Perfectly Undone: A Novel

by Jamie Raintree

  “I love helping people,” I say. “I love giving women a sense of strength during the most challenging hours of their lives. Reassuring them in all the uncertain moments leading up to it. It’s a beautiful process to bring another living being into the world.”

  “What’s your least favorite part of the job?”

  “Letting people down.”

  “Who are you letting down?”

  I sigh against the weight of the question. “My family, my boss, Cooper. And I always worry I’m not doing enough for my patients.”

  “Or maybe...maybe it’s yourself you’re letting down? We’re always hardest on ourselves, Dylan. I don’t think anyone expects you to give up your own happiness for theirs.”

  I pick at the grass, ignoring the possibility that he might be right. But where’s the balance? How do I let go of anything without everything crumbling around me?

  “Maybe,” I concede.

  “So how do you adjust your expectations?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  He smiles and leans closer to rub his shoulder against mine. “You will.”

  * * *

  I finally get back into my regular schedule at work, not because I don’t want Vanessa to be upset with me, but because she’s right. And because Reese is right.

  I pull out my grant application again. I’ve gotten so distracted with my personal life that I’ve let my commitment to my career and my goals slide. So on the days Reese is at the house, I leave Spencer with him and spend my lunch breaks in my office, staring at my computer screen, waiting for the right words to come to me. When Vanessa looked at it the first time, she said she thought my goals were too lofty. As I watch the blinking cursor hour after hour, day after day, I realize maybe it is time to adjust my expectations.

  During one of these staring bouts, I remember my parents’ wedding anniversary is coming up soon—their thirty-fourth together. Dad hasn’t called since I visited him at his office, no doubt giving me time to think about Cooper without feeling pressured. I haven’t called him for fear of disappointing him with the news that I haven’t changed my mind, though I don’t know if it would have mattered if I had. Cooper has been keeping his distance, and I have a feeling it isn’t just because I asked him to.

  As my parents’ anniversary date grows closer, though, I wait for Dad’s phone call to remind me of our usual plans. It’s always been our tradition to celebrate as a family. I think it started because when I was little, my parents couldn’t afford a babysitter—the reason they gave us was that the three of us kids were the ones who made their marriage special. By the time Dad received his inheritance, we wouldn’t hear of being left with a stranger while they went out to do something boring like eating tiny portions at a fancy restaurant and watching a movie only one of them actually wanted to see. Together we played board games, ate popcorn and drank half a flute of champagne each. When Charlie and I reached adulthood, it became more about the champagne, but it’s a tradition so strong, even Mom joins us.

  When I haven’t heard from Dad by the morning of their anniversary, I try calling him several times and get no answer. I try the house phone and my brother’s cell phone, but no one picks up. No one calls me back.

  After work, I drive over to my parents’ house. Charlie’s car isn’t in the driveway and Dad’s isn’t in the garage, so I’m already anxious by the time I walk inside and see boxes stacked along the wall in the foyer.

  “Mom?” I call out as I run my fingers over the cardboard so fresh I can still smell the trees it came from. In black permanent marker, the simple label: Books. I lift the one corner of the tiered flaps to see John Grisham’s name staring back at me. Dad’s books. I pull my hand away, as if stung. “Mom?” I call again.

  “In here.” Her faint voice carries from farther inside the house. I follow it through the living room and the kitchen to find her sitting at the head of the dining room table, alone. The energy around her is so stagnant, she could be a statue—not a living, breathing being at all. She’s dressed in an all-white pantsuit, her hair twisted up at the nape of her neck, looking just as she would for every other anniversary dinner. But instead of us circled around her, urging her to move the game piece shaped like a gingerbread man forward two red squares, her hands are in her lap, and an open bottle of champagne sits on the table. No glass, no coaster.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, breaking the silence. “Are Dad and Charlie late?”

  Mom shakes her head. I take another step into the room, and the tension between us tightens like a wound-up toy. Another step, another turn of the knob.

  “Why are Dad’s books in the foyer?”

  She watches the condensation on the champagne bottle scoot down the side of the glass and pool around the bottom of it, then she lifts it out of its own mess and takes a drink.

  “Mom,” I push. “What’s going on?”

