If You Must Know

by Beck, Jamie

  That didn’t thrill me, but maybe it would be best for Mo. Truthfully, Max’s taking me up on the offer was about as likely as him getting a job anytime soon.

  Max narrowed his eyes, but just as he had no resilience when it came to a career, he also had none for our relationship. Quitting was simply his thing. “Fine. I’ll be gone by Sunday afternoon.”

  Without another glance, he stretched back out on the sofa, grabbed his second sandwich, and turned up the volume right as Frank “The Tank” tells Blue he’s his boy.

  Well, that was that. I pushed off the table and went to the bedroom without another word.

  I flopped backward onto my mattress and stared at the ceiling, waiting for tears or doubts or something to take over.

  Nothing.

  Was this a good sign, or had I simply used up all my tears on my dad? I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like evidence that I’d done the right thing. I could pack my bag for my trip. Or maybe I should try to catch up with my mom and sister now that I had the time.

  I rolled onto my side with a groan, coming face-to-face with one of my favorite family photos. We’d taken our annual family summer trip to Hilton Head—the one real splurge my dad had made sure we enjoyed every year. We had a tradition of having lunch at a little open-air cabana bar and restaurant called Coco’s on the Beach.

  Between the deck and the volleyball court in the sand stood a tall pole with colorful arrow-shaped signs pointing in different directions. Each one was painted with the name of a different city somewhere on the globe, along with the mileage to get there. We’d dream about all the places we might go, and after high school I’d had the chance to see many. In this picture, our whole family is standing around that sign, smiling at the camera. My dad has his hand on my shoulder, and if you look closely, you can see Amanda holding my hand. I must’ve been only five or six—young enough that she hadn’t given up trying to be my second mother. At the time, I’d felt smothered by her attention, but looking back, I’d also felt loved.

  I grabbed my phone and called my sister, but it went to voice mail. A heaviness pressed on me, but I couldn’t tell if it was from looking at that picture of our family that would never again be whole or from the fact that I’d disappointed my mom and sister today.

  They loved me in their way even if they couldn’t love and accept me as I was. My dad had, though, and to honor his memory and wishes for our family, I couldn’t continue to drift out of their lives as I’d been doing.

  After the beep, I said, “Hey, it’s moi. Surprise! My plans have changed and I’ve got a little time. If you get this message, let me know where you are and I’ll try to catch up.”

  I hit “End,” my feet restlessly kicking the end of my bed. The small bedroom seemed claustrophobic, but I didn’t want to talk to Max. Not that I could avoid him in here, either, where his dirty laundry, sandals, and other items lay about. Rather than take a match to it all, I decided to organize some of his things to help with his packing. Hauling myself off the bed, I then went to the armoire to get to the vintage albums my dad had left me in his will.

  Some were fairly valuable, like the Beatles collection box set from 1982, valued at roughly a thousand bucks. Or the Led Zeppelin first pressing with the turquoise label, which should net around eight hundred or so dollars. U2’s Joshua Tree collection box set from 1987—maybe worth six or seven hundred. Then there were others worth less than one hundred dollars. But each one had infinite sentimental value.

  Every song resurrected a specific memory of time spent with my father playing cards, washing cars, grilling hot dogs . . . anything. Whatever he’d wanted to do, I’d done with him, and he’d always chosen the perfect background soundtrack for every activity. Those stolen moments had also been a great way to escape my mom’s endless lectures and demands. She’d never yelled at me for skipping out on chores or being messy when I’d been spending that time with him. Probably because he wouldn’t let her.

  At present, my restlessness matched the mood of a typical Bob Seger song, so I grabbed Beautiful Loser and slipped the record from its sleeve, resisting the urge to hug it as if it were my dad. I set it on the old turntable he’d also left me. As the few first drumbeats clangored, my heart kicked an extra beat or two—partly happy, partly sad. I glanced toward the bedroom door, picturing Max on the sofa, and then got to work.

  It didn’t matter where life led me next. I had faith because my own personal angel was looking out for me now.

