Who Do You Love

by Jennifer Weiner

  I tamped down my first instinct, which was to ask why he and Amy hadn’t been invited to celebrate with anyone. He’d moved into her place in Brooklyn Heights, just a few subway stops away from where we lived. I had seen the outside of their building but had never stepped inside. I hadn’t seen Amy, either, since the night she and Jay had made their confession. She’d left FAS, and I’d never found out where she’d landed. The girls would mention her occasionally—as in “Amy came with us to see The Nutcracker,” they’d say, or “Amy bought us sparkly shoes”—but I curbed my curiosity and never permitted myself to ask about her, or about them.

  Per our divorce agreement, Jay got the girls for two nights during the week, plus the twenty-four hours from dinnertime Friday until dinnertime Saturday. Even after her departure, Amy must have put in a good word for me, because they’d approved my request to trim my hours from nine to three Monday through Friday, then work a long day every other weekend. Every weekday afternoon I’d dash to the subway to arrive at the girls’ school by the time the dismissal bell rang. Together, the three of us would go to the park or shop for dinner or pick up our clothes at the laundry. We’d go to the shoe store or the bookstore or to dance class, to Adele’s oboe lessons or Delaney’s playdates. I would make them dinner, and on Tuesdays and Wednesdays Jay would arrive at seven, and I’d send the girls out the door, each with their backpacks and a school lunch in their hands.

  I thought that it was working as well as arrangements like these could work. Half the time, Delaney would cry on the way out the door, wailing, “I will miss my bedroom!” or, worse, “I will miss my mom!” Meanwhile, my super-organized Adele began forgetting things—her math binder, her sheet music—at Dad’s house, maybe, I suspected, in an effort to get the two of us in the same place as often as she could. I held it together for the hand-offs, but it had taken me a few months to stop being a wreck once they were gone. These days, I felt guilty about how much I enjoyed my kid-free hours. I could watch whatever I wanted, read a book uninterrupted, even go out for an eight o’clock yoga class, or to sit in a coffee shop if I liked.

  I tried to make it painless, to assure the girls that Daddy and I might not live together but would always be their parents . . . but every time Jay took them, it felt like pulling a bandage off a half-healed wound, making everything bleed again. It hurt, sometimes in a way that felt unendurable. I blamed Jay. I blamed Amy. I blamed myself, too, sometimes, thinking if I’d only paid more attention to him, if I’d only worked less, if we’d only made love more. It should have been Andy, a voice in my mind would whisper when I’d think that way. You shouldn’t have settled—even though I’d never thought of marrying Jay as settling at the time. You should have waited for him.

  “So, just you?” I asked my ex.

  “Just me,” he said. “I already mentioned to the girls that I’d be asking. Just a heads-up.” Which meant, of course, that it was a fait accompli. As soon as school ended and Delaney came running toward me with her curls and backpack bouncing and her big sister following, walking and reading her book at the same time, the assault began.

  “Mommy, Mommy!” Delaney said. “Daddy wants to know if he can come for Passover. Can he? Can he please? I want him to hear me do the Four Questions.”

  “We were going to do them together,” said Adele, closing her book. She’d discovered Little Women, one of my favorites at her age, and was reading it for what had to be the third or fourth time.

  “What do you guys think?” I asked.

  “It would be great!” said Delaney.

  “You’re only saying that because Daddy gives you ten dollars if you find the afikomen and Mom only gives us five,” said Adele.

  “Ten dollars?” This was the first I’d heard of it.

  “I am not!” Delaney said. “I am not saying it because I’m greedy! I just want Daddy to be here!”

  I reviewed the guest list. My parents and Nana were flying up, as they did every other year, alternating New York with Los Angeles, where Jonah, who’d astonished everyone by excelling in law school, had passed the California bar on his first attempt, becoming a successful entertainment lawyer and marrying one of his law-school classmates, a coolly pretty and extremely businesslike woman named Suzanne. Brenda, who’d become a Seder regular, would be attending, along with Dante, one of my professional victories, who was getting ready to graduate from Cornell.

  “You know you always tell, like, everyone in the world to come,” said Adele. “Remember the year we left the door open for Elijah and Mr. Hammerschmidt from across the street wandered in?”

