“I know.” She looks across the yard again, this time her gaze glossy and empty.
“I assumed Marco because . . .” I try to think back on Charlotte’s infidelity revelation. To the best of my knowledge, either Charlotte or Marco could have been the perpetrator. But I never thought it’d be Charlotte. Never. I never thought her capable of something like this.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come right out and say it. It was hard enough to talk about. I didn’t even think that it could come off any other way. I’ve been carrying this guilt, this ugly secret for so long—for five months now. Five! I feel like it could only be me. It is me.”
I place a hand on her knee. “How? When?” A barrage of questions is probably not what Charlotte needs from her big sister right now, though, so I backtrack. “You don’t have to explain, Charlotte. Just tell me how I can help. What do you need from me?”
She forces a weak smile. “I think it’d do me some good getting it out.”
“Then get it out, hon.”
“A kind of prep for”—her bottom lip quivers—“for telling Marco. Oh, Halley.” She shakes her head. “What have I done?”
I wait patiently, supportively, and then, after a few silent beats, Charlotte’s posture goes rigid and she gets a far-off look in her eyes.
“It started in May,” she says in calm, even tones, “when I met . . . Damon.”
The mere sound of his name, as trivial as it is, makes the entire affair so real.
“That’s when the affair actually started. I slept with him only once. Several weeks after we met.” She swallows. “I’m not making excuses, and once is as bad as any amount of times.” She pauses. Only the sound of the pinwheel in the yard can be heard as the gentle breeze spins its wings.
“The affair started as soon as I began seeking companionship with him, from day one. Coffees together . . . then lunches . . . and then . . . his place. The feelings he gave me and the way I sought them out are unforgivable. I had a physical and an emotional affair.” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Damon noticed me, Halley. He talked to me. He made me feel . . . alive. I have fifteen more pounds on me that I didn’t have before I had Leah. And ten more on top of that after having had Alice and George. I know I won’t have my pre-baby body back. And that’s okay. It is. I’ll be able to lose ten, fifteen pounds, if I stick to my workouts and healthy eating. I know that.” She looks to me, despondent. “In any event, I haven’t felt very pretty or desirable for a long time. I know it sounds banal and vain. There’s more to a beautiful woman than her weight.”
“Absolutely.”
“But it’s how I feel. I don’t feel like myself. And on top of that, I wear yoga pants and track suits so often it’s considered dressing up when I put on jeans and a T-shirt. I have to use so much darn concealer under my eyes or I look like a drug addict.”
“Charlotte, you’re ridiculous. Your eyes are fine.”
“That’s the concealer. I’m tired, Halley. Utterly exhausted. And I’ve lost myself. For years I’ve looked in the mirror and haven’t seen anything. I don’t say that to be overly dramatic. I mean that I literally look in the mirror and I don’t really take the time to notice that the reflection belongs to me. That I should actually care for it. Instead, I see the circles, the extra weight, the hair in desperate need of new highlights, the stains on every piece of clothing I own. I don’t see me, my identity. I’m Charlotte the mom. And Charlotte the wife. It’s almost like . . . like I’ve forgotten how to be me.”
Static briefly crackles over the baby monitor. No sounds of an awoken Leah can be heard, so Charlotte carries on.
“My priorities are my children, and I am by no means making an excuse for my behavior. But it’s so difficult to focus on anything but those priorities. I don’t take the time to take care of myself, even though I know I should. I don’t know what it’s like to not be tired every single day. And I’m always cleaning. Always cleaning—”
“Charlotte,” I interrupt. “I know a clean home is a happy home.” It’s her mantra. “But putting down the vacuum one of the five times a day you’re running it, and maybe, I don’t know, reading or opening a magazine, or pulling up something mind-numbing on YouTube instead, will help. Tiny you moments.”
“I know. I obviously found some me time. I had a damned affair, Halley. I’m just in a terrible rut. You know I can’t stop cleaning—the kids are always making messes. And Marco works all the time. I can’t ask him to help when he gets home from work.”
