” I pat his shoulder twice. “Don’t worry about me. Save your energy for staying sane while Lauren has you stuck at home raising her young kids. I’ll be sure to send postcards from Paris and Prague to give you goals to look forward to in another twelve or fourteen years.”

  I turn away and walk to my car without looking back so he can’t see my brave face slip. The truth is I’d wanted more kids but, after the agony of a late-term miscarriage, chose to focus all my love on Katy and her anxieties. Once she’d turned six, Richard no longer wanted to bring an infant into our lives. Another decision to regret, I suppose, because both Katy and I might be better off if we had another person in our shrinking family.

  By the time my car door closes, fresh tears blur my vision. Contrary to my goal, I did not escape that closing with my dignity intact—behaving no better than my teen daughter.

  It takes a bunch of tugging and a good lick to wrench my wedding rings from my finger. In the sunlight their dazzling sparkle is full of false promise, so I drop them into my purse. I stretch the fingers of my bare left hand, which now looks as unfamiliar as everything else about my undone life.

  Richard wasn’t the husband I’d hoped he’d be, and ours hadn’t been the perfect marriage. But I’ve given so much of myself to that life that I can’t stand the way it’s ending. He’s skipping forward as if our years together meant nothing, leaving me behind on an uncertain path. Seeing him quickly—and happily—replace our family stings like an ice-cold shower.

  I’ve been telling myself I’m not running. Telling myself that this move will be for the best.

  Please, God, let me be right.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KATY

  I tuck my dab pen back in my purse before asking the Uber driver to drop me off on Connecticut Avenue, less than a block from the front door of my dad’s office building in DC. A quick glance in the mirror on the back of my phone reflects my bright-red eyes.

  I shouldn’t have taken that second hit. Haven’t quite got the hang of this yet, but after my dad moved out in June, my friend Jen saved me with this little gift.

  “I’ll tip you on the app.” I wave at the Uber dude before exiting his ancient Honda.

  “Thanks!”

  He pulls away from the curb as soon as I close the door. His car putters off, leaving me in the shadow of the multistory building that is basically my dad’s second home. It’s near Nordstrom Rack and GW University, so there are actually a lot of people close to my age in the vicinity.

  The first time I remember coming here was for a Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. Fourth grade. Mom had dressed me in a blue velvet dress from Crewcuts, a sparkle headband, tights, and gray suede ankle boots. She’d stuffed my backpack with a sketch pad, colored pencils that smelled like cherries and grapes and lemons, and a copy of Wonderstruck.

  Dad had let me sit at his desk and explained to me what he did. Reading and writing those contracts every day sounded boring, but I saw the same buzz in his eyes then that he got whenever I made him proud. I’ve tried to make him proud all the time so he’d make it home for dinner or spend more time with me on the weekends than just our Sunday-morning runs. Now, we don’t even have those.

  When I yank on the heavy glass door, the lobby I’ve entered less than a dozen times since that first day is pretty much the same: shiny cream-colored marble tile floors inlaid inside a hideous rose-colored border, mirrors and brass on the walls, the scuffle of shoes coming and going, the bell tones from the elevator banks behind the security desk.

  Normally I get really nervous here, but my muscles are finally loosening thanks to that second hit. Things move in slow motion as I cross to the security desk, sign in, stick a little badge on my shirt, and head to the elevator. Top floor. My dad’s corner office has a pretty sweet view.

  When I get off the elevator, I stop at the reception desk rather than risk catching my dad in his office with Lauren. She works here, too. High as I am, if I see her, I might do or say something nobody will like—like the first time I met her, right after Dad moved out. He’d brought her to lunch without warning me, so I ignored her the entire time.

  My mom might hover too much, but she’d never blindside me.

  The receptionist looks maybe five years older than me. Blonde—like Lauren. Big boobs—also like Lauren. My mom isn’t sexy. She’s just a mom. Brown, curly hair that she pulls into a ponytail most days. Hardly wears makeup. Smiles way too much for any normal person most of the time—but not so much this summer.

  Didn’t she know that all the gold diggers in this office would go after him? I mean, h
e’s loaded, he’s nice-looking for an old guy, and he’s so smart. Everybody wants his attention. Mom was careless to let her guard down. But Dad didn’t just leave her. He left me, too. If he really thought I was so special, he wouldn’t do that.

  “Hi. Can you let my dad know I’m here—Richard Chase, I mean.” I clear my throat and try to pull myself together so he can’t tell that I vaped. “I’m Katy.”

