“Lawyers? Is that really necessary, Max? I still love you. We can make it work.”
“I want you out of the house by the weekend,” I warned, ignoring Nick’s protests as I slowly lifted myself off of the couch just as he sat down. I hated being old and creaky; I so wanted to be graceful at that moment. “I think that’s pretty generous of me, considering I could kick you out on your ass right now. If I were you, I’d start looking for an apartment. We’ll figure out what to tell the kids tomorrow.”
I looked down at Nick, took in his slumped shoulders and tear stained cheeks. I was furious, in shock, devastated—my tidy life was crashing down. First the video, and now this… But, more than anything I felt pity and disbelief. Nick’s mea culpa was so canned, clearly stolen from all of the chest-beating, cheating-husband press conference apologies. It sounded like some bad Lifetime movie. I couldn’t believe that our marriage had come to such a quick and insincere ending. It seemed like it was worthy of more—I was worthy of more—than a few crocodile tears and an offer to enter rehab.
Chapter Three
AS I ROLLED OVER in bed the next morning to quiet the incessant beeping of my alarm clock, the night before slammed into my brain. I rolled back and glanced to the side. Nick was already gone, or maybe he never came to bed. I fell into a dead sleep the moment my head hit the pillow well after midnight—amazing, considering that I was sure I had a sleepless night ahead of me. Lying there, I remembered the way I felt after my college boyfriend, Ben, and I broke up. Waking up alone, feeling the punch in the gut that it was really, truly over, that I would never touch him again, never kiss him again had been too much to bear.
I’d missed a week’s worth of classes, because I couldn’t even bring myself to get out of bed. At the end of the week, I managed to drag myself to finals and somehow passed everything even in my dazed state. I was extraordinarily lucky. But, that first week, I couldn’t haul my ass anywhere. My roommate, Jane, brought me pints of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream and People magazines and I just burrowed under the covers, sitting up only to take another spoonful or turn the page. I had been sure I was going to marry Ben, and it felt like the delicate web of dreams I had woven for my future had been ripped apart. I was incapable of functioning for that seven long days.
I wished, oh how I wished, I could stay in bed for a week again. But, in college I didn’t have four children waiting for me to feed and clothe them and send them out into the world. Okay, Emma didn’t need me to clothe her (when she eventually returned home), but the others did. Even my eleven-year-old, Trevor, needed me to pick out his track pants and t-shirt. And none of them poured their own cereal, toasted their own waffles or packed their own turkey sandwiches. That was my job and it was a job I had never fallen down on, even when I had the flu. I wore a mask and took care of everybody all the same, even with a fever of 102. I wasn’t about to start falling down on the job now, just because my husband was a world class bastard and had ruined our lives—or at least my life. I hoped to shelter the kids as much as I could, though it may have already been too late for Emma. Surely her life was as much in ruins as mine.
***
It seemed like hours before I got the kids off to school. It was only September, and already they were giving me a hard time. At least Trevor and Will were giving me a hard time. Sam liked going to preschool. I had at least another year before he started complaining. Emma still hadn’t returned home. She had taken her school books and a change of clothes to Kate’s house. I’d called Kate’s mom, Debbie, the night before to check on Emma. When she asked if I wanted to talk to her, I quietly answered, “No.”
Debbie’s voice was calm and understanding. “I’m sorry, Max—I know how terrible those mother-daughter blow ups can be, especially with a fourteen-year-old. Kate and I just had one last week. I was surprised she didn’t run to your house. She just locked herself in her room. But, of course she had her computer and TV, her cell phone and iPad—didn’t come out until she was hungry. But, she came out—we made up. You and Emma will too. You two will be fine.”
Honestly, I didn’t know if we would ever be fine or if I was ever going to be able to make it better. Quite frankly, I didn’t know if she would even return later. And I didn’t know if I could ever look her in the eye again after what she’d seen. “Didn’t you hate your mom when you were fourteen—almost fifteen? I know I did,” Debbie added with a sigh.
