by Minka Kent
But I felt like a merciless monster all afternoon for it, until she emerged, without permission, at six o’clock, screaming at the top of the stairs and crying. She threatened me left and right, promising to turn me in for child abuse. When I marched up the stairs to deal with her, I found her arm covered in self-inflicted bruises and bite marks.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this all summer. This can’t be my life for the next ninety days.
I always thought the older the children got, the easier this would get, but it’s only proven to be worse with each passing birthday. They’re all on varying pages, pulling me in different directions every time I turn around.
I’m seated in the front room of our home, cloaked in late-evening darkness, sipping a double Belvedere on ice. Soaking up the sound of silence, I slowly feel my sanity grabbing hold of me again. My mind’s been fixated on that emergency joint since earlier today, though I refuse to touch it just yet because something tells me the worst is yet to come.
After my drink is finished, I make one more and then trek quietly upstairs to draw myself the hottest bubble bath I can stand.
Earlier today, just before I picked Sebastian up from preschool at noon, I passed Graham’s office. His car was gone, and I was certain because I circled the parking lot three times. When I called his assistant and asked to be patched through, she fumbled over her words and told me my husband was in a meeting.
I gripped the phone so tightly I thought it might shatter.
And then I thanked her. And told her to have him call me when he could. An hour passed, and he called and said he wouldn’t be home until later.
The more I think about it, the more I’m absolutely positive he’s in the city, with her.
I would give anything to know what he sees in her. I want to know what she has that I don’t; what she gives him that I can’t. Does she make him smile a little bigger? Does she make him laugh a little louder? Does she make his cock a little harder?
And the phone calls.
Every day, around four o’clock, a blocked number calls me.
I have half a mind to think it’s her. Maybe she wants to hear my voice. Maybe she’s just as curious about me as I am about her. Or maybe she wants to torment me, make me go insane so I’m that much less appealing to Graham.
Either way, I still refuse to answer.
Upstairs, tucked away in the back of my closet, rests a miniature cedar chest, maybe five inches tall by eight inches wide. Folded and stacked inside that box are dozens upon dozens of “love notes” Graham has penned for me over the years, each one filled with promises and professions of his undying devotion spanning from our younger years until just a few months ago.
I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Daphne . . .
You’re the best thing to ever happen to me . . .
How did I get so lucky?
You’re perfect for me . . .
I’ll never love another, Daphne. I promise . . .
Graham and Daphne forever.
I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you . . .
I wonder if my husband has always been a world-class liar and cheat, or if his wants and needs and desires pivoted the day he met her.
Earlier I dug the letters out of the box and ripped them to shreds.
I toss the remains of my Belvedere back, and I wait for it to hit my bloodstream, and then I fix myself another because I can’t stop thinking about what they’re doing right now, and I want to be thinking of anything but the two of them.
I wonder if she knows she’s stealing someone else’s happiness? Ruining other people’s lives? I wonder if it’s all worth it to her, if she even cares?
Dread settles in the pit of my stomach as the room spins. In all my ruminating and contemplating and fixating about saving our marriage, I never once considered the fact that Graham may very well be planning to leave me or that I may very well be fighting a lost cause.
I need to make a decision.
Eighteen
Autumn
“You’re in better spirits today.” Ben drops his work bag by the front door and steps out of his shoes. He’s home later than usual today and he smells like beer and O’Tool’s pub. If I weren’t so exhausted, I might have the energy to be offended by the missing invite, not that I would’ve wanted to go.
He’s looking at me like he expected to come home to a ragamuffin, shocked to see me dressed in jeans and a cute t-shirt, my hair pulled into a half-taut ponytail and just enough makeup on my face to give me a healthy glow. “You’re smiling. You have a good day today?”
He should know by now that the answer is yes. Today was a good day. Today restored my hope and quelled my anxieties. As soon as I located the McMullen’s nanny ad, I spent the better part of the morning crafting the perfect resume. By noon, I received confirmation that it had been received and acknowledged.
They’re going to be calling any day now, dying to pull me in for an interview, and I’m going to knock their socks off.
I spent the rest of the afternoon studying and practicing what I’d say, trying to come up with the kinds of questions they might ask. Their want ad explicitly stated: Monarch Falls family seeking full-time summer nanny for our three children, ages 10, 7, and 4. You must love children, be mature and responsible with a clean driving history, and CPR/First-Aid certified. Hours are Monday through Friday from 9-4. You must be punctual and well-presented. We’re a non-smoking household with one non-shedding pet. Must be comfortable around dogs. Previous experience with children and a background check required. Please email your resume to [email protected].
Piece. Of. Cake.
It’s almost like they were looking for me specifically.
“How was your day?” Ben asks, plopping down beside me on the sofa. I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned the smell of pot roast in the slow cooker. It’s all but polluting our house with its onion gravy stench. I hate pot roast. Always have. But I made it for him because it’s his favorite, and I want to forget about yesterday. I want to forget about my meltdown. I want things to go back to normal.
Ben and his dream girl.
Two boring little peas in a perfect fucking pod.