  Que será, será.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AMANDA

  My mother’s optimism had gotten me through the day, despite my being jumpy anytime my phone rang. I now sat in front of the computer, double-checking the online registry to make sure the items we’d selected were properly linked. The sweet-looking swaddling blankets and dresses made me smile, but I secretly most coveted one of the practical items—a handsome three-in-one portable crib, diaper bag, and changing station. What a marvelous invention!

  I couldn’t wait to see my daughter’s face. To smell her skin and feel the downy baby hair. To listen to the baby gurgles and press strawberry kisses on her bare tummy. To nurture and teach and drown in all the love for her that was building.

  After I’d double-checked everything, I closed out of the computer and made a pit stop at the restroom before collecting the mail.

  Making my way back to the kitchen, I sifted through the envelopes, stopping midstride when I saw Lyle’s handwriting. He hadn’t sent me a love note since our first year of marriage. The envelope was postmarked from Miami two days earlier.

  I set the rest of the mail aside and sat at the table while tearing into the letter.

  Amanda,

  I am writing because a phone call would be more difficult on us both. There is no easy way to tell you that I think I have fallen in love with someone else.

  It felt as if my rib cage collapsed. Oh God, I’m an idiot. All day I’d thought the worst-case scenario was some stupid fling, but not this. This couldn’t be happening. I blinked back hot tears to keep reading.

  I know the timing is bad with the baby on the way, but I didn’t plan it. It just happened. Now I owe it to myself—and to you—to be honest and explore my feelings.

  With so much at stake, I need time to figure out what is best for all of us, so it makes sense to do that here while I nail down this deal. I trust your family will give you the emotional support you need while I work through my feelings. I know I’m asking a lot, but if you could give me a couple of weeks of space, I will be in touch as soon as I feel certain of my decision.

  Lyle

  Not even “Love, Lyle.”

  As a teacher and lifelong reader, I’d known words could be more lethal than a bullet. Now my body was as cold as any corpse.

  I think I’ve fallen in love with someone else.

  Think? A universe of difference existed between “I think” and “I have,” didn’t it? And he hadn’t said he didn’t love me. Was I grasping? Everything Lyle did, he did with purpose, so he’d chosen that word carefully. Chosen this method of delivery for a reason, although I couldn’t figure out why except to guess that it left me no easy way to reply.

  I slammed the letter down, then stood in my kitchen, dumbfounded. At once everything felt foreign, including my body. I couldn’t move—not even a twitch—his note having severed the connection between my brain and my muscles.

  While I’d been loving my husband and nurturing our unborn child, he’d fallen in love with another woman. Absurdly, the musing lyrics of that ridiculous Talking Heads song Erin used to playact, “Once in a Lifetime,” became the soundtrack to this horrible moment.

  Lyle hadn’t even respected me enough to end things before moving on, let alone been willing to work on our marriage. A memory of the first time we met raced forward. November 26, 2016. Two days after Thanksgiving, when I’d gone to the gym to work off all the gravy and pumpkin pie I’d consumed. The electricity in that exercise studio when our gazes locked—his capt
ivating blue eyes luring me like a moth to light. The way he’d waited for me to exit the women’s locker room and then walked me to my car, his quick smile drawing me in.

  The weekly pink roses he’d sent to my classroom those first few months.

  The interesting phone conversations about our pasts and our dreams.

  The surprise sailing trip on the bay.

  The empathy . . .

  “Amanda, if you marry me, I swear I’ll make sure you never feel second-best again.”

  The look on his face when he’d made that vow flickered, causing another sharp inhale. My life with him—his reassurances—had helped me move on from my rivalry with Erin and her place as our dad’s favorite.

  But apparently I was still easily replaceable.

  I’d been fighting that truth my whole life.

  The silence in our home sounded different now. More permanent. Yet somehow alive, as if Lyle’s ghost were brushing against me, raising the hairs on my skin.

  I think I have fallen in love with someone else.

