Remind Me Again Why I Married You

by Rita Ciresi

  As I held my wrinkled fingers beneath the gold faucet, I made the mistake of looking into the mirror—and what I saw made me want to crawl inside myself and disappear. No matter how hard I tried to present myself as a woman who was smooth and polished and put together, I always looked like a woman who was trying to present herself as smooth and polished and put together. There was always something off about me. My very eyebrows—never mind my sallow skin—seemed tired. My chapped lips hadn’t held the Winter Frost. A halo of frizz puffed up the top of my hair. I leaned closer to the mirror. Yes! That was an eye snot—why hadn’t Ebb told me I had an eye snot squatting in the corner of my lashes? And my body. Even though I gave birth to Danny almost five years ago, gaining fifty pounds with my pregnancy (only thirty-three of which eventually came off) had done such a number on my once-muscular frame that for a while I’d been ashamed to undress even in front of Ebb.

  Infidelity. How could Ebb even begin to think that I would . . . with this body, this face, this pathetically tight black velvet skirt, which once had belonged to a crazy, wild, promiscuous girl—but now belonged to a one-hundred-and-twenty-nine-pound chubette whose fashion motto ought to have been Give me an elastic waist—or give me instant death. The mere thought of shedding this skirt or any other article of clothing in front of another man made me want to howl with laughter—or toss myself off a very high cliff.

  I finished washing my hands, shook the water off my fingers, and punched the silver button on the automatic dryer. I rubbed my palms beneath the blast of tepid air until the dryer came to an abrupt halt. Even though my hands were still damp, I grabbed my purse off the counter and pushed open the ladies’ room door, which thudded behind me. At the entrance of the ballroom, I looked out on the sea of strangers, knowing that any minute now someone would come up to me and say “Lisa, darling, how are you?” and I’d actually answer “Fine,” when what I really wanted to say was Can’t you see I’m dying of grief?

  I wanted to go home and cry wet, weepy, hormonal tears as I tossed my ovulation chart and basal body thermometer right into the trash basket. Failing that, I wanted to go stand by the only man in the room who understood what I was going through—because, after all, Ebb and I were going through this torture together.

  I scanned the room. Since Ebb was on the shorter side for a guy—five ten—I only had to skim over the heads of most of the high-heeled women in the room to spot him by the windows, holding a glass of designated-driver’s club soda in his hand. With a pang of pleasure, I thought, Ebb still looks sort of sexy to me, at a distance, after all these years. My next thought was: Hey, who’s that gorgeous blonde standing right by his side? In her Easter-egg-blue suit, she seemed so soft and pale and pretty. Clearly I’d been writing from the male point of view for too long, because I instantly fell in love with her—or, at least, I saw how easy it would be for a man to collapse like a ton of bricks at her trim size-six feet. Something about her posture (confident and assured, as if no one ever interrupted her) told me she wasn’t married. And something in her unwrinkled appearance (as if no one ever pulled on her hem or yanked her sleeve) signaled to me that she didn’t have kids.

  Immediately I set out to close the distance between me and Ebb. Usually Ebb kept a vigilant eye on me at these parties (as if he felt compelled to illustrate this statement found in my infertility manual: Humans are the only species in which there is no visible way of determining if the female is in estrus; therefore, the man must be very attentive to the woman at all times). But now he didn’t even notice me by his elbow until the woman finally smiled and told him, “I think someone wants your attention.”

  Ebb turned. For a second he looked at me as if I were a stranger. Then he told the other woman—with no audible period or comma or dash—“I’m sorry this is my wife.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  EBEN

  You know what they say: Husbands—the kind who don’t fool around on their wives—are always the last to know that something is going wrong with their marriage. It came right out of the blue, these shell-shocked guys tell their lawyers. (Or their rabbis. Or their mothers. Or their buddies in a bar, or their child-custody mediation specialists.) I had no idea she felt that way. . . . I didn’t have a clue she wanted . . .

  I had an idea—I had a clue—about what was going awry between Lisa and me. I wasn’t blind. I wasn’t deaf. And yet I remained dumb—that is, silent—about the whole thing, until February 14, when another woman stepped into the picture.

