“Charlemagne, no,” I say. I have to say it twice before she stays put.
Mark looks at her, clearly still confused about why there is a dog named Charlemagne in the house, but he knows he won’t get any answers.
He opens the front door. He’s almost gone by the time Gabby speaks up.
“How long has this been going on?” she asks him. Her voice is strong and clear. It does not waver. It does not break. She is not about to burst into tears. She is fully in control. At least for this moment.
He looks at her and shakes his head. He looks up at the ceiling. There are tears in his eyes. He rubs them away and sniffs them back up. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. His voice, too, is strong. But it is full of shame; that much is clear.
“I said, how long has this been going on?”
“Gabby, don’t do this—”
“How long?”
Mark looks at his feet and then at her. “Almost a year,” he says.
“You can go,” she says.
He turns away and does just that. She goes to the window to watch him leave.
When he’s finally gone, she turns to me.
“I’m so sorry, Gabby,” I say to her. “I’m so sorry. He’s an asshole.”
Gabby looks at me. “You slept with somebody’s husband,” she says. She doesn’t need to draw any direct conclusions from this. She doesn’t need to say out loud what I know she’s thinking in her head.
“Yep,” I say, both owning my actions and feeling deep shame for them. “And it was wrong. Just like this was wrong.”
“But I told you it didn’t mean you were a bad person,” she says. “I told you that you could still be a wonderful, beautiful person.”
I nod. “Yeah, you did.”
“And you did this to somebody.”
I want to claim that the situation is different. I want to say that what I did with Michael isn’t as bad as what this other woman has done with Mark. I want to, once again, hide behind the fact that I didn’t know. But I did know. And what I did was no different from this.
I slept with someone’s husband. I shouldn’t have done that.
And now I’m having a baby by that man. And I’m going to raise that baby.
Pretending this child isn’t the result of a mistake I made doesn’t make it any less true.
And I know now that I have to face things. I have to admit things in order to move forward.
“Yes,” I say. “I did a terrible thing. Just like Mark and that woman did a terrible thing to you.”
Gabby looks at me. I pull her over to the sofa, and I sit us both down.
“I made a mistake. And when I did, you saw that I was still a good person, and you reserved your judgment, because you had faith in me. That was a wonderful gift. Your belief in me. It’s made me believe in myself. It’s made me start to change the things I’ve needed to change. But you don’t have to do that for them. You can just hate them.”
I swear, she almost smiles.
“We can both just hate them for as long as we need to, and then, one day, when we feel stronger, we’ll probably forgive them for being imperfect, for doing a terrible thing. One day, sooner than you think, I bet we’ll go so far as to wish them the best and not give them another thought, because we’ll have moved on with our lives. But you don’t have to believe that right now. You can just hate him. And I can hate him for what he did to you. And maybe one day, he’ll change. He’ll be a person who did something in the past that he would never, ever, ever do again.”
She looks at me.
“Or he’ll just be shitty forever, and you’re better off being as far away from him as possible,” I tell her. “There’s that theory, too.”
She smiles a smile so small and so quick that I start to question if I really saw it. “I’m sorry,” she says finally. “I didn’t mean to bring you into this. I’m just . . . I’m sorry.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” I say.
Gabby cries into her hands and then collapses into my arms. “He’s not even allergic to dogs,” she says. “I’ve wanted a dog for years, and I couldn’t because of him, but I swear, it’s all in his head. I bet you he’s not even allergic to them.”
“Well, now you’ve got one,” I say. “So there’s a silver lining. Why don’t we just sit here and think of silver linings for right now? What’s another one? Did he always forget to take out the trash? Did he leave his wet towel on the bed?”
She looks up at me. “His penis is small,” she says. “Seriously, like a golf pencil.” And then she starts laughing. “Oh, it feels good to admit that. I don’t have to keep pretending his penis isn’t small.”
I start laughing with her. “That wasn’t exactly where I thought you were going to go with this, but OK! That’s a good one.”
Gabby laughs. It’s a deep belly laugh. “Oh, God, Hannah,” she says. “The first time I saw it, I thought, Where’s the rest of it?”
I laugh so hard when she says this that I have to struggle to breathe. “You are making this up,” I say.
“Nope,” she says, her hands up in the air as if she’s swearing to God. “He just has a terrible penis.”
Both of us are laughing so hard that tears are coming out of our eyes. And then, abruptly, it is time to stop. I can see the mood change much the same way you can feel summer turn to fall. One day, everything’s sunny, and then, suddenly, it’s not.
“Oh, Hannah,” she says, burying herself into my chest. Charlemagne sits at our feet.
“Shhh,” I say, rubbing her back. “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” she says into my chest.
“It is,” I say. “It is true.”
She looks up at me, her eyes now bloodshot and glassy. Her face is splotchy. She looks desperate and sick. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s seen me like this. But I’ve never seen her like this.
“I know it’s going to be OK, because you are Gabrielle Jannette Hudson. You are unstoppable. You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“Strongest person,” she says.