  She sets the bottle back down, never tearing her gaze from it, and says, more to the alcohol than to me, “Your dad is moving out.” She looks up for my reaction. “We were going to tell you and Charlie together.”

  I open and close my mouth several times. When I find my voice, I say, “You think your anniversary celebration was a good time to do it?”

  “Dylan—”

  “No.” I step back, releasing some of the pressure. This can’t be true. Dad wouldn’t leave. He loves Mom. In spite of everything, he loves her. “I don’t believe you.”

  She shrugs. “It’s true. He wasn’t brave enough to tell you himself.”

  I shake my head.

  “Go look in his room if you need proof.” Now that she’s said it, I don’t need to look. She wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.

  “This is your fault,” I say, unthinking. Mom doesn’t even flinch. She probably expected that reaction, but I take this to mean she agrees with me. “You’ve been closed off all these years. You’ve been closed off to all of us. You didn’t even try. What did you expect? He’d just keep waiting for you?”

  My words are harsh, even to my own ears, but they’ve swirled around in my head for so long, I can’t keep them in anymore.

  “How could you let this happen?” I go on from the doorway, quieter. “We already lost Abby. What will be left of our family now?”

  Mom’s mouth thins at the mention of Abby, but she still makes no move to defend herself, which makes it worse. I want her to say something, anything I can latch on to. I want her to show emotion for once. I want her to fight—fight me, fight for her life, fight for our family. She says nothing.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask her, but I’m already pulling my phone out of my pocket. I find his name in my speed dial and tap it.

  “He won’t answer,” she says as I put my phone to my ear. The first ring trills loudly, feeding my agitation. “He won’t,” she says again.

  I cross one arm over myself—a defense mechanism—as I wait for Dad to pick up.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s not ready to talk to you,” she says. She smudges the condensation on the table with her thumb. “He’s too ashamed.”

  The phone rings again. “Why should he be ashamed? He did everything he could to try to make you happy.”

  Ring.

  Another ring.

  Mom stares at the champagne bottle. “Because he slept with another woman.”

  My immediate reaction is to scoff. That’s a hell of a lie to come up with to justify letting a marriage fall apart. Then anger burns through me. A lie like that could ruin my father’s reputation. After everything he’s done for our family and this community, I won’t allow her to erase it all with those six words. Then the phone rings one last time and clicks over to voice mail as a sinking feeling settles into my stomach. If it’s a lie, Mom seems to fully believe it. The expression on her face is all too familiar.r />
  I’ve seen it in the mirror.

  “You’ve reached Greg Michels. I’m sorry I can’t take your call...”

  The phone slides from my ear, and I hit the End button. Dad always takes my calls. Always.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say again, because I don’t want to believe her. Any of it. It’s too much. Dad has been so patient with her over the years as he tried to understand her grief, help her through it. He’s the most loving man I’ve ever known. One of them anyway.

  My dad...and Cooper.

  Mom sits back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I’ve never told you. You idolize your dad. I didn’t want to take that away from you.”

  “How generous,” I say, before I realize that if she really is telling the truth, it’s not her I should be angry at.

  Still, her distance...her coldness. Mom’s the one who pulled away. She’s the one who stopped loving us. She’s the one who treated us like it was our fault Abby died. Who wouldn’t go looking for warmth elsewhere? That’s how it started for me as a teenager—my desperate search for something to prove I was still worthy of love and, at the same time, that what happened to Abby would never happen to me. I could be with a boy without falling for him, without letting him talk me into something that would ruin my life—something that might end my life.

  “What do you mean ‘never’?” I ask.

  “Dylan, it happened fifteen years ago.”

  I shake my head. “But that would mean it happened right after...” I trail off.

  Could that mean she pulled away for more reasons than Abby’s death?

  Mom purses her lips, gives the faintest nod.

  “That means you’ve both been lying to me all this time.”

  She sits up and puts her elbows on the table, leaning her body toward me. “You were still a kid, honey. You didn’t need to know what was going on in your parents’ personal life. You weren’t ready to handle that kind of information. Especially not when you were still grieving for Abby. I’m telling you now because I thought maybe you’d understand?” Her voice goes up at the end like she’s unsure, but her narrowed eyes prove she already knows.