  Ordinarily I had a good head for names. Yet that night at the party I was still brooding about the subject matter of Lisa’s novel—adultery—and so I was distracted when a woman in a pale blue suit came up to me and lightly touched my forearm.

  “Eben Strauss?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m . . .” she said in such a soft, seductive murmur that I could hardly hear her. “And I’ve been told that you’re the one man at this party I most need to meet.”

  She was far too attractive to be giving me a line. Nevertheless, I smiled and said, “Tell me why.”

  “I’ve heard you’re contemplating moving.”

  “Yes,” I said. Then added as an afterthought, “With my wife.”

  “Is she here?”

  “Somewhere.” I gestured with my glass of club soda toward the door and said, “Actually, she went off to the ladies’.”

  “I’d love to meet her.”

  “I’d be happy,” I said, “to introduce you.”

  “You see,” she said, “I think I’m in a very good position to help you. If you don’t mind hearing me out for a moment—”

  I ought to have minded. Ever since word had gotten out that Lisa and I wanted to make a move, real-estate agents had started circling us the way family-law attorneys surrounded a husband and wife who were on the edge of divorce. But the voice of this woman in the pale blue suit was so much more pleasant to listen to than the squawking of those sharp but pushy women who Lisa called “The Location-Location-Location Ladies.” I was still listening to her soft sales pitch—and actually enjoying the tone—when she pointed to my elbow.

  “I think someone wants your attention,” she said.

  I turned. Lisa had sneaked up behind me, waiting to be introduced. I gave her a blank, helpless stare. How awkward, I thought. Any second now I’m going to have to say “Lisa, this is . . . this is . . . this is . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” I told the other woman. “This is my wife.”

  Right away I could tell that I had said something wrong. But what? Lisa blinked as if to hold back sudden tears, then swallowed—as if she needed to get an icky taste out of her mouth.

  “Hi, I’m Lisa Strauss,” she said.

  “Cynthia Farquhar. Pleased to meet you.”

  Lisa and Cynthia Farquhar clasped hands. Lisa then took a sneak peek at Cynthia Farquhar’s left hand, which—I noted along with her—was bare of diamonds or even just a plain gold wedding band. Lisa clearly was sizing up this Cynthia. This Farquhar. So I stepped forward and pointed out Cynthia’s major flaw.

  “Cynthia is in real estate,” I said.

  Lisa smiled.

  “Your husband told me you’re looking for a house,” Cynthia said.

  Lisa nodded. “But did he tell you—you told her, didn’t you, Ebb?—that we’ve already arranged for someone to sell our condo?”

  “Oh, I don’t list property,” Cynthia said.

  “She’s a buyer’s agent,” I told Lisa.

  “Actually, I’m a little bit like a matchmaker,” Cynthia said. She leaned forward to make herself heard over the band, which was playing “Piece of My Heart.” “You tell me what you want in a home, and I find it.”

  Lisa glanced at me. “Ebb and I definitely need more space.”

  I clinked the ice cubes in my glass.

  “Whoa,” Lisa said. “That sounded—”

  “Pretty dire?” I suggested.

  “Oh, Ebb. You know I didn’t mean . . .” Lisa reached over a
nd squeezed my forearm—but I could tell she made the comforting gesture more for Cynthia’s benefit (Look at what a loving couple we are!) than for my sake. “I meant, Cynthia, that one of the reasons we have to move is because Ebb just got promoted—”

  “Congratulations,” Cynthia told me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “—and we’re going to have to start giving . . .” Lisa looked around the ballroom at the vast sea of dark suits and sequined dresses. “Well, parties.”

  “You sound a little hesitant,” Cynthia said. “About being a hostess.”

  Lisa shrugged. “The only things I’m good at entertaining are my own problems.”

  “Oh, I’m totally with you,” Cynthia said.

  Lisa suddenly perked up. “You mean you don’t like to cook either?”

  “I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” Cynthia said.

  “I’m hopeless all over the house,” Lisa said. “I swear, our place looks like pandemonium.”

