Wrapping her arms around herself protectively, Laura reflected on the fact that this moment had been a long time coming. For months, even years, she’d woken up every morning with a heaviness in her chest, the nagging feeling that something was wrong. She would lie in bed, struggling to clear the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. And then she’d remember.
Today I’m going to make this marriage work, she’d resolve with the same regularity with which she brushed her teeth. Somehow, I’m going to find a way to get through to Roger.
Yet she never did. The distance between them stopped being painful, instead becoming the norm. Too many times she lay in bed alone late at night, after Roger had insisted he wasn’t tired. From downstairs she would hear Star Trek reruns, the voices of Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk fading to background noise until she finally succeeded in drifting off.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table, the house strangely silent, Laura waited, curious to see what she would feel. It was like being at the movies, watching the lead actress confront a horrible truth, wondering, What’s she going to do now? How is she going to react? She had that same sense of anticipation, the feeling that any minute she was going to be surprised. Her heart pounded and adrenaline rushed through every vein. What next?
Watching herself this way, Laura braced for a rush of anger. There was so much to be angry about. One more in a long line of financial fiascoes, the continuation of a trend that had started even before their marriage. The way Roger had kept it all from her, ignoring the fact that husbands and wives were supposed to be partners. The bizarre way she’d discovered that, all melodrama aside, her husband really had been living a secret life.
But Laura felt no anger. Surprised, she waited to see if perhaps she would be overcome by sadness. As she clasped her hands, still struggling to quell the horrible trembling, a long-forgotten memory flashed into her mind. It was from the first year she and Roger were married, when she’d still basked in the certainty that she’d found her happily-ever-after.
The two of them were in bed, limbs intertwined, cloaked in perspiration and body heat and the intoxicating air of intimacy that lingers after making love. She delighted in the sensation of his hard, muscular thigh pressing against hers, marveled over how perfectly her head fit into the gentle slope between his shoulder and his collarbone. In those days, she and Roger lighted candles, wanting to banish the brightness of electric lights but still be able to read the subtlest changes in each other’s expression by the soft, flickering light.
Running her fingertips lightly across his chest, she had reflected that her commitment to him and their marriage was so strong it could withstand anything.
Drowsily she told him, “We won’t be like everybody else. I won’t let us. This marriage is going to work because I’m going to make it work.”
She had truly believed it, that day and every other that followed. Only now, looking back and recognizing how tenaciously she’d been clinging to her vow, she realized that holding a marriage together wasn’t something a person could do alone.
She should have been filled with sadness. Yet she felt none, just as she’d felt no anger. Instead, sitting alone in a silent house, Laura was filled with fear.
She was frightened because she knew that deep inside—in her heart, her soul, that undefinable part of herself from which it was impossible to hide the truth—she had finally made her decision. She could no longer remain married to Roger. Having made that decision, she had no choice but to take action. And that was guaranteed to throw her entire life into turmoil.
Slowly Laura rose. Standing in the doorway of the dining room, she caught sight of the party brochures strewn across the table. They seemed to mock her. What a fool she’d been, planning an event meant to celebrate a man and a woman who hadn’t really been a couple at all.
“Oh, my God!” she cried, a deep, painful sob rising up out of her chest. In one swift, unanticipated motion, she swept all the papers onto the floor.
Suddenly Laura felt a strange sense of calm. Of finality. Of the relief that came from resolution—a resolution that was long overdue.
She was finally free to admit the truth.
Chapter Two
“Okay, tiger. Hop into bed.”
Sitting on the edge of Evan’s bed, waiting while he decided which of his two dozen stuffed animals would be his sleeping partner that night, Laura was amused by the way both her son’s past and his future were mixed up in his room. A wide-eyed teddy bear was pushed in the corner with his rap-singer-style sneakers. Picture books about bunnies and squirrels were lined up next to wrestling magazines. Hanging above his dresser were two posters, one of Curious George, one of a sleek race car.
