A Beautiful, Terrible Thing

by Jen Waite

  “Ah,” I hear come out of my mouth from far away. I am on the floor for what seems like an eternity before I hear the groan of the bed and Marco’s feet hitting the ground.

  “Give her to me,” he says. That is all he says. I pass our baby to my husband from my crouched position on the ground and crawl to the bed and hoist myself up. I walk into the living room and sit on the couch, paralyzed. My eyes move slowly back to the computer screen. The e-mail between Marco and the apartment broker stares back at me. I see the name that he has forwarded the e-mail to: Viktorija Novak. I type the name into the search bar at the top of his e-mail, and a dozen e-mails pop onto the screen. I scan them quickly and see they are all work schedule e-mails. Except. What is that? I open up an e-mail with no subject from her to him. Six days ago. It is a link and only the words “This made me think of you” in the body of the e-mail. I click the link and in another window up pops an article titled “36 Questions that Can Make Two Strangers Fall in Love.”

  BEFORE

  THE night Marco proposed was the night of my parents’ annual Christmas party. Earlier that week we had gone back to the kids’ section at Bloomingdale’s to buy Sebastian a fancy sweater and nice khaki pants. As I watched my little family wander through the clothing racks, I thought about the difference between infatuation and love.

  “Do you remember when we came here to buy Domenico a present?” I asked Marco while holding up a bow tie to Seb.

  “What was that . . . two years ago?” he said, lacing his fingers through mine.

  “Just about,” I said, and then whispered in his ear, “Do you remember how hot for each other we were?”

  “Oh, yes,” he whispered back, pulling me in for a kiss. “You better watch out, young lady; this old man can still learn tricks that are new.”

  I smiled to myself at the mangled expression and replied, “Yikes.”

  That afternoon just as we were descending the slushy steps into the 59th Street subway, Seb perked up. “Hey, guys, wouldn’t it be a good idea to get hot cocoa right now? It’s been weeks since I’ve had any.”

  “Weeks?” Marco replied. “This is a catastrophe. Let’s ask Jen what she thinks, though. She might have to get back home.” Marco winked at me.

  “Hm.” I looked at Seb seriously. “You definitely look weak. Like a boy who could use some chocolate, stat.”

  We reversed direction and took the R train downtown to Union Square. On the walk from the train, we each took one of Seb’s hands, pulling him forward against the sharp gusts of icy air.

  “Are you sure there’s hot chocolate around here?” Seb looked around unconvinced. “My mom and I have been to Union Square before, but we only come here to get me sneakers. I really don’t think there’s any place that sells hot chocolate.”

  “Just wait.” I smiled into frozen cheeks and pulled our chain toward the brown heavy doors a few steps away. A blast of warm air and the smell of thick, sweet chocolate greeted us.

  “Welcome to Max Brenner. Three for lunch?” the hostess said as Seb broke away and walked over to a huge vat of chocolate in the middle of the room. His eyes wandered over the rest of the room, shelves filled with white, milk, and dark chocolate truffles, a table showcasing coarsely chopped hunks of chocolate, burlap bags labeled CACAO, and glass tubes with milk chocolate burbling through.

  “Just dessert,” Marco replied as Seb whispered, “This is awesome,” into the room.

  “I think we should definitely do this once a month,” I said, unwinding my scarf from my neck and settling into a cushiony chair.

  “I second what Jen said.” Seb plunked down in the chair between Marco and me. “Maybe I can start staying with you guys a couple days during the week, too? Instead of just the weekends?”

  Marco and I looked at each other and then both burst out, “That would be great,” at the same time.

  “I still need to be with my mom on Tuesdays and Wednesdays because we’re in the middle of a Lost marathon,” Seb said.

  “That’s fine. We’ll figure it out, buddy.” Marco reached for my hand across the table, and I squeezed his fingers and took a mental picture of this moment, of my new family.