  Suddenly, like a movie playing at high speed, I began revisiting the moments of our marriage, dissecting each one, looking for clues, asking myself, “Why, why, why?” Only one conclusion mattered, though: I’d failed at the most important relationship of my life.

  Again, those stupid song lyrics taunted me.

  I raced upstairs to our closet and grabbed a suitcase, planning to pack a bag and fly to Florida. Then I realized I had no idea where Lyle was staying now that he’d left Tom’s.

  Enraged, I yanked my clothes off hangers and tossed them in a pile beside the suitcase. Instead of desperately hunting him down, I’d move out and “show him” everything he was about to lose. Ebba might be beautiful, but she wasn’t the love of his life. I was. He’d told me so a million times, and I was carrying his child, for God’s sake!

  On that thought, I crumpled to the floor in a heap with my clothes, wailing a raw, otherworldly kind of sound, releasing all the self-pity in the world through gulping sobs. I have no idea how long I remained there.

  Later, exhausted, I pushed off the floor and hung my clothes back on their rods and folded others to return to their shelves.

  It was then that I noticed the box Lyle kept on the top shelf of the closet. I’d never before been tempted to snoop, but now I wondered if it might contain clues. Balancing on the top of the step stool, I pulled it down and began rummaging. A high school yearbook, old VHS tapes of movies like The Usual Suspects, a framed photograph of himself at eight or nine with a woman I presumed was his mother, and a small address book. I held the image of him and his mother closer, studying the woman I’d grown to hate despite having never met her. Where had her new life taken her, and did she ever miss Lyle?

  I should burn it, but instead I tossed it back into the box and flipped through the address book, stopping on his father’s contact information.

  Early on in our relationship I’d promised not to contact the man Lyle had called emotionally abusive. As I stood in my closet now, my hands shook with the temptation to break that promise. I didn’t, though. Loyalty matters, even when the chips are down, so I put the box back on the shelf exactly as Lyle had placed it.

  Angrily I flirted with the idea of having my own affair, maybe with Doug Silver, the hot dentist. The confident way he often smiled at me and touched my shoulder suggested he found me attractive. But rashness was Erin’s style, not mine, so I focused on my daughter. Her needs ranked above all else.

  And the embarrassing truth was that I loved my husband. He hadn’t said he no longer loved me. He hadn’t asked for a divorce. He’d admitted to the affair and asked for time. Given those facts, I could stomach the punch to the gut and forgive him—for our daughter and for myself. I was Lyle’s home. It wouldn’t take him long to realize what he risked losing for an infatuation.

  Until I was certain of next steps, the less anyone in town knew, the better. And family? Well, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t turn to Erin. She’d never liked Lyle—the nicest thing she could ever say about him was that he was attractive. I’d rather swallow sour milk than accept the idea that she might’ve been right about him.

  I dreaded Mom’s reaction to the affair. I wouldn’t tell her yet. I needed time to process all this and talk to Lyle.

  I waddled to the bathroom to splash cool water on my face, my stomach cramping, my arms dangling lifelessly at my sides. It’d be pointless to crawl into bed, though, because closing my eyes would lead straight to images of Ebba laughing in her tight, short dress. Did Lyle’s former coworkers know about them? If so, they must consider me an idiot—and maybe they weren’t wrong. An irritating inner voice accused me of willful ignorance.

  Lyle’s snappishness these past few months now took on new meaning. My skin crawled when thinking about our recent sex life. I’d attributed the drop-off to my growing belly. But the suspicion that, when we had made love, he’d been picturing her ripped through me like my best Shun knife.

  On top of everything was the tone of the note—his decisions, his options—so certain that I’d be patient and obedient, awaiting his decision while hoping he’d choose our family over her . . .

  I hated that he knew me so well when I obviously didn’t know him at all. I hated that deep down I wanted him to return, beg for mercy, and tell me he could never love someone else more than he loved me. God, I hated Lyle right now, but I still loved him.

  How could all these feelings coexist?

  Muffin restlessly kicked, distending my abdomen. I dabbed a tear. This man I’d thought would be a model father might actually be a terrible parent.