“Great,” I say, leaning into him. Even after a day at the office, he still smells like Dylan Abernathy’s cologne. I’m counting down the days until that bottle’s empty. I just might have to accidentally knock it off the bathroom counter one of these days. “Spent all day applying for jobs. Feeling really good about things.”
Ben slips his arm around me, pulling me into him. “All you needed was a little push in the right direction.”
“Yeah,” I lie, leaning against him. “I’m so lucky to have you. Thanks for always knowing exactly what I need.”
He smiles like a teenager whose coach just high-fived him after shooting a three-pointer with four seconds on the clock. I want to puke.
Ben pops up, our moment over before it barely began, and shuffles toward the kitchen. He disappears around the corner, and then I hear him say, “Oh, sweet. Pot roast. Thanks, babe!”
Simple Simon.
The clinking and clambering of silver on china precedes his return, and he plops down beside me, mouth full of carrots and potatoes, and pats me on the knee.
“I made you an appointment,” he declares.
“An appointment for what?” My stomach unsettles.
“Thought you could talk to someone.” He shovels a bite of roast onto his fork.
“About . . . what? Exactly?” I smile and bat my lashes like nothing’s wrong because nothing is wrong.
“You’ve been so down lately. Just thought it’d be good for you to talk to someone,” he says. “You don’t really have any friends, so . . .”
I rise.
I don’t want to have this conversation.
I know I don’t have friends. Well aware. And for good reason.
I don’t need him to point it out to me.
“Sorry.” He slumps his shoulders, gla
ncing away and exhaling as if I have no right to see myself out of this conversation. “Didn’t realize it was such a sore subject for you.”
Crossing my arms, I stare past the sliding door, eyes squinting until the McMullens’ back patio comes into focus. I take a step closer. Lights are strung and lit above their dining set, and in the dim light, I spot Daphne setting the table.
“I’m going to eat outside tonight.” I head toward the kitchen and fix myself a bowl of cold cereal. I’d rather eat sugary processed corn flakes than Mrs. Gotlieb’s “famous” pot roast recipe anyway.
Ben takes his dinner to the living room, and Ginger follows, hopping beside him on the sofa and begging for scraps. Ben happily obliges despite the fact that I constantly tell him not to feed her. She’s a purebred Cavalier and she has a sensitive stomach. He doesn’t care. He thinks it’s cute when she climbs up on her hind legs and swipes her paw at his shoulder. When they realize I’m headed outside, the two of them stop what they’re doing and stare in my direction like they’re waiting for an invite.
“It’s nice out. You want to eat outside?” I extend an invitation, fingers crossed they leave me be.
Ben hesitates before rising to join me, and I go on ahead because I see the McMullen children filing out their back door and taking their places.
“You ever drop off Marnie’s birthday gift?” Ben asks, taking the spot beside me a moment later. Ginger’s inside still, scratching at the glass and looking like she’s about to murder someone.
Shit. No.
“I completely spaced it off.” I inject an apology into my tone, but my gaze is focused on the other side of the fence, trained on the real-time family portrait in the distance. They do this from time to time. They dine al fresco. I only wish I could go inside and grab my binoculars because Daphne’s tablescapes are to die for. It’s as if she studied under Martha Stewart herself. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get it to her this week.”
“Okay, yeah, back to that appointment. The guy’s name is Dr. Barringer and it’s tomorrow at noon. I emailed you with his address this morning. Check your email. His receptionist was going to send you the paperwork.”
“Ben, come on.” I laugh, swatting at him. “Seriously, I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’m better now. You said so yourself.”
“You’re better today, but what if something changes tomorrow? Or the next day. You need to talk to someone, babe. You don’t really open up to me, but maybe you could open up to him? Get it all out. It’ll feel good.”
The thought of sitting in some shrink’s office baring my soul and spilling my secrets is about as appealing as paying someone to rip out my entrails sans anesthesia.
“Ah, look at that,” Ben’s attention follows mine. “That’s adorable.”
“What?” I play dumb.
He points.
Points!
If they were to look up right now and see him pointing at them, I would die.
Gently, I loop my hand into his elbow and pull his pointed finger to the side.
“Don’t point, babe,” I say softly. “They can see us, you know. If they look up.”
He shoves a forkful of meat between his lips and laughs out his nose.
“My bad,” he says after he’s chewed and swallowed. “It’s good to see families eating together, you know? Some of my guys at work, the ones with kids, they say nobody does that anymore.”
“It’s probably true,” I speculate. “People are so busy all the time anymore. Nobody sits down for a good, old-fashioned home cooked meal.”
Except the McMullens.
They’re as close to perfection as anyone’s ever going to get, I’m convinced.
It’s like someone cut them out of a 1950s Better Homes and Gardens magazine and breathed life into them. Gazing across the fence line, I see Graham and Daphne at opposite ends of the table, the children quietly slicing away at the food on their plates. Daphne pours herself a glass of red wine and Graham leans toward little Sebastian and ruffles his hair.
“Maybe someday that’ll be us?” Ben nudges his shoulder against me before leaning down to kiss my forehead.