  The cheap-looking version of Lauren smiles at me. “Sure, Katy. Go ahead and take a seat.”

  While she connects to my dad’s office, I plop onto the leather sofa. This area reminds me a little of home. Our old home. The Tibetan carpet. The reds and golds and burnished brown decor, with glossy wood tables. Classic. Like Dad and his navy blue suits.

  My eyes water, so I close them and swallow the lump in my throat. Round and round I twine a long strand of hair until there is almost no feeling left in my fingertip.

  “Katy.” My eyes pop open to catch my dad crossing the small reception area, his arms open for me, with a book in one hand.

  I untangle my hair and push off the sofa. For the few seconds I’m smooshed against his chest, there is hope. “Hey, Dad.”

  He eases away and tips my chin up with his fingers. “Have you been crying?”

  At least it’s an excuse for my red eyes. I don’t lie, exactly. Just shrug my shoulders and let him draw his own conclusion. That earns me another hug and a kiss on the top of my head.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. Is he, though? Because he could change his mind if he really was sorry. Mom might take him back if I begged.

  “Yeah.” My stomach tenses. We have to leave before Lauren appears. “Can we go eat?”

  “Yes.” He glances over his shoulder at Big Boobs. “Gretchen, I’ll be out for ninety minutes.”

  Ninety minutes. I’m lucky he gave me any time on a workday. Normally he wouldn’t. Still, now every time I see him will be a “visit” reduced to some kind of time frame. Forty-eight-hour weekends. Two-week vacations. Wednesday-night dinners.

  My lungs turn to ash. I almost kick his shin and run out on him the way he’s run out on me. But that will only convince him that he’s better off with Lauren.

  On the elevator, he hands me Malcolm Gladwell’s book Talking to Strangers. “I just finished this and thought you might like it. I don’t agree with all his conclusions, but there are some really interesting insights about reading people—or misreading them. In our multicultural world, I think it’s important to better understand this so you can communicate well. Bottom line, we jump to conclusions about strangers based on very little information, though we shouldn’t, because they are as nuanced and complicated as we are.”

  “Cool.” I smile and take the book although it’s the last thing I care about right now. He should worry more about reading me than reading strangers.

  “KAZ?” he asks as we exit the building.

  “Sure.” KAZ Sushi Bistro is a short walk, and we both like sushi.

  When we get to the restaurant, I slide onto the tan suede bench seat against the wall and let my dad have the chair at our small table so he won’t be distracted by things going on around us. He orders himself a hot sake and me an iced tea—my usual.

  “So, how are you handling everything?” He folds his hands on his lap.

  Gripping the sides of the small table, I drop a big hint about what I want from him. “I don’t want to leave my friends and school.”

  “I know that’s hard, but try to focus on the positive, like living near a beach. Your mom loves it there, so you probably will, too.” His weak smile proves he doesn’t believe that. I’m more like him than her. Why is he acting like his leaving Mom and me is no big deal?

  “Seriously, Dad? She keeps talking about how we can go draw by the bay.” Two years ago I overheard him arguing with Mom when I thought about taking a line-drawing class. “Anne, you know as well as anyone how impossible it is to make a living in art. Katy can be anything she wants—except a starving artist.” If he cares so much about my future, then he shouldn’t let Mom take me to public school. “Nobody takes their kids out of Whitman Prep. You guys are ruining my life.”

  A notification ping snags my attention, but I don’t look. Jen or Mom, probably. Neither matters as much as this conversation right now. Dad’s focused on folding the paper napkin like an accordion, as if he hasn’t spent the past sixteen years priming me for valedictorian glory.

  The waitress brings our drinks, so Dad puts me off longer by ordering lunch. We’re down to sixty-seven minutes.

  “I’ll have the Chirashi.” He gestures to me.

  I glance at the waitress. “May I please have the Temaki Special—salmon and avocado, spicy tuna, and crunchy shrimp?”

  She nods, takes our menus, and disappears. It takes a beat or two before I accept the fact that he’s going to ignore my hints. I’m used to my mom skirting around things, but not so much my dad.

  My history as the result of an unplanned pregnancy isn’t a secret. Mom says that it was the happiest of accidents, but if that were true, Dad wouldn’t be leaving me. My arms and legs buzz with heat and electricity, but I blurt, “Can’t I stay with you?”

  I hold my breath until I’m dizzy.