He’s at an in-between age, she thought. Just a few more years and he’ll be a teenager. As she tucked the blankets under his chin she noticed he was growing so tall that soon there’d hardly be any room for her to sit at the end of his bed.
But for now, he was much more of a child than he was a man. He lay in bed with his arm wrapped around the neck of a polar bear named Snuffles, staring up at her expectantly. Looking into his clear blue eyes, Laura swallowed hard. It took every bit of her self-control to keep back the tears.
Yes, I’m lying to him, she admitted. Pretending nothing’s changed, calmly discussing which book I’m going to read to him tonight…. But I’ve been lying to him all along. Every day for months. For years. Instead of feeling guilty, I should be grateful. After all, the lying is about to end.
She reached over and smoothed back his hair, forcing herself to smile. “You did a terrific job today, Ev. Raking leaves, I mean.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Earnestly he glanced over at the money he’d earned, stacked up in full view on his night table.
“You’re getting pretty big. Before you know it, you’ll be mowing the lawn, shoveling snow, digging cesspools—”
“Mo-o-om! I don’t want to—” He cut his protestations short. “You’d pay me, right?”
“Look at you. Eight years old and ready to join a union.”
He handed her the slim paperback they’d been working on together all week. “Not until you finish reading me and Snuffles this book.”
* * * *
Once the house was quiet, Laura settled onto the living room couch, covering herself with the afghan her mother had crocheted the first Christmas she and Roger celebrated as a married couple. Turning on the television for background noise but unable to concentrate on the sitcom unfolding before her, she waited.
All evening she’d been trying to imagine the scene that would play out when Roger came home. Yet even with her overdeveloped writer’s imagination, she couldn’t bring it into focus. Instead, she agonized over the details that were under her control: how she would act, what points she’d make ... even where the confrontation would take place.
This last concern was of no small consequence. She certainly didn’t want to conduct such an important conversation lying in bed, barefoot and vulnerable, even though that was the obvious place to be at this hour. As for the kitchen, it had already been the scene of too many late-night discussions, with Roger delivering endless monologues justifying his latest escapade and Laura ending up apologetic, if confused, by the time they went to bed.
So Laura sat on the couch, her heart pounding as she attempted to calm herself. Desperate for some distraction, she looked around the room. She scanned the rows of novels she’d already read, neatly lined up on the bookshelves. Untouched sections from the previous Sunday’s New York Times. Haphazard piles of papers, Evan’s schoolwork and junk mail and obsolete telephone messages that begged to be sorted.
Finally her eyes lit on a thick white volume, tucked away on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Her stomach lurched. Her wedding album.
Maybe she should take a look, she thought, sort through the pieces of her life and evaluate them in the same way she so matter-of-factly sifted through the clutter that accumulated on the end tables and kitchen counters.
Slowly she
rose, letting the afghan fall onto the carpet. She hesitated before retrieving the white photograph album from the bottom shelf, then reminded herself, Ebenezer Scrooge reviewed his past. Look what it did for him.
She settled back down on the couch and ran her hand over the smooth white leather. She’d rejected the idea of a professional photographer who lined up warm bodies according to size and arranged them in stiff, unnatural poses, like the inmates of a wax museum. Instead, she’d asked her friends to take personal, informal pictures. One long, rainy afternoon a few weeks after her wedding, she’d painstakingly arranged the scores of photographs to tell a story.
As she opened the album, Laura was instantly whisked back in time. First came snapshots of the huge ramshackle Victorian mansion on eastern Long Island where the wedding was held, the summer home of friends of Roger’s who were as generous as they were wealthy. The Darlings’ summer home was like something out of a movie. It had, in fact, been the setting for one, a tragic, terribly romantic story filmed in soft focus, its pastel shades blending together like the paint in a watercolor.