  “Wandered is kind of judgmental. How about we go with came in?” Mr. Hammerschmidt had gotten a little forgetful since his wife had died, and one of the things he sometimes forgot was which front door was his.

  “And that creepy little kid from two years ago. What was his name? Jason?”

  “Jared.” Jared was the five-year-old son of that rarity in my line of work, a single father. After we’d explained about the afikomen—how a grown-up would hide it, and how the first kid to find it would get a prize—Jared had, very solemnly, followed Jay out of the room and refused to return to the table, even when we explained to him that witnessing the hiding made the finding sort of beside the point. “And he isn’t creepy, just little.”

  My eldest gave me a very adult expression, a little incredulity, a twist of disdain. I suspected I’d be seeing a lot of that look as she entered her teenage years.

  “So if you let anyone in the neighborhood just show up, why can’t Dad come?”

  “Let Daddy come! Let Daddy come!” Delaney chanted.

  “The Haggadah says you’re supposed to welcome the stranger,” Adele pointed out. “It says, ‘Let all who are hungry come eat.’ ”

  “Let me think about it,” I said. Once we were home I retreated to the little room right beside our bedroom. It had been the nursery, but once Delaney was out of diapers, I’d moved her into a bigger bedroom and turned it into a small office, with a little antique desk and a pink-and-green rug on the floor, and on the walls, the pictures I’d had a photographer friend take of a three-year-old Adele holding her newborn sister in her arms.

  I talked with Marissa, who now ran a bakery in Burlington, Vermont. I spoke with Sharon, a colleague at FAS, who’d become my yoga buddy and post-Amy New York City best friend. The verdict: can’t hurt. “You should at least find out what’s on his mind,” Marissa said. “It’s good for the girls to see you as a team,” was Sharon’s take.

  So, grudgingly, feeling conflicted in direct proportion to which Delaney and even Adele were excited, I draped the rented tables in the lacy white tablecloths Nana had given me for my wedding, and set them with the china that Jay and I had gotten for our wedding that he’d graciously agreed to let me keep. The girls helped me prepare the Seder plate—bitter herbs for sadness, salt water for tears, a mixture of apples and nuts and honey and wine to represent the mortar with which the Jews had built pyramids for the pharaoh, matzoh for the bread that hadn’t had time to rise. Nana was in the kitchen, tasting her brisket, my mother was stirring the chicken soup that I’d made and frozen the weekend before, and my father was setting out napkins and silverware and sneaking peeks at the score of the basketball game on his iPhone when the guests began to arrive. Brenda and Dante, who now towered over his mom, came first, then Jared and his father, Ron, and Taneisha and her daughter, Sondra, a poised and elegant twelve-year-old in a belted white dress and matching sandals. Delaney’s eyes lit up when she saw a big girl. “I will show you around,” she said, grabbing Sondra and, I suspected, dragging her to her room to show her each of the dozens of stuffed animals that she’d collected and named.

  Nana untied her apron as I looked for serving pieces. “You look lovely,” she said. I thanked her, hoping it was true. I hadn’t agonized over my outfit, but I had spent some time thinking about it, determined not to wear anything more special t
han usual just because Jay would be there, but wanting to look good, to show him what he was missing. Ten minutes before the doorbell started ringing, I’d settled on a dress I’d bought on sale at Saks, a tube of coral jersey, and a pair of sand-colored sandals with a little bit of a heel. The dress had three-quarter-length sleeves and my preferred high neckline, but it was clingier than the things I normally wore, tight enough to show my shape. I had finally shed the last few pounds of baby weight after Jay had left when, for the first time in my life, I’d become a woman who forgot to eat.

  “Hello, ladies!” Enter the ex. My mother kissed his cheek and my dad looked up from his phone long enough to deliver a baleful, albeit brief, glare. The girls mobbed him, Delaney sprinting down the stairs to throw herself against him, Adele permitting her father a single hug and kiss. Once Jay had greeted them, he approached me, with flowers in one hand, candy in the other. “You look beautiful,” he said.

  “You look nice, too.”

