Something To Be Brave For

  “Being with Gillian was more important than keeping your promise to me?” he asked, his voice rising, growing more agitated.

  “Of course not. How could you say that?”

  “Maybe you thought I’d never find out. That you’d sneak back in here before my call.”

  “That’s not true, Claude. It just didn’t seem that important.”

  “That important?” he shouted. Sweat glistened on his forehead. I’d never heard him shout, except on our first date when I spilled the wine and he yelled at the waitress. Now I was so shocked I hardly knew what to say.

  “Breaking your promise, lying, deceiving me, isn’t important?”

  “But you know I’d never do anything to hurt you,” I cried.

  “How do I know you even went to the movies with Gillian? Maybe instead of Gillian it was George.”

  I was near panic. “Who’s George?” I blurted.

  “You tell me! Or maybe you didn’t go to the movies at all!”

  “Are you crazy, Claude? Has something happened to you? Did you drink too much, or, or… have an allergic reaction to something?”

  “What did you say?” he asked, thrusting his face into mine. His voice was quiet now, and that scared me even more. He was trembling with rage. I was shaking, too.

  “Didn’t you see her drop me off?” I said quietly, and I backed into the console table and grabbed the phone. “Let’s call her,” I said, handing him the receiver. “I know she can straighten this whole thing out.”

  “I don’t want to talk to her, I want to talk to YOU,” – and with that, he drew back and threw the phone, smashing it into the mirrored wall behind me. Tiles exploded in glass fragments and the phone broke apart; pieces of it landed on the table and the floor.

  I gasped for breath, and my heart pounded. The evening had gone from loose, easy happiness to something that seemed like utter madness. Claude stood still for a moment, staring at the broken mirror panes as if he was studying a painting in a gallery, the way he’d done on our first date, and then he suddenly turned and walked toward the stairs, ignoring me.

  “Claude! I’ve told you everything. You have to believe me,” I cried.

  “We’ll see,” he said quietly, starting up the stairs. “Sleep alone tonight, and think about what you’ve done.” He turned away.

  In desperation I picked up the little bag of coffee beans I’d bought that morning and rushed over to him.

  “Sweetheart, Claude – I bought you these this morning. They’re your favorite.” I offered them to him. “Please, darling, don’t be angry with me.”

  He glanced down at the bag but didn’t take it. He looked up at me and smiled. “You disgust me,” he said.

  He turned and climbed the stairs.

  I stood at the foot of the stairs and watched him go, unable to believe what had happened. My heart was pounding, but I felt weak, sick. I went into the living room and collapsed in tears on the sofa, holding my head in my hands. I’d never seen this side of Claude – my multifaceted husband, my hero – or at least, I didn’t think I had, not really. But aside from the moodiness, which could vanish in an instant, last month he had thrown the dinner I’d prepared into the garbage, saying that it wasn’t fit for a dog, and that I’d have to do better. I was so hurt, I couldn’t even cry. And when I forgot to pick up his shirts at the cleaner’s, he locked me out of the house – just for five minutes – to bring my attention to it, he said. But both incidents were really my fault and not worth thinking about. I did need to do better.

  I knew him well, I was confident of that. We lay together naked every night and talked. He told me how his mother had suffered from depression and was periodically taken to a sanatorium to “rest”, leaving him with his father, who blamed him for his mother’s condition. I told him about growing up with Jack and Amelia. We told each other everything.

  Was today an aberration, a moment of craziness triggered by – what? Drink? Lack of sleep? Too much work? Too much pressure? Claude’s name had been in newspapers and magazines, and he’d been mentioned on Oprah, which seemed to cause everyone in the world, short of Oprah herself, to immediately call for an appointment.

  I continued searching for an answer. Maybe the house was a financial burden. He’d picked it out, an 1870 Federal with original moldings and wainscoting, completely renovated – and he had surprised me with the keys. The office was free and clear, a wedding present from my parents. That’s what marriage was about, I knew: sharing everything and helping each other. He’d said he had everything he wanted.

  So it must be me, I thought as I lay curled up on the sofa in the darkened living room. What did I do that was so wrong?