I had the urge to tell her that it was Emma’s dad’s fault; that he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants and his mistress had sent Emma the video in an attempt to destroy me. I wanted to tell her that I’m the victim. But, as much as I might have fantasized about that, I knew it would hurt Emma even more. Besides, thinking about myself as a victim wouldn’t accomplish anything, except perhaps give me permission to wallow in my own misery, and I sure as hell didn’t need that. No, I was the ass who let Nick record me. I had to figure out how to fix it. I’d read in an issue of Glamour at the dentist’s office that you should never let a guy tape you having sex, because you never know where it will end up. Who would have thought that I needed to be that cautious? My husband had taped me, not some random one-night stand. I shouldn’t have had to worry about where it would end up at all.
I was about to find out exactly where it ended up. As I flipped open my laptop, I took a sip of my green tea and put it down on a cork coaster on the coffee table. Nick refused to use a coaster. The rings on the table drove me nuts. All the scratches and marker scribbles were bad enough, but the coffee rings put me over the edge. It was like his improper grammar—it felt like he just didn’t care. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with that anymore. No Nick, no coffee rings. I was really reaching and I knew it. Coffee rings were the least of my problems. I took a deep breath and clicked on that blue “e.” Up popped Google. I typed in my name and then checked my e-mail instead of clicking on “Google Search.” I couldn’t handle seeing the video yet. I didn’t know what I was thinking. What made me think that I could handle it? Four messages from Facebook popped up in my inbox—comments on my status. I couldn’t even remember what my status was. I had updated it the morning before everything changed. I clicked on Facebook — my status asked for recommendations for a good tailor. The thought that hems actually meant something to me just a day earlier made me laugh.
I stared at my smiling profile picture, snapped a few months earlier at a barbeque, then glanced at Married to: Nick Giordano. I clicked on Edit My Profile, then clicked on Relationship. My heart was hammering as I dragged down the dialogue box for Relationship Status. I clicked on Single and the message Your relationship with Nick Giordano will be canceled upon saving popped up. That message was seductive—if only it were that easy. If only I could simply click on something and my relationship would be canceled. Done. Kaput. No lawyers—if Facebook says I’m single, I’m single. My mouse hovered over Cancel, but I clicked on Save Changes instead. So, there it was—I was single to all 278 of my closest friends.
I was grateful that I didn’t let Emma have a Facebook account yet. I had promised her when she turned fourteen that she could get one at fifteen. It would not have been a good way for her to find out. I knew I was being a bit overprotective not letting her have one, but it seemed to me like it was so easy for people to be cruel when it wasn’t face to face. I’ve heard so many stories about kids being bullied online. At that moment I was incredibly thankful that she didn’t make a big deal about it.
I knew that by noon my inbox would likely be barraged with messages, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know what people thought. It just felt so good to take that step, so liberating—like I was in control after the last day of being woefully out of control. I was single. Oh my god, I panicked. I’m single.
I went back to Google—if I’d announced my newly single status to the world, I could certainly search for my amateur porn floating around cyberspace. I typed in Max Green, took a sip of tea, and then put my laptop on the coffee table. I needed something stronger
—some liquid courage. I rooted through the kitchen and wished that I was a real grown-up with a liquor cabinet. When I was growing up, every den had a liquor cabinet. Even my parents—who never drank a drop—had a liquor cabinet. It was the ultimate sign of sophistication to me—and forbidden glamour. The exotic bottles, the cut-crystal goblets and highball glasses—it all intrigued me.
I don’t have a liquor cabinet, only a dusty bottle in the no-man’s land cabinet above the range. I climbed on a chair and pulled the lone bottle of whisky (received from Nick’s boss when Sam was born) out of the shadowy depths. I would have preferred something else, but since whisky was my only choice, I poured a shot into a Sponge Bob juice cup and sunk back down into the couch.
I grabbed my laptop, downed the shot and hit “enter.” The liquor scorched a trail down my esophagus as the results popped up. Just the same old restaurant reviews in local papers extolling the virtues of my signature sweet—a dense shortbread studded with caramelized pecans and topped with homemade vanilla honey ice cream. There were one or two panning my admittedly ill-fated attempt at jalapeño pepper ice cream in a fried tortilla. I was pregnant with Emma; what can I say?