  It was true. Jay wore a slim-cut single-breasted suit of fine gray wool, a tie in alternating stripes of burnt-orange and gold, and lace-up wing tips polished to a high gloss. In our year apart he’d become significantly balder, a development that had revealed the rectangular shape of his skull, making him look a little Frankensteiny. He’d also gained the seven or eight pounds I’d lost. When we’d met, I’d been struck by his smile, his expressive mouth, the way he’d use his hands when he told stories, and I couldn’t wait to feel those hands on me. Maybe it was love that had made him look more attractive than he was. The man standing in front of me now was just another well-dressed guy with good taste, not anyone I would have taken special notice of if I’d seen him in a subway car or in line for a latte at one of the six sustainable coffee shops that had arrived in our neighborhood. Now Jay resembled his father, kind but phlegmatic, without much of a sense of humor, a man you’d want probating your will but not at your table during the last round on Trivia Night at the bar. Not in bed, either.

  “These are for you.” The flowers were peonies, my favorite, and the candy was dark-chocolate-dipped orange peel. “Why’d you get that?” Delaney complained. “Nobody eats it but Mommy.”

  “Maybe Mommy deserved a treat, after working so hard to get everything ready,” said Jay. He wore the look he always gave me since we’d split, soft-eyed and apologetic, only now I thought I saw something else in his expression . . . Was it hope? Desperation? Actual sadness?

  I gave him a polite smile and thanked him, and instructed the girls to put coats in my bedroom, relishing the way Jay stiffened when I said my. Delaney, who loved dressing up, was arrayed in a pink party dress with crinolines under the skirt, white tights, and pink patent-leather Mary Janes and a pink bow in her hair. Adele detested waistbands and collars, and had avoided pants with zippers ever since she was five and had an accident because she couldn’t get out of her snowsuit fast enough, but I’d managed to get her to agree to a pair of black leggings and a long, silky white tunic. She’d even consented to a sparkly black band in her hair. Delaney, of course, had begged for a fancy ’do, and I’d watched YouTube tutorials until I could approximate the fishtail braid she’d requested.

  With so many children at the meal, and, usually, at least a few adults who weren’t familiar with the Passover rituals, I’d condensed the Haggadah to a twenty-minute highlight reel. Wine was sipped (grape juice, in the kids’ cases), the Four Questions were asked, all the foods on the Seder plate were explained, and the story of the Exodus was read, round-robin-style, with everyone at the table who could read taking a turn. This year, Dante got the conclusion. “ ‘Once we were slaves, now we are free,’ ” Dante read, looking meaningfully at his mother, who smiled proudly—which meant, I thought, that she’d dumped yet another loser boyfriend. “ ‘This year we are here, next year in Jerusalem.’ ” We sang “Dayenu,” and I was reminded that Jay’s voice was surprisingly tuneful, and that the song was annoyingly long.

  As soon as the final verse of “Chad Gadya” had been completed, Nana and my mother and I went to the kitchen to serve the gefilte fish and chopped liver. Delaney took orders, and she and Adele delivered the plates to the table. “Delicious!” Jay exclaimed, even though I’d never known him to be a gefilte fan. “These are just as good as I remember them,” he said of Nana’s matzoh balls. “Bernie, can I give you a hand?” he asked my dad, taking over the turkey-carving duties.

  When I announced I was going to hide the afikomen, Jay gave me a private eyebrow waggle, the same one he’d done ever since I’d told him I thought that “hide the afikomen” sounded like a euphemism for sex. When the meal was over, Jay helped pack the leftovers into Tupperware to-go containers and bundle them into bags for everyone to bring home. He stayed until the last salad fork and soup spoon had been put in the dishwasher, and the Seder plate, the one Adele had made in Hebrew school, was washed and dried and restored to its spot in the cabinet. After my parents and Nana went back to their hotel in Manhattan and Brenda, my last guest, had hugged me goodbye, Jay was still there.