  Maybe I should call Gillian.

  No. Grow up. This is private. Marriage takes work, my mother says, and this is definitely in that category.

  When I had the strength, I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, passing Claude’s closed study door. I got into my nightgown and crawled into our bed. I couldn’t sleep – not without Claude, not when he was in our home and still so angry at me. I listened for his step while holding onto my pillows as if they were life preservers on the Titanic, and finally, hours and a lot of tears later, I drifted off to sleep amid visions of drowning and suffocation.

  I woke up to the sound of his voice, soft and imploring, as he slipped under the covers.

  “Katie, darling, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” He put his hand on my shoulder and gently turned me to him.

  “It’s okay,” I said, so relieved that he’d returned to himself.

  “I don’t know what came over me. I think the hours I keep, the drive, all of it somehow built up, and I didn’t even know it.” There were tears in his eyes as he touched my face. “You know how much I love you. The truth is I came home early because I couldn’t stand being away. I can’t be without you.”

  “And I can’t be without you!” I felt my tears coming.

  “I’ve had the worst night, thinking about how awful I was to you. That I made you cry. And the mirror—”

  “Oh, forget the mirror,” I said, pushing aside the memory of fragments of flying glass, of sudden terror, of terrible words.

  “Say you’ll forgive me. It will never happen again, I promise.” He kissed my wet cheek and whispered, “Please, say something, my love.”

  “You really promise?” I asked, searching his face for a sign that he was really back.

  “I promise with all my heart.”

  I felt his body tremble against mine.

  “Good,” I whispered.

  “That’s my little girl,” he said, taking me in his arms and kissing me. In a moment I felt his hardness against my thighs. He pulled my nightgown off me, and we locked together and then he was rocking me and it was hot. Afterward, we cuddled together and talked a little. I’d never felt so good, so relaxed, so relieved – all the evening’s troubles burned away, vaporized. I began to drift off.

  “And to make up for last night,” Claude was saying, “I want you to invite Gillian to Canyon Ranch to relax for a couple of days, just the two of you.”

  “Hey,” I said, coming back. “I thought you can’t bear to be without me.”

  “I can’t,” he said, and laughed. “But I had better learn, hadn’t I? I thought about it all night. And it will be so good for you two to get away. You’ll come back rejuvenated. Get all the treatments, therapies and massages they have. Hot stones along the spine, isn’t that the latest thing that women like? I’m so happy you two are friends. She’s so lucky to have you… Forgive me, darling?”

  “Totally and absolutely,” I said.

  In the morning, Claude called First Glass & Mirror and arranged to have the mirror tiles replaced, we had a new phone put in, and by the afternoon, all signs of the violence of the night before had vanished.

  I phoned Gillian.

  “Canyon Ranch!” she said with wonder when I made the invitation. “Wow, I’ve always wanted to go there. And I’m not on call. What a great ide
a, and I didn’t even think Claude liked me.”

  “Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Why all of a sudden a spa vacation? There must be a reason.”

  “He just knows how much I like being with you, and he wants us to be able to spend some time together before the holidays.”

  “That’s so nice of him.”

  “And,” I said, picking my words, “we had kind of a… disagreement after you dropped me off last night.”

  “He was there?”

  “Yes. He came back early to be with me and was upset that I was out with you and didn’t tell him.”

  “Oh, come on. His wife can’t go to the movies with her friend?”

  “He was pretty incensed,” I said. “Let’s just say we had to get two guys from a glass and mirror store over to the house today.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  After I told her what had happened, there was silence on the line.

  “You could have been hurt,” Gillian said quietly. “That’s outrageous. Not good at all. You should have called me. I hope you told him there’d be no more of that.”

  “He promised it would never happen again, and somehow, when we made up, it brought us closer together. I believe him.”

  “But if it ever does happen again, you have to call me,” she said. “Promise?”

  All these promises! I had made Claude promise it would never happen again as well. I was suddenly very tired of promises, and felt annoyed. “Gillian, stop being so protective,” I said. “It’s over, and I just want to forget about it. So, will you pick me up? It’ll be so great spending some time together.”