The reviews always comforted me, and I often looked at them when I was feeling beaten down by the minutiae of life as a mom—laundry, cleaning, cooking. It reminded me of who I was before kids. At the top of the screen there was a Facebook page, along with a Twitter account for a musician named Max Green. Below that was a Wikipedia entry for a lawyer named Max Green. Thankfully, there was nothing about a suburban mom getting naked for the world to see.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief and was momentarily giddy, before I realized that Sloane wouldn’t use Green if she uploaded a video. I used Nick’s name socially, even though I’d never legally changed it. It’s easier with the kids to be Max Giordano. I poured another shot and Googled “Max Giordano.” I covered my eyes with my hands and then cautiously peered through my fingers. I wasn’t ready to look, but I had to. Again, just some MySpace and Facebook pages for a musician —in Belgium it seemed. Nothing about me at the top of the page. I scrolled down and gasped. There it was—Max Giordano, sex video. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a porn site, but rather a blog called Housewives Rock. I clicked on it and there it was—a link to my video, along with a lengthy treatise about how I am “the true Real Housewife, way hotter and more substantial than those skanks on TV.”
Okay, I had never watched any of the Real Housewives shows, but I was pretty sure that they were all hotter. Seriously, did this blogger look at my thighs? I clicked on her profile—Kristy S., age 31, homemaker and domestic manager. I am home for my husband every evening and make sure I have food and comfort ready. Our three children (5, 3 and 2) are bathed and in bed before he arrives home, so he does not need to deal with loud voices after a hard day. Kristy S. had 3,553 followers. Apparently someone liked her down home, barefoot and pregnant appeal.
I went back to the blog about me. Mrs. Giordano is a real woman connecting with her husband in the most intimate of ways in the marriage bed. She is not a whore, hooking up with someone else’s husband, nor is she a pervert engaging in sexual acts and costumes which the good Lord does not approve of. This is bread and butter sex at its best, and ladies, may I add that it is HOT! Holy crap, someone thought I was hot? Clearly Kristy S. eliminated a large portion of hotties, with her dismissal of those she deemed “skanks” and “whores,” but still I hadn’t thought of myself as hot in ages. I almost wanted to write a comment, “Thanks, Kristy S.” I shook my head—I couldn’t imagine a worse idea, except maybe reading all of the comments already there, tempting as it was.
I eyeballed that link, as I wondered how Kristy S. even found it. For someone so wholesome, a porn habit seemed a bit surprising. I clicked on it and desperatesexyhousewives.com filled the screen. A site for the woman in you… was bannered across the top in frilly pink writing. Then below, FREE Erotica for Women by Real Women–Housewives Just Like You. Never mind how Kristy found the video—how did Sloane find this site? Was that why she never had time to volunteer? When she wasn’t sculpting the muscles of fancy Long Island moms did she run home to feed a porn addiction? And, most importantly, why did she think this would ruin me? Yes, sending the video to Emma—definite ruin, but did anyone who actually knew me ever go to the site?
I’d heard of the bigger porn sites—not that I’m a consumer of that stuff, but you’d have to be living under a rock not to hear of them. And, well, I found a few on Nick’s history once. I was looking for a site he’d told me about with camera ratings and I saw them. I didn’t say anything at first, but the next time we had sex, I burst into tears. I knew my friends were fine with their husbands going to porn sites—it was the topic of discussion at a book club meeting last year, instead of the book—but, I just couldn’t handle it. I asked Nick not to go on those sites anymore and he promised he wouldn’t. I really didn’t think that meant that he would replace porn with a real affair. I would have said, “Fine, look at all the porn you want! You can look, but you can’t touch.” Did I drive him to it? I wondered. Was I too prissy? Clearly Sloane knew her way around the porn universe, if she’d found this site and uploaded the video. I didn’t know the first thing about it.