“Why not?”
She gives me a deadpan look, as if I can’t possibly understand what it’s like to run a household that’s more than just moi and my husband. I can’t argue with her.
“You know I believe a clean home is a happy home because it’s something I can control,” she admits. “When there are crumbs on the sofa, I can vacuum them away. When there’s spilled milk, I can mop that. When you let everything go to hell in a handbasket, then there’s strain and chaos in the family. Look at our mother! She couldn’t give one iota for how our home—or we—looked. Daughters with ratty hair? Whatever, she had appointments to go to. Messy kitchen? Not her problem, she had dates. I need a clean home, because I need a happy home, and I need a family that stays together.”
Charlotte runs her hands through her long, wavy hair and sighs. She affects a false laugh and says, “And look. I’m so obsessed with striving to keep that perfect home, not wanting to have my children grow up in a broken one, that I’ve really done a number and have caused the ultimate damage. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“How long have you felt like this, Charlotte? Felt . . . lost?”
She sniffs. “Since I had Alice.”
I grip her knee once more at the painful admission that my sister’s felt such pain for so long. I knew she was worn out and juggled a circus, but to feel so lost for so long? And to keep it bottled up to the point that she reacts by having an affair?
“It wasn’t as severe then, of course,” she says. “It’s increased over time. With each child. With each year. I think I just . . . finally broke. Finally. Had. Enough.”
“And Damon made some of that frustration, that brokenness, go away?”
She stares across the yard again, her voice calm, words chilling. “It all started with my routine coffee stops on the way back from dropping the kids off at school. Wednesdays and Fridays. The days I drop Leah off at day care for some of the few three-hour breaks a week I allow myself not to feel guilty over—some of the only me time I really get in the week.”
“Sure.”
“The man in front of me had paid for my coffee.”
“Damon?” I ask, and she nods.
“He said he was in the middle of writing a movie script, and the leading guy picked up the leading lady by buying her coffee while waiting in line at a café. Said he thought he’d see if it worked in real life.”
Smooth mover, this Damon.
“It did,” she says. “He turned out to be a nice guy. Really easy to talk to, interesting. He’s only two years younger, works in advertising but decided to chase his dream of screenwriting.”
A corner of Charlotte’s lips turns up as she reminiscences. “Damon took on this representation of freedom, of choice, of chasing passion. Of being. And I was taken in, Hals. You know, I’ve never gotten over the fact that I never made it to law school, that I just kind of . . . gave up my dreams.” She glances at the silent baby monitor and says, “I had a lot of dreams. Having a family was one of them, but I had more dreams. I . . . I still do. It’s silly, really.”
“No, Charlotte. No, it’s not.”
She shrugs and says, “Well, I guess Damon just represented what I didn’t—couldn’t—have. I’d always gone to the same coffee shop every day Leah had day care, but I had a new reason to go. Of course I told Damon that I was married, that I had three children. It didn’t matter. He didn’t mind. Nothing really seemed to matter when I was with Damon. It was like I could be the Charlotte I wasn’t. I could focus on just me.
&nb
sp; “In the back of my mind I knew there were healthier and better ways to focus on myself. I could take that spin class I’d been meaning to. I could find the time. I could trade in my coffee dates for meetings with a nutritionist, or go to the salon and get my hair done, or any other cheap quick fix. Anything but an affair. But I simply liked the way Damon made me feel beautiful and young and like I was more than a wife and more than a mother. I liked being more, Halley. I liked being just Charlotte, the woman. Somehow I’ve lost her along the way.”
She pauses, and I take the moment to ask, “Are you still seeing each other?”
“No,” she says firmly. “Like I said, we slept together only once, and right after it happened I told him I couldn’t see him anymore. And I didn’t.”
Good. This is good.
“I was guilty. I screwed up big-time, and I knew I had to stop. But it was hard, Halley. When it was just coffee, I constantly thought about how wrong it was. How I shouldn’t continue things. It was never innocent. But I was addicted to the feeling. To feeling beautiful and special. Validated. Like, despite the yoga pants and the stains, I was interesting and desirable to someone who didn’t have any reason to give me a second glance. It’s so terribly . . . cheap. Cheap and humiliating.”