  “Of course I will,” she said, but the excitement of the moment had vanished.

  You should just promise to keep these things to yourself.

  *

  Claude reserved us a suite,s and then he helped me pack. Gillian and I left early Saturday morning and arrived in Lenox, a hundred and thirty miles away in the Berkshire Hills, by midday.

  “I can’t believe this place. It’s so beautiful,” whispered Gillian in the lobby – huge, high, light-filled – as she picked up a brochure. “Oh, this is interesting. This place used to be the summer residence where Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, and Edith Wharton stayed. Wow, pretty nice company. Maybe it’ll bring out our literary sides.”

  I laughed, but it occurred to me that while Gillian had a main “side” – medicine – what side did I have? We checked in, signed up for our classes and followed the bellman with our luggage to the second floor.

  “We each get our own bathroom. And look, a washer and dryer right here,” Gillian exclaimed, sliding open a louvered door.

  “We’d better change. Our first class is in twenty minutes,” I said, and I pulled out my yoga pants from my suitcase.

  The day was full. We moved from class to class, running into each other once in a while when we overlapped, and heading to the spa for treatments. I had my entire body wrapped in seaweed, then painted with some sort of goo that dried, leaving me feeling like a mummy in the fragrant treatment room. My eyes closed and I drifted off… and when I opened them gentle hands were stripping the seaweed from my body, and I was scrubbed down with a loofah. So sensual – I glowed, basking in the luxury.

  “What a fabulous day,” Gillian said when we met up in the suite. She plopped down on her queen-sized bed in her terrycloth bathrobe. “This is sinful! I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble sleeping.”

  “Maybe waking up,” I said. “I think my favorites were the tai chi and the massage.” I put my robe on. “The grilled chicken with cilantro and couscous was delicious. I want to get their cookbook to take it back to Claude.” But I tried to remember the last time we’d prepared a meal together, despite his avowed love of cooking.

  “God, listen to us! So… how’s married life going since the post-movie incident?” she asked.

  “Well, we’ve only had a week in between. But it’s been good. In some way,” I said, “I think I’m finding myself through him.”

  “What do you mean?” Gillian raised up on one elbow and looked at me.

  “I don’t know, exactly, except that for the first time I feel like I belong and that I have, you know, a purpose. Love is hard to explain. At least for me it is. Have you ever been in love?”

  “Oh, sure. When I was in medical school.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was an oncology intern, and he wanted to get married right away because he knew his professional life was going to be really demanding and draining, and he wanted to get his home life squared away before everything else took over. But it seemed so schematic, so ordered, and that was sort of a red flag to me, because I’m not that way at all. He kept pressuring me, so finally I broke it off.”

  “That must have been hard. I don’t know if I could have done that.”

  “It was torture in the beginning but ultimately the right decision,” Gillian said. “Relationships take time and effort, and right now, with my work schedule, I don’t have either one. I’m used to having my own way and being independent. It’s not that I’m against marriage. I hope it happens someday.”

  “But you still need some kind of companionship, don’t you?”

  “I guess. My personal trainer is great in the workout room and, well, in the sack.” She grinned and colored. “I hope I’m not shocking you, proper married Katie. He’s long but he’s definitely not long-term.”

  We whooped with laughter. But I had to admit to myself that I was more than a little shocked at her candid confession. Still, had I thought watching old movies was her only form of recreation?

  “How do you know it can’t become anything real?” I asked. “You and Mr. Hot Trainer.”

  “Oh, it’s just what it is, and it’s not going to last. I don’t want it to. He’s too young, hardly speaks English – he’s Argentinian – and he can’t understand why I’ll only work out at five a.m. We have nothing in common except he’s single and into the physical fitness thing. Do you completely disapprove, Katie?”

  “Of course not.” Actually, I was impressed. Her independence; it was far from anything I could imagine for myself. “You just haven’t met Mr. Right,” I said.