  When Sebastian made his entrance that night at the Christmas party, descending the stairs into the living room from the guest room where he slept upstairs, the ten or so guests who had already arrived oohed and aahed about how handsome he looked, and a neighbor cried, “Lookin’ sharp there, young man!” Seb was already a local celebrity among our Maine family and friends, and his reputation of being scarily smart and effortlessly articulate preceded him.

  I was sitting on the couch in my parents’ living room, talking with Holly and admiring how beautiful this room in particular became every Christmas. The room with its white, plush couches and red shelves filled with impressive-looking hardcover books (that my dad had procured from the town “swap shop”) was the perfect setting for the too-big Christmas tree that sparkled with white lights and family ornaments dating back to 1990. Seb sidled up to us with a glass of cranberry juice in hand and patiently waited for Holly to finish her sentence.

  “. . . and he does this every winter, man. He hates being naked and cold. Unless it’s the perfect temperature, I get frozen out. We got a space heater because Mama has needs,” Holly finished telling me about her computer engineer husband Mike’s dislike of having sex when the temperature dropped below freezing. Holly sensed Sebastian standing to the side of her just out of her peripheral vision and swiveled around. “And that is the end of the story I was telling about the dangers of global warming.”

  Seb took a sip of his cranberry juice. “I’ve had the-birds-and-the-bees talk with my mom several times by now, you know. I’m nine years old, not two.”

  “Well excuuuuse me,” Holly said, popping a mini crab cake into her mouth.

  “Um, Jen, my dad needs to talk to you upstairs about his outfit,” Seb said, and I laughed. “OK, I’ll be right up.” I stood up from the couch and called to Holly as I made my way through the living room, “Marco has better fashion sense than me so this is going to be interesting.”

  “Can’t go wrong with sequined pants,” Holly yelled.

  I called back, “So helpful.”

  As I climbed the stairs to my childhood bedroom where Marco and I now stayed on our visits to Maine, I paused to glance at myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. A tomboy at heart, I always dressed up for the family Christmas party. I was wearing a teal fitted dress made of a papery material that hugged my body in all the right places, and my hair hung straight and shiny. I felt glamorous and sexy out of my jeans and T-shirt uniform, and I made a mental note to blow-dry my hair more often. At the top of the stairs I turned left toward the bedroom before seeing that Marco was standing just to the right of the stairs in a small open room we referred to as “the nook.”

  “Oh baby, you look great; what are you worried about?” My heart swelled with pride as I took in the tall, dark, and handsome man in front of me (and how cute did he look in a cozy blue sweater with a light-blue collar poking out?!). My face broke into a smile. My boyfriend.

  “Jen, babe, I need to ask you something.” His voice was oddly formal and shook ever so slightly. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Oh my God, oh my God. “You know these past couple of years have been the happiest of my life.” Oh my God. Now his voice was really shaking, and he took a large gulp of air. “Since I met you, I am excited about the future again, about our future together. Right when I had lost all hope, you’ve given me a reason to be happy. I feel like we can do anything together.” He took a deep breath and reached for both my hands. “Everything has changed for the better. You’re like an angel who came into my life, and I can’t imagine my life without you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Here he reached into his pocket and sank to one knee. “So would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man alive and say you’ll ma
rry me?” Oh my God.

  “Jen? Babe?” I heard Marco’s worried voice traveling after me and realized I was walking in circles around the landing, my hands cupping my face.

  “Yes,” I croaked, walking back to him, still on one knee with a blue velvet box. “Yes, yes, yes.” He slipped a simple diamond on my finger, and I screamed and jumped into his arms. “I have never been so sure about anything in my entire life.”

  Relief flooded his face. “You know you walked away without giving me an answer, right?”

  “I did? I think I blacked out.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and we kissed and kissed, and then I started laughing hysterically. “I have never been so happy. How did you do it? When did you get the ring? How did you keep this a secret from me?” I peppered him with questions and half listened to his responses as my eyes traveled down to the gleaming stone on my finger.