  “Mine used to,” Cynthia said. “But not anymore.”

  “Did you hire a cleaning service?” Lisa asked.

  “No, actually . . .” Cynthia gave me an apologetic look. “I got divorced.”

  “Oh,” Lisa said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh,” Cynthia said. “I’m so not.”

  Lisa let off a wicked laugh. “So you’re here on your own?”

  Cynthia nodded. “I knew it would be awkward on Valentine’s Day—”

  “Then be our date!” Lisa said. “Sit with us during dinner. It’s open seating, isn’t it, Ebb?”

  I nodded. When the band stopped playing—and the president of the AHA gave the requisite speech of thanks and announced that our heart-healthy dinner was about to be served—all three of us made our way to the back of the ballroom to one of the circular tables that seated eight. To my left sat Lisa, and to her left sat Cynthia and two other couples. To my right sat an empty seat. Most guests had come in pairs, and so Cynthia’s presence at our table threw off the balance. I wouldn’t have felt the emptiness on my right so keenly if Lisa and Cynthia had made a better effort to include me in their conversation. But they clearly were smitten with each other—or, rather, with the topics they were discussing, about which I had not a whit of interest. Shoes were shoes. Moisturizer was moisturizer. And one shampoo, as far as I was concerned, was just as effective as the next.

  Lisa and Cynthia were so keen on bonding with each other that neither seemed to notice when the waiter approached the table and filled Cynthia’s glass with dark red wine. I was just about to reach out and cover Lisa’s glass with my hand when the waiter asked Lisa, “Wine, madam?” and Lisa simply answered, “Sure thing.”

  I watched as the liquid gurgled into the goblet and sparkled in the candlelight. I was going to gently nudge Lisa’s foot under the table to remind her that she wasn’t supposed to be drinking—at least during the last two weeks of her menstrual cycle—when I suddenly realized: Oh. Oh. Of course Lisa had looked upset, if not teary-eyed, when I introduced her to Cynthia. She had just come back from the ladies’ room. And I wasn’t certain, but I just had a feeling that when she was in the bathroom, she discovered that she had gotten her period.

  If I had been a better man—a less disappointed man—I would have reached out with my left hand to squeeze Lisa’s hand, in consolation, under the table. Instead, when Cynthia said, “Cheers,” I used my left hand—not my dominant hand—to raise my glass. Then I took a big swallow of wine.

  Lisa took one bigger.

  Usually I tried not to dwell on the reason that Lisa and I couldn’t conceive another child. Yet all during dinner, as the centerpiece of red roses quivered whenever any of us sawed too vigorously at our dry chicken piccata, our underbaked potatoes, or our stringy asparagus, I kept turning around in my head that uncomfortable conversation I’d had with Lisa last autumn. Lisa had called me at the office to tell me that her fallopian tubes probably were clogged—and that the doctor wanted to flush them out with radioactive dye—and that the dye was lime green.

  “The color makes a difference?” I asked.

  “I can’t take the thought of my tubes,” Lisa told me, “looking like those gurgling pipes on the Liquid-Plumr commercials. Plus it’s supposed to hurt. Will you go with me?”

  “When’s the appointment?”

  “I don’t have one. Yet. That’s what I really called you about.” I could hear Lisa swallow. “First I have to take antibiotics. And you do too.”

  “What for?”

  “Please don’t get . . . just don’t get—”

  “Say,” I said.

  “I have this silent infection. Called chlamydia.”

  I looked down at my phone. Lisa had called me on my private line. But my office door was open. “Hold on,” I told her.

  I took my time—and a few deep breaths—as I crossed the carpet and gently closed my office door against the too-sharp ears of my secretary. Then I sat down and reluctantly picked up the phone again.

  “Are you there?” Lisa asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “Then please say something.”

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked. “And why did you have to tell me this on the phone? At the office? When I’m on my way to a meeting?”

  “Because I can’t stand the way you look at me—”

  “But, Lisa, I hardly look at you at all.”