Laura had wanted to recapture the same poetic feeling created by the director and his cameramen and set designers—without the overlay of tragedy, of course. At the same time she was determined to plan a wedding as unique as the newly formed unit called Laura-and-Roger.
In each photograph there were signs that every element had been personalized, every detail carefully thought out. The house itself was funky, right out of a Grimms’ fairy tale, with its wonderful towers and turrets and gingerbread trim. Huge windows opened onto impressive views, not only of the rich oranges and reds of autumn trees, but also of the sea. The water was a calm expanse of blue dotted with sailboats that, from so high up on the cliff, looked like toys. Dark, old-fashioned oil portraits of stern-faced strangers, picked up at auctions and garage sales, lined the house’s walls. Wicker chairs and love seats, mismatched tables and lamps, and a scattering of throw rugs furnished the interior. The mansion’s most notable attribute, its porch, wrapped around three sides of the house and afforded an even more magnificent view of the water.
The photographs showed how Laura had superimposed over this dramatic backdrop her own interpretations of all the traditional elements of a wedding. The three-tiered cake was chocolate. Her bouquet was a cluster of colorful wildflowers. As for the food, it wasn’t catered by some slick organization that descended like a SWAT team, administering hummus and chicken cordon bleu with coldhearted efficiency. Instead it had been made with love by the friend of a friend with a knack for preparing tricolor pasta salad and teriyaki chicken in cauldron-sized quantities.
Even her wedding dress, on page three directly underneath a shot of the wooden arch Roger had built for the outdoor ceremony, showed Laura’s characteristic touch. She’d had no interest in a traditional wedding dress, one of those white creations, all ruffles and lace and fussiness. Nor had she been lucky enough to have an antique wedding dress stashed in a trunk somewhere, its lace yellowed, its satin ribbons fraying.
And so she’d searched endlessly for the right dress, finally finding it in a boutique in New York’s trendy SoHo district. Because it was meant to be worn at parties without a ‘Till Death Do Us Part” theme, her selection wasn’t white or even cream-colored. It was pale yellow, with large pink flowers and mint green leaves and, around the waist, a floppy green sash. Made of soft rayon, the dress hung flatteringly, the bodice clingy, the skirt giving way at the hips to generous folds that swished and swirled deliciously when she moved.
Yes, she’d been determined that she and Roger were going to do things their own way. They were both going into this with their eyes open. They would avoid the traps other couples fell into. They would be open with each other. They would talk ... and they would listen. Above all, they would never lose the feeling of connection, the conviction that they were two kindred spirits who’d banded together against whatever the rest of the world would be throwing their way.
There’d been compromises, of course. Looking back, Laura could now see the early signs of the problems that would come to haunt them. The first had arisen, of all things, over beverages.
She and Roger had agreed that the only alcohol they wanted served at their wedding was champagne. Champagne was so light and bubbly. So sophisticated. So French. Yet his parents, Sylvia and Fred, were appalled when they learned there’d be no scotch, gin, or other such staples for their friends. After all, the freshly retired men in kelly green pants and their wives, thick-waisted yachting and golf widows, constituted a segment of the population that never embarked upon a social event without a drink in hand.
“Let us take care of it,” Sylvia had insisted. “It’ll be our contribution.”
‘They’re your parents. Just tell them we want to do it our own way,” she pleaded. How desperately she wanted him to side with her. To stand up for what was supposed to be their wedding, custom-designed by this brand-new entity, separate and strong.
Instead, Roger simply shrugged.
“Let’s just do it their way,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “If having an open bar for their friends is that important to them, let them have it. After all, they did offer to pay for it.”
And so instead of the delicate sound of champagne glasses tinkling in the background, the Walsh-Briggs affair was accompanied by the clunk of ice cubes dropping into gin and tonics and Seven and Sevens. Even more of a presence were the roars of male laughter as Fred, playing bartender, would slap one of his buddies on the back and bark out the punch line of an off-color joke.