  “Let me help you put the girls to bed,” he said. Adele had already brushed and flossed, hung up her party clothes, and put on her pajamas and was in bed, scrutinizing The Popularity Papers as if the book contained an actual blueprint for popularity, and Delaney was asleep on the couch with her shoes kicked off and the soles of her white tights grimy. “Come on, party girl,” he said, lifting her into his arms. With her eyes still shut, Delaney settled her head against his shoulder. I felt the familiar tearing sensation, the same pain I felt every time I heard the girls refer, with increasing nonchalance, to “Daddy’s house,” or whenever I watched them follow him out the door. I had never wanted this divided life for Adele and Delaney. I could have forgiven Jay for an affair, could maybe even have forgiven him for an affair with one of my best friends, if he hadn’t hurt his daughters this way.

  “Here’s your coat,” I said.

  “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry,” said Jay. “Is this what they call the bum’s rush?” He draped his coat over his arm and stood facing me at the base of the stairs. “It felt good to be here,” he said.

  “Passover’s always nice.” My matter-of-fact, blandly polite tone had to be hurting him more than screaming and shouting.

  “Your grandmother’s looking well.”

  “Being single has always agreed with her,” I said. “She told me once that she never got to travel when she was married. She never got to have the life she wanted until she was alone.”

  “Zing,” said Jay, and followed me into the dining room, where I started zipping the good china into its padded containers, where the bowls and plates would stay until the next occasion. Jay picked up a container and started zipping like nothing had happened, like everything was fine.

  “How have you been feeling?” he’d asked. “You had your appointment with Dr. Adelman last month, right?”

  Oh, that was a mean trick, remembering my annual check-in with the cardiologist, acting like he cared. When I’d been pregnant with each of the girls, he had accompanied me to every single doctor’s visit, even the early ones when all they did was weigh me and check my blood pressure. He’d framed both girls’ ultrasounds, and, when they’d each been delivered, the cord cut and the goop wiped off, he had cradled them in his arms and sung “You Are My Sunshine.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, finally letting an edge creep into my voice. “What do you want?”

  Jay treated me to a Jay-ish sigh—an audible inhale, a meaningful pause, then the noisy rush of air that telegraphed the extent of his frustration or his pain. “I guess the girls told you about Amy.”

  “The girls didn’t tell me anything.” I saw his eyes widen. “I don’t ask. What you do is your business.”

  “They don’t say anything?” He sounded incredulous.

  “They tell me when you take them to the amusement park or the zoo. Or out to dinner—Delaney tells me
about that. But as far as your personal life . . .” I shrugged, and then glanced at the door, already imagining what would happen when he’d left, how I would take off my dress and my shoes, pull on my most worn and comfortable white cotton pajamas, and climb into the bed that we’d once shared and I had since claimed as my own.

  Jay assumed a somber aspect. “Amy went back to Leonard.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, while not feeling particularly sorry. Not feeling much of anything, really. Was it possible that I’d finally stopped caring?

  Jay reached for my hands, which I immediately filled with more plates. Undeterred, he performed another one of those three-part sighs, and then said in a low voice, “I made a mistake.”

  For so long I had prayed for this moment. I had dragged out the divorce proceedings longer than I needed to, hoping he would change his mind. I had thought that time would make him miss us, make him appreciate what he’d thrown away. With a strange woman sleeping beside him (and snoring, I hoped), he would recall Delaney’s high, sweet voice and how she’d slip into our bed on Sunday mornings, while forgetting her tantrums, or how the bed invasions had curtailed our sex life. He’d remember Adele’s good grades, and he wouldn’t think about how every year our parent-teacher conferences had included a long talk about Adele’s inability to make friends, or the cost of the therapist she was now seeing. He would picture me like this, with my hair styled, in lipstick that matched my dress, with the house clean and a home-cooked meal on the table, and forget whatever it was about me that he’d found so wearying or unlovely, whatever it was that had sent him to my former best friend. He would miss us, and he’d want us back, and I, obviously, would want the same thing.

  But now? I looked at him—pursed lips, bent chin, hands in his pockets as he gazed at the floor, the very picture of contrition. I should have been moved. I wasn’t. It was as if I’d been frozen, as if I was now a woman made of ice, and he’d come at me not with a torch or even a candle, but with a toothpick, and was plink plink plinking against the smooth impenetrability of my body. I couldn’t feel a thing.