I typed my name into the search box and there I was: my face captured at what I could only guess was the moment of orgasm, a white play button below. I poured another shot of whisky, then glanced at the clock and poured it in the sink. I had to pick Sam up in two hours and I needed that much time to get the two shots I already drank out of my system. Abstaining for years had made me a lightweight. I knew I’d have to face whatever I was about to see without the distracting burn of alcohol making its way down my throat.
I hit play and sucked in my breath. It was worse than I imagined—worse than I ever thought possible. There was no way to describe the feeling of seeing myself naked and exposed for the whole universe to see. Hot? I didn’t think so. It was like a train wreck that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. Finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, but was really just over four minutes, it ended. Mercifully.
I put my head on the keyboard as my tears splashed onto the keys. I wished, oh how I wished that I could take back that moment that I said, “Yes,” that moment that I agreed to the video. It was too late, of course—that video was out on the Internet, and I realized—yet again—that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. It was so odd, really, that there was this thing that now had a life of its own out there, coursing through cables and wi-fi—a few clicks was all that was needed to bring my body in front of a stranger’s eyes. I felt raw—naked, even fully clothed. I knew that feeling would probably never go away. I would feel naked, no matter how many layers I piled on. The entire month before I got married I had a recurring nightmare that I was walking down the aisle in a see-through dress. This was that dream come to life.
***
I made my way through the parking lot at Sam’s preschool with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses covering my red, swollen eyes. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but I had no choice. Unless I planned on leaving Sam to be raised by his teachers, I had to pick him up at some point. The second I walked in the door, I was swarmed by moms. “Oh my god!” squealed Heather, Lindsay’s mom and the ringleader of Happy Time Preschool’s fanciest clique. “I saw on Facebook that you’re single! What happened? You seemed like the perfect couple and your husband, well—you know how much we all love him.” I swear she blushed when she offered that.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, purposely not answering her and turned to look for Sam. He was collecting his drawings. Sam drew all day long. Instead of playing in the sandbox or with Play Doh, he simply drew pictures of the solar system, the food pyramid, viruses and bacteria, all the roads in our neighborhood. Anything that caught his attention he drew. My heart shattered when he came home from school one day last year with tear-stained cheeks and said, “Lindsay said I’m weird.” I wanted to light into little Lindsay
and give her, as my mother used to say, “a what for,” but I never said anything. And now as her mom leaned into me with that mock sympathetic look on her face, barely masking her joy at digging for dirt, I wanted to just say, Your daughter is a bitch and so are you. Leave me alone!
Of course, I didn’t. I’m always far too polite and so wish I wasn’t. When she kept going on about how so many marriages are ending lately—they’re dropping like flies, everyone seems to be having affairs—I turned back and simply said, “I’m sorry. I need to get Sam home now. Thanks for your concern.” She opened her mouth to keep speaking, but I just walked out the double doors into the late September sunshine. It was Indian summer and I knew it wouldn’t last. I knelt down in front of Sam and asked him, “How’d you like to go to the park, Buddy?”
He jumped up and down. “Yes!” he shouted as he pumped his fist in the air. “I know that this time I’ll find dinosaur fossils or maybe a moon rock that fell out of the sky during a meteor shower.” He looked up at me with such unfettered joy that my heart squeezed in my chest. He was smart—too smart to emerge from what he was about to go through unscathed. My friend Andi said to me once that smart kids are so much harder to raise than stupid ones. I didn’t believe her at first, but boy, is it true. Smart kids will challenge you and make you better, but they’ll break your heart when they feel everything so deeply.
Sam dove into every subject that struck his fancy and learned everything about it. He was reading by the time he was three and at age four began choosing a new book at the library on a different subject every couple of weeks to read over and over again, until he could repeat it verbatim. He’s a great party trick for his older brothers who ask him questions, knowing his answers will astound their friends. At one party, he was surrounded by eleven-year-olds throwing questions at him, until he started to cry, darted through the crowd and ran to a corner, where he sat arms around his knees, head down. I pictured him going into the library and asking the kindly old children’s room librarian for a book on divorce and I just wanted to cry.
Goddess of Suburbia Page 4