“Hm?” I’m not sure I quite heard her.
“I’m the strongest person you know,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Gender is irrelevant.”
She’s absolutely right. She is the strongest person I know. Her gender is irrelevant. “You’re right,” I say. “Just one more reason I know you are going to get through this.”
She starts heaving tears. She’s hyperventilating. “Maybe he had a good reason. Or there is something I misunderstood.”
I want to tell her that she could be right, that maybe there is some piece of information that makes all of this better. I want to tell her that because I want her to be happy. But I also know it’s not true. And part of loving someone, part of being the recipient of trust, is telling the truth even when it’s awful.
“He was cheating on you for almost a year,” I tell her. “He didn’t make a one-time mistake or get confused.”
She looks up at me and starts crying again. “So my marriage is over?”
“That’s up to you,” I say. “You have to decide what you will tolerate and what you can live with. Why don’t you try to relax and I’ll get you some dinner?”
“No,” she says. “I can’t eat.”
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“Just sit here,” she says. “Just sit next to me.”
“You got it,” I tell her.
“Charlemagne, too,” she says. I get up and pick up Charlemagne. The three of us sit here on the couch.
“My husband is cheating on me, and you’re pregnant by a married man,” Gabby says.
I close my eyes, taking it in.
“Life sucks,” she says.
“Sometimes, yeah,” I tell her.
We are both quiet.
“It hurts,” she says. She starts crying again. “It hurts so bad. Deep in my gut, it hurts.”
“I know,” I tell her. “You and I ar
e a team, right? Whatever you face in life, I’ll face it with you. Everything that you were prepared to do for me last night, I’m prepared to do for you today. So count on me, OK? Let’s get through this together. Lean on me. Squeeze my hand.”
She looks at me and smiles.
“When it hurts so bad you don’t think you can stand it,” I say, “squeeze my hand.” I put my hand out for her, and she takes it.
She starts crying again, and she squeezes.
And I think to myself that if, by being here, I have taken away one one-hundredth of the pain that Gabby feels, then maybe I have more of a life’s purpose than I ever thought.
“Divide the pain in two,” I tell her. “And give half of it to me.”
Gabby comes in on Saturday morning, and before she can even get into the room, I tell her to stop. Deanna is standing by my bed.
“Wait,” I say to Gabby. “Wait right there.”
Deanna smiles and puts out her hand. “You ready?” she says. I nod. Deanna helps me get my feet on the ground. I push my weight onto Deanna’s hands, and she helps me put weight on my feet. I’m standing up. Actually standing up. Not without resting on another human being, but still. I’m standing up. She and I have been practicing all morning.
“OK,” I say, “I gotta sit down.” Deanna helps rest me back on the bed. The relief is immense.
“Oh, my God!” Gabby says, clapping for me as if I’m a child. “Look what you did! This is nuts!”
I smile and laugh. My energy and Gabby’s excitement must be infectious, because Deanna is laughing and smiling with us.
“It’s crazy, right?” I say. “I’ve been practicing as much as possible. This morning, Dr. Winters was giving me some tips on how to steady myself. I can’t move just yet, really. But I can stand.”
“Wow,” Gabby says, putting down her purse.
She moves toward us. Deanna helps me get back into bed.
“I am so impressed,” Gabby says. “You’re ahead of schedule.”
“I’ll come by to check on you soon,” Deanna says. “Good job today.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as she leaves.
When she’s gone, I tell Gabby about last night.
“Henry took me outside,” I say.
“You walked outside?”
“No,” I say. “In a wheelchair. He took me out on the smoking patio.”
“Oh,” she says.
This is not sounding nearly as romantic as it felt.
“Oh, never mind,” I say. “You had to be there.”
She laughs. “Well, I’m proud of you that you stood up today.”
“I know! Before you know it, I’ll be crawling and eating solid foods.”
“Well, don’t do it when I’m not here!” she says. “You know I like to get that stuff on videotape.”
I laugh. “Just be glad you don’t have to change my diaper,” I tell her. I’m just making a joke, but it hits a little too close to home. I still can’t get to the bathroom on my own. “How are you?” I ask, inviting her to sit down. “How is Mark?”
“He’s good,” she says. “Yeah.”
Something seems off. “What’s on your mind?” I ask her.
“No, nothing,” she says. “He seems very . . . I don’t know. I think the accident, all of this craziness, maybe it jolted something in him. He’s been very sweet, very attentive. Bringing me flowers. He bought me a necklace the other day.” She starts playing with the one around her neck. It’s a string of gold with a diamond at the center.
“That one?” I say, leaning forward. I take the diamond in my hand. “Wow, is that a real diamond?”
“I know,” she says. “I made a joke when he gave it to me, like ‘OK, what did you do wrong?’ ”
I laugh. “On TV, it’s always that a man comes home with flowers and jewelry when he invites his boss over for Thanksgiving dinner without asking you first or something.”