  When we went downstairs my parents were waiting for us with a bottle of champagne and four glasses. “You knew?!” I shrieked, and we toasted.

  And my dad said in his booming voice, “Welcome to the family, Marco and Sebastian,” and my head swam with happiness. I clinked my glass against Marco’s, and my heart felt as if it would burst. My fiancé.

  AFTER

  I QUESTION Marco about the e-mail with the link to an article about falling in love, and a blank expression comes over his face. “Huh? She never sent me any article. . . . Oh! Yes, I remember now. She’s studying psychology, and she’d been telling me about some experiment involving strangers and questions and falling in love. I pretended to be interested, but I never even read the article. Did you read it? What’s it about?” My stomach churns and heaves, but his response is genuine. Earlier this morning, when he found me on the couch looking at her Facebook page, he said, “Jen, Jesus Christ. Just text her if it would make you feel better. This is ridiculous. I told you there is something seriously physically wrong with me, and all you can do is obsess about this random girl?” So I do.

  I don’t tell Marco, but I bring up the contact he has shared with me (after making sure it matches the number beneath her e-mail signature), and I write: “Hi there. I’m Marco’s wife, Jen. We haven’t met because I’ve been really pregnant and then really busy with a newborn baby. I am so embarrassed to be contacting you like this, but I found an e-mail between Marco and an apartment broker about seeing apartments with his girlfriend. He then forwarded the e-mail to you. He has explained it was a misunderstanding, and to be honest, Marco has been the most amazing partner for five years and I know it’s crazy not to believe him, but I’m going to blame it on the overload of hormones! Sorry again for this crazy text. Jen.”

  I put down my phone and then pick it up immediately to see if the text reads “Delivered,” and I see the dot-dot-dots of her already typing a reply. I hold the phone inches from my face, waiting for the response. I am paralyzed with fear, and my head feels light with adrenaline. And then:

  “Hi Jen. First off, I’m so sorry this has caused you any kind of anxiety or upset. That was not my intention. I have a lot of respect for you as a woman for what you’ve just been through and congratulations on the birth of your daughter. Marco is telling the truth. He was trying to help me find an apartment and reached out to a broker for me. Men are so stupid sometimes with these things and of course I didn’t think twice about it because I just really want an apartment lol. Secondly, I know firsthand that affairs can ruin lives and I would never meddle in a marriage. Once again, I’m really sorry for the misunderstanding. Have a great night.”

  I shoot off a quick reply thanking her for the response and then turn to Marco. “OK, I’m sorry I was obsessing about the e-mail. I texted Viktorija, and she confirmed that it was a really stupid and inappropriate”—I look at him pointedly—“mistake. So now I’m going to start researching what’s going on with you physically. There has got to be some kind of medical explanation. I mean exhaustion, stress. There must be a physical reason why you feel numb.” Marco nods and walks slowly to the bathroom. I hear the faucet turn on and then retching from inside. When he comes out he is pale and expressionless, and he mumbles, “I just threw up.”

  —

  AFTER Marco leaves for work that night, I bundle up Louisa and take her around the block in the stroller. I stroll up and down our street as she peers at me through the weather shield. I try to focus on the text message from Viktorija. She confirmed exactly what Marco said. They wouldn’t both be lying. But my stomach still lurches and twists, and I have trouble getting air all the way into my lungs. When I pass our apartment for the fifth time, I reach into my coat and take out my cell phone. I call my sister.

  “Stella, I need to talk to you about something serious. I haven’t told anyone else about this, and I don’t think I’m going to. I can’t tell Mom and Dad because you know how they are. They’ll make a snap judgment and then things will be awkward forever.”