Roger’s parents got involved in other ways as well. Sylvia, in particular. Laura, looking over her shoulder for Roger’s approval, made a point of asking her mother-in-law-to-be for advice.
“Sylvia, I need help ordering flowers. Nothing ostentatious. In fact, I’d prefer something simple . . . like wildflowers.”
“Flowers? Don’t worry about flowers,” Sylvia insisted with a wave of her hand. “I’ll take care of it. I’d love to help out.”
Laura was touched, and the fact that Sylvia was willing to do some of the legwork was only part of it. Laura was paying for her own wedding, and with Roger out of work—a temporary situation, he assured her—her budget was already tight. “Thank you. Sylvia, that’s so sweet of you. I also need something to wear in place of a veil. I was thinking of a wreath of flowers, something with baby’s breath—”
“I’ll take care of it”
Laura smiled shyly. “What about a boutonniere for Roger? You’re already being so generous, but isn’t that fairly standard?”
“Oh, yes. And one for his brother, and one for Fred, and one for your father ... but don’t even think about it. I’ll take care of it.”
Sure enough, the flowers arrived right on schedule.
Huge bouquets, more luxurious than anything Laura could ever have envisioned. Dozens of roses, yellow and white. A wreath for her hair, exotic blossoms interlaced with baby’s breath. For the men there were white carnations. When the florist delivered them all to the Darlings’ house on the morning of the wedding, Laura was overwhelmed by their opulence. It wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind, of course, but she hardly felt in a position to complain.
After the flowers were brought inside, the florist pressed the bill into the palm of Sylvia’s hand. Without even glancing at it, she handed it to Laura.
“Here, Laura. Take care of it.”
An hour before the wedding, Laura headed out to a field to pick her own bouquet, pink and purple wildflowers, which she tied together with a scrap of ribbon pulled off the florist’s version. In the end, she decided not even to mention it to Roger. She’d already learned an important lesson from Champagne v. The Hard Stuff.
Not that he was around. Though Laura and Roger had agreed to see to all the last-minute details together, he was nowhere to be found. Mystified about his whereabouts, growing more and more fidgety by the minute, she finally decided to take it on faith that he’d show up for
his own wedding. She retreated to her hotel room to dress.
As the hour of the ceremony drew close, he still had not appeared. Wearing her wedding dress, her hair hanging halfway down her back and crowned by the somewhat overdone wreath Sylvia and her chichi florist had cooked up, she searched the Darlings’ property. She finally discovered him in the garage, bent over a stack of wooden slats, sawing. He was wearing jeans and a ripped T-shirt, covered in sweat and badly in need of a shave.
“What are you doing?” she gasped. “It’s three-thirty, and the wedding’s at four!”
“I’ll make it,” he assured her, not even glancing up. “I thought it’d be a nice touch to have an arch for the judge to stand in front of. Isn’t that a great idea?”
The local judge showed up a few minutes later, looking spiffy in his suit, playing the role of small-town bureaucrat with impressive skill. Laura, her stomach in knots, tried her best to be gracious. She handed him a copy of the ceremony she’d written. She considered it one of the most important tokens of her desire to personalize her wedding and was proud of it.
Everything was ready. The guests were seated in a collection of odd chairs—folding, lawn, wooden dining room ones—set out in uneven rows on the back lawn, overlooking the harbor. The arch was in place, with yellow roses—incredibly expensive yellow roses—interwoven into the latticework. As four o’clock gave way to five after, then ten after, the crowd whispered and squirmed in their seats. Roger’s scraggly-haired brother, Dirk, wearing shades and what looked dangerously like a white Nehru jacket, was supplying the music for the occasion. He strummed his guitar, glancing around nervously as he launched into his fourth rendition of “Here Comes the Sun.”
“It’s after four,” the judge complained.
“I know,” Laura replied, her head spinning. “But we can’t start yet. The groom isn’t here.”
Once More with Feeling Page 2