“Yeah, maybe someday.” I wrinkle my nose, cute like a bunny. I don’t tell him I don’t want that with him. I don’t want to settle down and be his girl-next-door wife for the rest of my life.
I’m already getting bored with this shtick. It’s eating away at me like a flesh eating disease while simultaneously killing me from the inside. It’s not who I am. It’s not who I want to be.
Maybe for now, for necessitated reasons.
But not forever.
Nineteen
Daphne
I’m lying in bed, wrapped in pitch blackness, when the double doors swing soft against the carpet. I recognize Graham’s steady strides and keep my eyes squeezed closed. He’s missed most of our dinners this week, and tonight he left after dinner to go “run some errands,” though I can’t imagine what kind of errands he would need to run at eight o’clock at night.
I have nothing to say to him.
All I’ve been thinking about – all I’ve been dreaming about – since I put the kids to bed tonight was taking off for a few days.
I deserve better than Graham. The kids deserve better, too. We’re living this life he created for us, a life we created together, and he’s off doing his own thing, like none of us matter anymore.
I’m a prisoner in this outwardly beautiful life, and I’m a slave to its inward ugliness.
For hours today, I silently stewed, obsessing about Graham’s affair more than ever, asking myself questions to which I’ll probably never find the answers.
Half of me wants to finally confront him, to create a scene, to put my hurt on full display and let him see the ugly aftereffects of his illicit affair. The other half of me reminds myself I have no money of my own, at least not in any large amounts. No job. No way to support three children by myself. I have no way of leaving just yet and nowhere to go. The only family I have is my mother, and she lives in a one-bedroom condo in Boca Raton with her new boyfriend, whom I’m convinced is a closet pervert for . . . reasons.
“Daphne, you awake?” Graham slides under the covers, occupying his side of our enormous king bed. The bed shifts with his weight as he moves closer, slipping his hand over my waist and pulling me into him. “I’m back now. I had to get a card for my assistant. It’s her birthday tomorrow.” He chuckles. “Usually she does all my running around, but I didn’t think it’d be fair to make her get her own card.”
I keep my eyes shut, hoping he’ll leave me alone if he thinks I’m still sleeping.
“How was your night?” he asks. He knows I’m up. I’m sure my ragged breathing gave it away. “Were the kids good? They go to bed on time?”
My mouth forms a straight line, and I burrow my cheek against the pillow, rolling away from him just enough. He pulls me in, nuzzling his nose against my neck. His sudden affection is baffling, unnerving.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” My declaration is a whisper that silences Graham but doesn’t remove his touch.
“Daphne.” He releases a firm breath. His hand grips my side, and he rolls me to my back. My eyes part and find his, and for the first time in years, Graham looks genuinely hurt. “What are you talking about? You don’t want to do what?”
I don’t know where to begin, and I’m exhausted, so I push him off me and move to my side of the bed again.
“What’s gotten into you?” His hurt tone has morphed into annoyance. I’m sure he’s not used to his perfect little wife showing a full spectrum of emotions, but I’ve reached a point where it no longer matters. I even washed every last bit of makeup off my face before coming to bed tonight, a non-verbal act of revolt, though it’s so dark in here he’ll never be able to notice.
“Bad day?” he asks.
I don’t answer, and it isn’t because I’m into giving him the silent treatment or I’m in the mood for some juvenile guessing game.
I haven’t t
he energy.
He’s not worth my energy.
And what energy I have left, I need to conserve for tomorrow morning, because Gracie isn’t going to stop being Gracie, and I need to ensure Rose and Sebastian’s lives don’t suffer because of that.
“Good news,” Graham’s voice is lighter now, his lips pressed against my ear and the heat of his body warming my back. “My assistant posted the want ad earlier this week for the nanny. I told her it’s the last week of school, so this needs to be priority one.”
I’m fully awake now. I didn’t take him seriously the first time he’d mentioned hiring help for the summer. It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it and let it fall to the wayside in favor of other priorities.
Graham, being the old-fashioned type, has never once seriously or genuinely proposed any kind of nanny arrangement, and if it buys me more time to figure out what I need to do, then so be it. I’ll play the part a little while longer.
“Any good applicants?” I ask, exhaling and trying my hardest not to get my hopes up.
Graham chuckles. “You don’t sound excited.”
“Of course I’m excited. I’m just too exhausted to show it.” I yank the covers up to my neck and scoot another couple inches toward my side of the bed. “The kids ran me ragged today.”
I fall asleep with a little more hope and a little less despair, daydreaming about what I’ll do with my sudden windfall of free time.
Maybe I’ll open Instaface again. I’ll take up running. I’ll get massages and shop – alone. Untethered to a stroller or a restless preschooler.
And when I’m not busy spoiling the hell out of myself on Graham’s dime, I’m going to find out exactly who it is my husband’s screwing when he thinks no one’s looking.
And in between doing all of that, I’ll figure out exactly what I’m going to do with the shattered shards of our marriage.
“My assistant’s calling applicants and scheduling interviews this week,” he says, rolling away. “I’ll handle everything.”