  Like his own.

  Another reason not to call Mr. Foster. Grilling Lyle’s father wouldn’t change my current situation, and Muffin didn’t need an emotionally crippled grandfather complicating her life.

  To think I’d been excited about the potential of what Lyle’s trip to Florida could mean for our future, clueless that he’d been there “nailing down” more than a deal.

  I pounded my fists on the marble vanity top with a pained yelp that echoed off the cold surfaces of my bathroom.

  Thank God Erin was away this weekend—I’d have more time before facing her. My inability to confide in my sister was a constant source of frustration and regret. Kevin had been nearly three years older than me, so by the time I could keep up with him, he’d preferred his bike, baseball bat, and buddy Tim Hartman to my company. When Erin was born, it was as if my parents had handed me a live baby doll. My mother let me help dress her and rock her and read to her. She was adorable, with her round eyes and wild brown hair. But as soon as she’d graduated from pull-ups, she resisted playing the domestic kinds of make-believe games I enjoyed and, like Kevin, blazed her own crazy path, leaving me to my Barbies and books. To this day, I couldn’t count on her to listen to or understand me.

  I went back to the kitchen to force myself to eat something. Through the kitchen window, I could see the spot in the yard where I’d suggested we install a swing set mock me. I’d been planning for our growing family while Lyle had been planning an escape. I drank straight from the faucet to soothe my raw throat.

  When I tossed the used paper towel, I noticed our Foster family memory jar tucked in the corner, with several little scrolls of paper gathered at the bottom. Things like the memory of making love by the fireplace on our first night in this house. The first dinner party we’d hosted here for my family. The day we’d learned Muffin’s gender.

  Forever kinds of memories.

  Traditions were foundational glue for families—or so I’d believed before Lyle had me questioning absolutely everything.

  Friday I’d called off work sick and stayed in bed all day. Today my stomach still burned as I drove to my mother’s to meet with her and Kevin. I’d been vague when requesting this get-together because I’d hoped to reach Lyle and make this meeting unnecessary. Those prayers went unanswered.

  I killed the car’s engine in my mother’s driveway. Like clockwor
k, Kevin pulled in before I exited my car. We shared a penchant for punctuality and planners and order. We’d also inherited Mom’s blonde hair and blue eyes. Kevin got our dad’s larger build and no-nonsense manner, whereas I was petite and always more accommodating than my siblings.

  Life as a young partner at the Ballard Spade law firm—not to mention the demands at home from Marcy and their eighteen-month-old, Billy—consumed much of his time. But while we no longer gathered regularly for Sunday dinners, Kevin had been in touch more since Dad died, taking up the mantle of the man in our family.

  He gave me a quick kiss hello. Exhaustion had carved deep lines in his face. “Sis.”

  “Thanks for coming, Kev. I know you’re super busy.”

  “You sounded kind of desperate. What’s going on? Is it Mom?” He started toward the front door.

  I kept up with him despite my waddling. “Yes and no. It’s complicated.” My cheeks burned. “Let’s go inside first.”

  Kevin smiled at my abdomen and squeezed my shoulder. “You look great. I feel bad for Lyle, though. In another two months you’ll be miserable. He’ll be scrambling to keep you comfortable until the baby pops out.”

  Tears swam to my eyes without warning.

  Kevin was already rapping on the front door before opening it without waiting for Mom to answer, but his face fell at my expression. “Uh-oh. Is this the hormones, or something else?”

  “Probably both.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, calling out, “Mom, we’re here.”

  A noise in the kitchen caught our attention, so we walked through the living and dining rooms, stepping around a laundry basket on the way. Dirty coffee cups lay abandoned on various tables; a days-old National Enquirer draped a chair—a highly unusual state of affairs.

  We found Mom in the kitchen, feverishly working to cover something up. A faint whiff of burned plastic hung in the air.

  “Hey, Mom.” Kevin opened his arms for a hug.

  She looked up dazedly. “Oh, Kevin! What are you doing here?”