She shifts in her seat, turning to face me. “I’m broken, Halley. I won’t play victim, I won’t make excuses, but I am horribly broken, and I need help. I don’t . . .” Her shoulders shake as she inhales against the oncoming tears. “I don’t know how to be me anymore. I’ve lost Charlotte, and I want her back. I want my marriage and my children and my family and my life back. I want to be me again.”
I pull my sister close, and as soon as her face presses to the side of my neck, she bawls. She pours out what sounds like years of pent-up pain and secrets and longing. Years of feeling as if she’s had to fight, and fight alone.
“The guilt is eating me alive,” she says. “I can’t carry on with this secret, this lie. I can’t do that to my marriage. I can’t live a lie, Halley. I can’t.”
“And you shouldn’t.”
“Even if I slept with Damon only once. Once is enough.” She grips her heart. “The emotional affair kills me the most. I . . . I’m sick about it. It’s unforgivable.” Her whole body heaves in uncontrollable sobs. “Never did I think it would come to this. Never.”
“It’ll all be okay, Charlotte,” I soothe.
It’s hard to believe my own words, but this too shall pass. We never think life will hit us with one hard blow and then another, but eventually we dust ourselves off, we move on. In the end we are all right. Whether Marco and Charlotte can move beyond this and repair the damage or they go separate ways, in the end I believe we are all all right. We have to be.
“I can’t believe this,” Charlotte says, aghast. She pulls back from the embrace and spits out, “I’m our mother! I never thought I’d see the day, but I am Monica. Oh god!” She covers her face with her hands and wails, loud and hard.
“Charlotte, look at me.” I force her hands away from her tearstained face. “Look at me.”
“I’m a home-wrecker. Like mother, like daughter. You know I hated Mom for what she did to Dad? To us?”
“I know. We all did. But you are not Mom. Okay? You are a wonderful mother. You’re a strong woman. You love and care and do for others at the expense of yourself.”
“Not with this. Not with Damon.”
“Nobody is perfect, Charlotte. Nobody. Everyone has their demons, their challenges. This one is big, I’ll grant you that.”
“Massive. Catastrophic.”
“But you are not our mother. You love unconditionally. You want to fight for your marriage, your family. You want to right this wrong.”
“I do. Oh, Halley, I do. I messed up, but I want to fight.”
“And you will.” I hold her firmly by the shoulders. “You will. Mom didn’t fight. Mom cheated, over and over again. She hurt all of us. She never really loved Dad. Hell, she never really loved us. Not the way a mother should. We were her accidents.”
“Children aren’t accidents, Halley. They’re just early and/or additional blessings.”
“To you. To Mom?” Jaw locked, I slowly shake my head. “There’s the difference. One among many. You are not Mom, so get that out of your head right now. You understand?”
“Okay.” She sniffles.
“You’ll get through this, Charlotte. You’ll find your way. This is your . . .” I furrow my brow. “At the risk of sounding trite, this is your cross to bear. You can do it. You can work to make it better.”
“What if Marco leaves me?” She bites her quivering lip. “I couldn’t blame him, but the children! Oh god, what have I done?”
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I haven’t allowed myself to ride on the back of false hope with Adam. And I can’t, in good conscience, let Charlotte with Marco.
“That is a possibility,” I say. “That does not mean he will, though. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And if he does, you will be all right. Alice, George, and Leah will be all right. I know it’s not the example you want, but you and Dad and I survived Mom’s messes. Present dramas aside, we turned out all right.”
This gets a laugh out of Charlotte.
“First things first,” I say, rubbing her shoulders. “This affair is absolutely over?”
“Absolutely.”
“No more coffees at this place?”
“I steer far and wide from that coffee shop.”
“Good.”
“Then I think you need to tell Marco.”