  “—and lecture me, like I’m totally out of control—”

  I opened my mouth—to lecture that I would not need to lecture Lisa if only her behavior did not beg for lectures—yet I thought better of it when I heard the unmistakable rip of a Kleenex being yanked from a tissue box. The sound reminded me of my father’s funeral, the awful way my mother had sat on the folding chair, pulling one tissue after another from the box parked on her lap.

  Life was short. I wanted to do the right thing. So I told Lisa, “I could have given this to you.”

  “That’s not likely. I was the one who—you know, went all wild with guys before we got married. Unless—”

  “There hasn’t been any unless,” I said. “On my part. You know how I feel about that.”

  “I feel the same way, Ebb. I swear. I’ve never been unfaithful to you, not once.”

  I turned to my credenza to pick up my Physicians’ Desk Reference. So I was caught completely off guard when Lisa blew her nose—into her Kleenex, but also right into the phone receiver—and blurted out, “I haven’t! I don’t have time to fuck other men! I have laundry to do! And a novel to write!”

  “How heartening,” I said, “that you have your priorities in order.” Then I set the PDR down on my desk with a thump. “What’s the name of the antibiotic?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I want to look up the side effects.”

  “Erythromycin,” she said.

  “Then it’s diarrhea. When you’re at the drugstore, pick up some acidophilus.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Lisa said, “Ebb, I just told you that I might not be able to have more children—”

  “You don’t know that for certain, Lisa.”

  “—and you’re concerned about the friendly bacteria in my intestinal tract?”

  Something childish inside of me wanted to holler, My intestinal tract will be affected too! But someone had to be mature in this relationship.

  “I’m late for a meeting,” I told Lisa. “We’ll have to talk when I get home.”

  But we didn’t talk when I got home. Lisa left the antibiotics and the acidophilus on the bathroom counter—far back against the mirror, where Danny couldn’t reach—and stocked the refrigerator with yogurt containing live active cultures. For ten days we took the pills and ate the yogurt, and I only stopped to think about how odd and sad and confusing our silence was after I took my last dose of erythromycin and tossed the empty brown vial into the metal wastebasket in our bathroom, where it landed with a clang instead of a thunk. I remember looking down at the vial—marked EBEN
STRAUSS—in the wastebasket. Lisa’s vial—marked ELIZABETH D. STRAUSS—still sat on the counter, and when I picked it up I noticed she had three pills left.

  Those three forgotten doses in the vial depressed me more than I could say. I lowered the lid on the toilet and sat down. Danny was snoring in the next room, and as I listened to him whistle and rasp, I had to take off my glasses and press my fingers against my eyes. Lisa is so irresponsible, I thought. And reckless. And unmindful of the rules that ought to govern daily life. And yet if she had not been who she was—and I had not been who I was—we never would have gotten married and then there never would be a boy named Danny. At least, not our Danny.

  I had to be honest with myself. Lisa and I fought. A lot. And sometimes our marriage didn’t feel completely right. Yet surely it was mostly right, because now it felt partly wrong. But what exactly needed to be fixed between us? I knew I was, as Lisa sometimes called me, an emotional groundhog. I did prefer to burrow underground and pop my head up only once a year to check out the situation. Whenever a problem arose at home that needed to be addressed, I tended to stay half an hour longer at the office, while Lisa tended to not go into the kitchen. And not bake a cake. Lisa’s way of dealing with conflict consisted of pouring her guts onto the page. Sometimes I thought that if only I talked to her more, she might not feel so compelled to manipulate the things that went on between us—things that ought to be kept private—into a story that was about the way things really were and yet also about the way things really were not.

  The not was what bothered me about this novel she was writing. On our drive over to the hotel, Lisa had sworn that she wasn’t writing about infertility. But the longer I sat at that dinner listening to Lisa and Cynthia gaily chatter away, the more I was convinced that Lisa had seized upon the reasons why we couldn’t conceive another child—her own adulterous impulses and her own promiscuous behavior—and transferred them onto her male character. He whom every reader would think was me! Unless, of course, Lisa had gone heavy on the Fu Manchu. Or the Liberace.