  “Mister who? I’m not sure there is such a thing for me. You and I are different. You’re so committed to Claude and to being a good wife and everything. I don’t know how you do it. It’s like you make sure all his needs are satisfied. No offense, but what about you and your needs? It’s great you’re working in his office now and then, but what about the things you love: your art, your music?”

  “Claude needs me,” I said. “I can listen to music or look at art anytime.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, but do you?”

  The question startled me, but she’d hit it: I hadn’t been doing much of either one since we’d been married. I’d have to make an effort to change that.

  “I’m happy, Gillian. It’s what I want. I didn’t know that, but now I do. My parents weren’t like yours. They never expected me to have a big career. Mom was supportive of my art interests, but neither of them took it all that seriously. I think I was raised to marry success, not be one.” I felt my face growing red. “That’s not exactly what I mean – of course I want to be a success, but maybe Claude’s success is enough for me – enough to share. I’m not you, I don’t need to always be winning.”

  Gillian looked toward the windows, filled with soft, late-day Berkshires light. We were on the verge of another fight, and we both sensed it.

  “Well, yes, I understand,” she said. “But still, it sounds like the Middle Ages.” Gillian propped her pillows behind her and sat up. “To each her own, I guess. But if you get too medieval on me, Katie, I’m just warning you that I’ll have to yank you back to modern times.”

  “Yank away,” I said, and the tension melted, and we laughed.

  As we got ready for bed, I thought about the hands working on me in the treatment room, and how they
’d been there for my pleasure only, and for my comfort. They hadn’t wanted anything of their own; and of course the staff were being paid. But they hadn’t been seeking pleasure, too. Then I thought of Claude caressing me, his hands so sensual and strong, so assured in all their movements. And then I saw one of his hands throwing the phone at the mirror. I heard that frightening crack! all over again, and the gentle tinkling as fragments of mirror glass rained down onto the floor like lethal confetti. The little bag of coffee beans.

  You disgust me.

  “We should make a pact to see each other once a month,” Gillian said sleepily.

  “Let’s, definitely. You’re such a good friend,” I said, turning out the light before she could see that I was suddenly and silently and inexplicably crying.

  5

  February 1995

  I pushed through the office door, hung my coat and scarf at the end of the row of furs in the hall closet, and paused to smell the stargazer lilies arranged on the mahogany table in the entranceway. Claude picked them up every week at the Holiday Wholesale Market on Albany Street. His decorator, Tom Hampton, who’d traded an eye lift by Claude for a hand in decorating the office, preferred the stargazers for their burst of color, and suggested five arrangements throughout so the scent could permeate the space; and Claude enjoyed arranging them. I passed through the elegant waiting room, such a contrast to my father’s patients’ purgatory, where the suffering, attached to tubes and oxygen tanks, huddled beneath trays of fluorescent lights, staring at one another or at the worn, faded carpet, waiting to hear how much longer they had to live.

  For reasons that escaped me, my father was fond of saying, “If you don’t have cancer, you have no problems,” but here, in Claude’s office, didn’t everyone appear to be cancer – and problem – free? Women from twenty-one to eighty, in couture suits and dresses and holding their big designer handbags like shields, nestled into the comfy armchairs, the rose chintz sofas and the apricot window seat that matched the walls and silk balloon shade above. They chatted on cell phones, brazenly ripped pages from fashion magazines to show Claude the look they wanted, or flipped through the leather-bound portfolio that contained Claude’s listing in Boston’s Best Doctors 1993; his photo in People; his interviews in Vogue and The Star. When Claude put soft-pink lightbulbs in the table lamps, I’d thought it was silly, but he said creating the right ambiance was good for business – and what did I know? Though my father considered Claude to be his medical “son”, he barely concealed his disappointment when Claude chose cosmetic surgery instead of settling for being heir apparent to Jack’s practice. “They’re all hairdressers – lightweights,” my father said. “Doctors are supposed to cure the sick.” Actually, Claude did both in his dual practice; cure could be a relative term. “Self-esteem is crucial to a full and happy life,” he said. “Never underestimate it.” And I didn’t, although from time to time I did wonder if having the shape of your nose changed could truly bring inner peace.