“Right,” she says, laughing. “Maybe he’s cheating on me. I’ll have to go home and look at all of his shirt collars for lipstick stains, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “If soap operas are any indication, you will find bright red lipstick stains on his collar if he’s cheating.”
Gabby laughs.
For a moment, I know we are both thinking of the fact that I was once the woman wives watch out for. That I lost a married man’s baby. Sometimes I wonder if this accident wasn’t a clean slate. If it wasn’t permission to start again, to do better.
And then I wonder, if it is a clean slate, what am I going to do with it?
“Well, what are you doing here?” I ask her. “Don’t hang out with your lame best friend. Go hang out with your thoughtful, romantic husband. I mean, he could be buying you cashmere and chocolate right now.”
“No, right now, I’d rather be here. I’d rather be with you. Besides, Mark said he had to go into work today. Said he’d be unavailable until late tonight. There were billing problems at work, I guess.”
“He doesn’t have an office manager or someone to do that stuff?”
Gabby thinks it over. “Well, no, he does,” she says. “But he says lately, he needs more time to look over their work. So what should we do today? Should I get us a book to read together? Are we watching Law & Order?”
I shake my head. “Nope. We’re going on an adventure,” I tell her.
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever we want,” I tell her, and I point to the wheelchair in the corner.
She brings it over, and I skooch myself closer to the edge of the bed.
“Can you pull the railing down?” I ask her. “It’s that button there, and then you just press down.”
She’s got it.
“Now, just move the wheelchair to the side, just to the . . . yeah.”
I swing my legs down off the bed.
“Sorry, one last thing. Can you just grab me around my waist? I can do this. I just need a little bit of help.”
She grabs me under my arms. “Ready?” she says.
“Yep!” I say, and at the same time Gabby lifts me, I push myself up.
It’s not graceful. It’s actually quite painful, very noisy, and I end up with my ass half hanging out of my gown, but I’m in the seat. I’m mobile.
“Can you . . .” I say, gesturing toward the half of my gown.
“Oh, right,” Gabby says, and she moves it as I try to lift myself just a little to get situated.
“Thanks,” I say. “Now, can you take my morphine bag and put it on my chair here?”
She does.
“Ready?” I ask her.
“Ready,” she says.
“Oh!” I say, right before I start to push. “Do you have dollar bills?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I think I have one or two. Why, are we going to a strip club?”
I laugh as she grabs her purse.
And then we are off.
I see Deanna in the hallway, and she tells me not to go too far. I lead us down the hallway and to the right, just as Henry led me the other day.
“Do you have a favorite movie?” I ask Gabby. If I had to guess, I’d say her favorite movie is When Harry Met Sally . . .
“When Harry Met Sally . . .” she says. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know what my favorite movie is,” I say.
“Why does that matter? Lots of people don’t have a favorite movie.”
“But, like, even for the purposes of the conversation, I can’t just pick one. I can’t just decide on a movie to say is my favorite.”
“I hope it isn’t news to you that you’re indecisive.”
I laugh. “Henry says that you don’t need the answer. You just need an answer.”
“Henry, Henry, Henry,” Gabby says, laughing at me. We come to an intersection in the hallway, and I veer left. I’m pretty sure the vending machines are to the left.
“Hardy-har-har, but I’m asking an honest question,” I tell her. I’m still pushing myself down the hall. I’ve s
till got the strength to keep going.
“What are you actually asking me?”
“Do you think it’s true that you don’t need the perfect answer but just, you know, an answer?”
“To your favorite movie, yes. But sometimes there is only one answer. So I don’t think this is a universal philosophy.”
“Like what?”
“Like who you marry, for one. That’s the biggest example that comes to mind.”
“You think there is only one person for everyone?”
“You don’t?” The way she asks me this, it’s as if it has never occurred to her that I might not. I might as well have said, “You think we’re breathing oxygen?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I know I did think that at one time. But . . . I’m not sure anymore.”
“Oh,” she says. “I guess I never considered the alternative. I just assumed, you know, God or fate or life or whatever you want to call it leads you to the person you were meant to be with.”
“That’s how you feel about Mark?”
“I think Mark is the person life led me to, yeah. He’s the only one for me. If I thought there was someone else better suited for me, why would I have married him? You know? I married him because he’s the one.”
“So he’s your soul mate?”
She thinks about it. “Yes? I mean, yeah. I guess you’d say that’s a soul mate.”
“What if you two end up getting divorced?”
“Why would you say a thing like that?”
“I’m just asking a hypothetical. If there is only one person for everyone, what happens when soul mates can’t make it work?”
“If you can’t make it work, you aren’t soul mates,” she tells me.
I hear her out. I get it. It makes sense. If you believe in fate, if you believe something is pushing you toward your destiny, that would include the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with. I get it.
“But not cities,” I say.
“Huh?”
“You don’t have to find the perfect city to live in. You just have to find one that will work.”
“Right,” she says.
“So I can just pick one and leave it at that,” I say. “I don’t have to test them all out until something clicks.”
Maybe in Another Life Page 17