“Oh god. This is going to be the hardest thing in the world.” Charlotte tightly runs both hands over her head, smoothing back her auburn hair.
“It will be. I’m no professional, but—” I pause, alighting on an idea. “Maybe that’s what you need straightaway. A professional. A therapist, some counseling? Work toward fixing this, Charlotte. In any way possible. Like how Adam and I are trying to fix things. In our own curious way, but we’re trying. Tell Marco. Try.”
“You’re right.” She blows her nose and wipes away her tears. “God, how do I begin?”
I note the irony of my advice when I say, “Baby steps, Charlotte.”
When Marco comes home from his game of golf, Charlotte and I are outside, stretched out on towels in the sunniest part of the lawn, pants rolled up as high as possible, trying to tan ourselves, like when we were teenagers. Only back then we weren’t discussing affairs and separations as a two-year-old scampered about the yard with a pail and shovel. Marco’s arrival takes us by surprise, and we immediately end our conversation. There is hardly a chance he’s overheard anything—Charlotte and I see him enter the yard well before he’s within earshot. As he approaches, his bag of clubs over one brawny shoulder, I glance at Charlotte and can’t help but notice that her face looks as guilty as mine feels. She watches her husband, on tenterhooks as he lumbers across the lawn.
“Hey, girls!” Marco calls out. He bubbles with cheer, clearly—and fortunately—clueless about the goings-on.
Charlotte quickly leans over and whispers to me, “How could I have done this to the person I love most in the world? Look at him. How stupid am I?”
As I drive home along the Ventura Freeway, I keep running Charlotte’s question through my head. Traffic’s heavy, as it often is on Saturday afternoons. How does one find herself hurting the person she loves most? Is the hurting some sign that you may not love that person as much as you think you do, or claim to? Do we all hurt the ones we love most because we love them so much? Do we hurt as badly as we do because of the strength of our love?
I laugh under my breath at the thought of having some kind of a self-help podcast streaming in my car right about now. I click on the radio. As I’m about to turn up the volume, my cell phone rings. The caller ID on my dash reads “Adam.”
We said we’d have lunch again. It hasn’t been long since our last one, and he’s already calling to plan our next. Is he eag
er? Should I read into his eagerness?
“Hey, Adam,” I say after I press the “Call Answer” button on my steering wheel.
He doesn’t respond immediately, so I ask if he’s there, if the line’s cut out.
“Halley.” His voice is clipped, as if saying my name takes an enormous amount of effort.
Immediately I jump to panic. “Adam, are you okay? Did you get into a wreck or something?”
Whenever there’s a heady pause over the phone or I can detect someone’s about to deliver bad news, I always assume a car accident. I don’t know if it’s because of my own car accident years ago or the state of anxiety that visits whenever I get behind the wheel.
“No, no,” Adam says, promptly allaying my fears.
I am relieved. And, oddly, a twinge joyful. I’ve never doubted my love for Adam since we committed to the separation. You can’t help, though, but wonder how committed you still are after a month apart. The thought of Adam merely scratched and bruised in a car wreck sends stinging needles all over my skin. Makes me want to take him into my arms, kiss him, hold him, and never leave his side.
“Is everything all right, Adam?”
Another lengthy pause gets my heart thumping, and then he says, “It’s Nina. The baby. She went into early labor.” There’s a slight nervous shake to his voice.
“Omigod.” I try to calculate the remaining length of Nina’s pregnancy. She’s only seven months along. “What happened?”
“Everything’s okay now.”
“Is she at the hospital? Where? I’m on the road right now. I’ll go—”
“She’s home now.”
“She had Rylan?” I gasp. “What . . .”
“No, no, no. The doctors were able to stop the labor.”
“Thank god,” I breathe.
“She’s fine now, back at home, and on bed rest.”
“Oh my goodness.” I ease my grip on the steering wheel. “And Rylan?”
“He’s okay. Everything’s better now.”
“Omigod. What on earth happened? Are you with her now?”
Adam’s answer doesn’t come quickly enough, so I ask if he’s still on the line.
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