  “OK. Calm down. What’s going on?” I can hear her one-year-old son, my nephew Henry, making unintelligible words in the background and the clattering of plates. I imagine her in a soft oversize sweater, washing lettuce and cradling the phone against her ear, her barely swollen pregnant belly protruding from her otherwise trim frame. I tell her everything except for the article about falling in love. I can’t bring myself to disclose that because I know exactly how it sounds. “I’m really confused,” I finish. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Stella says. “Well, first of all, that is really inappropriate, even if what he’s saying is true, that it was a slip of the tongue and he was doing a favor for someone, that’s still extremely serious, Jenny.”

  My stomach drops. “I know. You’re right.”

  “But I also think that’s exactly what it was. A stupid, inappropriate flirtation that went a little too far. There’s no way that he actually slept with this girl or something. This is Marco we’re talking about. His job is to be charming and flirty. And I don’t want to upset you even more, but you know I tend to see things in black and white. There’s always been a gray area with Marco about what’s OK and what’s not OK.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Remember that Facebook message the first year you guys were dating?”

  I had completely forgotten. It was four years ago, an eternity ago, but still, how could I have forgotten? A few months after we became a couple, I saw that he had left his Facebook account up on his computer. I clicked his messages and saw a message he had sent to a girl that read, “Nice profile picture.” The profile picture was of her wearing librarian glasses, making a kissy face. She had responded, “Ha-ha my friend took it. You should see the sexy outtakes,” and he had written back, “Wanna show me?” The conversation ended there, but I had flipped out. I told him right away I couldn’t be in a relationship with him. That I didn’t trust him. Marco and I talked for hours and hours about my boundaries versus his boundaries and how we had very different concepts of what was appropriate. He admitted that as a bartender, he was used to flirting for work and maybe he had crossed a line without even realizing it. Finally, he had cupped my face in his hands and said, “Jen, I will never, ever cheat on you. If I ever even come close to feeling dissatisfied with our relationship, I will talk to you. That was the problem in my last relationship; there was no communication. If we’re completely open and honest with each other, we can get through anything.” And that was when I took a leap of faith. We began to build a real relationship, no longer only based on lust and excitement; slowly but surely we became best friends.

  After that incident, nothing had ever happened again. Nat even nudged me a couple of months later and said, “What did you do to Marco? He’s really changed. He’s blossomed into, like . . . a real man. He’s actually mature now.”

  I had smiled proudly and said, “Yeah? You think?” Part of me was happy it had happened; we had gotten on the same page because of it.

  I brin
g myself back to the conversation with my sister. “Oh, yes, I remember, but, Stella, we talked about that for weeks and nothing like that ever happened again. I mean, that’s actually why I ended up trusting him, because we had so many discussions about boundaries and trust after that.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “Well, OK, I’m just pointing out that it is now a pattern of behavior. Are you OK with this happening again in, say, five years? Because it seems like this type of behavior is part of who Marco is.” Before I can answer she plows on: “But the real issue it seems like is this whole ‘I have no feelings’ thing.”

  “Yeah, that really terrifies me. I really do think there is something physical going on.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Stella says. “Marco works all night and sleeps all day. Do you know how unhealthy it is to never see the sun? I’m sure that there is something seriously wrong with his health. The first thing he should get done is blood work. I’m sure he’s critically deficient in vitamin D and a bunch of other things.” My sister’s brain works fast and fluidly, like a computer, and her tolerance for bullshit is low.

  “Are Rosa and Oscar there yet?” she asks, and I hear the faucet turn on.

  Marco’s parents planned a big trip to celebrate Oscar’s retirement, and their first stop is New York to meet Louisa. They are spending two weeks in my parents’ apartment before traveling on to Denmark to spend time with Marco’s sister and her family. My parents have found an apartment a few blocks away to sublet for the first three months of Louisa’s life. They moved in December 1 and spent the month helping me turn our bedroom into a nursery and waiting for Louisa to make her appearance in the world.

  “It’s going to be a mishmash of Spanish and English and lots of wine!” my mom had said excitedly a few days ago. A joyous reunion is now seeming unlikely. I push this thought from my mind and say, “Yes, they got in this morning. I haven’t talked to them about this yet. The language barrier makes it hard.”