  He tugs at his shirtsleeve cuffs. “Honey, Lauren and I have just moved in to a new house with her children. It’s not the best time for another change.”

  I absorb that blow like a prizefighter. It’s almost verbatim what my mom said when I begged her to let me stay in Arlington with Dad. That conversation probably gutted her as much as his answer just did me, which means I made her even sadder than she already is. Sometimes I really suck, but I never see it until it’s too late.

  Another reason why my own dad would rather live with Lauren and her little brats, Zoe and Brody, than with me.

  “So you don’t care that I’ll be shipped off to Podunk Point.” I slump back against my seat.

  He twists his lips and raises an index finger. “Come on, Katy. That’s not a fair characterization. I’m not thrilled about the school stuff, but at the end of the day, your mother’s in a better position to take care of you. Lauren and I work full-time. You’ve got two big years ahead. SATs, college applications—your mom’s the best person to get you through all of that.” Then he makes this sympathetic face. “Besides, neither of us wants to see her living alone right now, do we?”

  Holy shit. He’s giving me a guilt trip? I check my phone. Less than an hour remaining.

  “Katy,” he says, but I keep staring at my iced tea. “Be honest. You don’t really want to live with Lauren.”

  I snap my head up. “You’re right. And I still don’t know why you do. What did Mom and I do so wrong that made you want to leave?” I cross my arms to keep from knocking over my water glass.

  Dad’s face pales. He leans forward to answer, but then the waitress returns and sets our food down. It takes forever—or so it seems.

  Once she leaves us, Dad says, “What’s happened has nothing to do with anything you did or didn’t do, Katy. I’ve told you that.”

  “Why don’t you love Mom anymore?” My nose tingles. She’s a worrywart, but she’s always there for us, doing little things like making meals I like or putting fresh flowers from the yard in vases around the house. She’s nice—nicer than my dad or me.

  He rubs his face with both hands. “Your mom and I aren’t the same people we were when you were born. Lots has changed, and we grew apart. That’s all. There’s no one to blame.”

  “Except Lauren.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “She didn’t cause this.”

  She took advantage, though.

  My leg is bouncing out of control beneath the table while my head clogs with ugly thoughts. The kind of things I could shout at my mom if she made me this mad, because she’d never stop loving me or leave me. But my dad might, just like he’s done with my mom.

  I dig the heel of my sandal into the big toe of my other foot while I drink some of my soup. Dad’s al
ready eating, obviously finished discussing my living arrangements. Does he think he’s made me believe he actually cares about my mom’s feelings or what’s best for me? ’Cause if he really cared, he wouldn’t have moved on with Lauren already.

  He looks up and smiles. “We forgot to have Gretchen validate your parking stub.”

  “I did it before you came out of your office.” The lie doesn’t even bother me now.

  I left my car at Jen’s because I wasn’t sober. Would Dad trust Mom to take care of me if he knew that?

  He winks and stuffs another bite of yellowtail in his mouth.

  Last time I got high, I ate a whole box of cereal, but my stomach is like a stone today. I peek over at Dad again while picking up one of my hand rolls. I’m invisible while sitting right across the table. So much for him actually learning anything from the book he gave me. I think I’ll burn it rather than read it.

  I love him, but right now I sort of hate him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANNE

  Before driving across town to check out the remodeling progress on my new house, I drop my luggage at the Kentwood Inn, where Katy and I will spend the weekend. After years of letting Richard be in charge, making decisions on my own—let alone tough ones—is much harder than it should be. But the invisible baggage that has followed me to Potomac Point temporarily disappears when I pull down Autumn Lane and into the driveway of the first home I’ve ever owned by myself.

  The town has developed a lot since my teens. Our house sits in the original residential section. The old-growth sycamores, red maples, and Eastern redbud trees crowd the landscape and lend charm to the spaghetti streets on this old side of town. It’s a more pleasing aesthetic than that of the newer planned developments on the west side.

  Happy tears—a welcome change today—form upon seeing the sloped roof and dormers of Gram’s old Cape Cod. The home dates back to the midthirties. When Gram’s father, Dr. Lewis Robson, built it, it was one of the grander homes in the hamlet. The vivid peacock-blue paint I chose for the front door and shutters contrasts nicely against the newly whitewashed brick exterior. Words like “cute,” “cozy,” and “homey” spring to mind. Pretty phlox, ornamental grasses, and pink oxalis soften the lines of the home and improve its curb appeal.