  “Dad told you about Cooper.”

  “I wish you would have.”

  A bitter laugh escapes my lips.

  “Really, Mom?” I say. “Would you have made me tea and given me relationship advice?”

  She recoils at my words.

  “If it’s true, why are you separating now? It’s been fifteen years,” I say, as evidence that she couldn’t possibly be right. Sure, they sleep in separate rooms and have separate hobbies—her with her garden and cooking and self-medication, him with his business and a boat and a membership to the country club. But they’ve stayed. You don’t get cheated on and stay.

  “I know it sounds simple,” she says. “We’re married. We took vows. But relationships aren’t simple. Sometimes you hope things will get better, and sometimes they do. But sometimes they don’t. Seeing you go through the same thing, and how hurt you are...how sure you are that you can’t get past it... I think we both realized that we haven’t gotten past it either, and that it’s time to stop pretending.”

  I swallow back my emotions as I try to process what she’s saying—try to stitch together the two pictures of my childhood and my family. They don’t line up.

  “Why are you telling me all this? Do you want me to be mad at Dad?” I ask. “Because I’m not.” The lie tastes metallic on my tongue. I remember my last conversation with him, and how he wanted me to forgive Cooper. And that’s how I’m sure it’s true. My dad cheated. He didn’t just want me to forgive Cooper. He wanted me to forgive him. The floor falls out from beneath me all over again.

  “I could have just said your dad was moving out because we fell out of love over the years, but I thought you had the right to know the truth.”

  “No,” I say. “You wanted to make yourself look better. You thought you could use what Cooper did to me to get me on your side, but I’m not like you. I’ll never be like you.”

  Even as I say the words, I fear the evidence to the contrary is stacking against me.

  “Dylan, I—”

  “No.” I put my hand up to stop her.

  “I need you to try to understand.”

  “I needed you to understand, too. I needed you to understand that you aren’t the only one who lost Abby. I needed you to understand how important my career is to me. I needed you to understand how much I need you in my life. All I’ve gotten is disappointment.”

  Before she can say another word, I walk out.

  12

  The heat and humidity is nearly unbearable. Just walking from the clinic to my car forms sticky sweat under my arms and on the back of my neck. The whole city seems to be lethargic, everything moving in slow motion. It’s worse for my most pregnant patients, tired and achy and ready to be done carrying the extra weight. I sympathize with their discomfort, but I also envy them. For those women, there is a definite time limit for their suffering, and on the horizon, the promise of something worth suffering for. I have no such promise. In fact, as I pull into my driveway one day after work, I fear things are about to get much worse.

  I notice my dad’s Land Rover first, and then Reese’s truck. I maneuver between them to get my car into the garage, my pulse quickening exponentially with every passing second. Both my mom and dad have been trying to call me for the last two days, but I haven’t responded to either of them. Marilyn has called several times, too, leading me to assume Cooper has finally broken the news to his parents, but I don’t pick up for her either. In light of my parents’ divorce, losing the Caldwells from my life is even more painful.

  I don’t see Dad or Reese in front of the house, and I hope I won’t find them together right up until I walk around the house and do. Before I hear a word of their conversation, I already know what they’re talking about as Dad watches Reese draw pictures with his hands, listening with rapt attention the same way I did when Reese first explained his vision for my garden to me.

  Moving toward them, I catch Dad’s eye. He’s fresh from the office, still in his suit. He attempts a smile, but his eyes don’t meet mine. I never would have thought the man I’ve always looked up to could be too ashamed to look at me.

  I stop before I reach them and clear my throat. “Want to come inside?” I ask Dad.

  “I’d love that,” he says softly. “Nice to meet you,” he says to Reese. Reese pats him on the shoulder, encouraging him like a Little League coach, and I motion Dad toward the door.

  When Dad passes me, Reese mouths, “You okay?”

  I nod.

  In the living room, Dad methodically takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack. He slips off his shoes and leads the way to the couch. The scent of his old Italian cologne trails behind him—a musky, minty smell that I associate with him alone.

  “May I sit?” he asks.

  I nod. He takes one corner of the couch, and I take the other. Dad fluffs the pillow next to him, glancing everywhere but at me. Finally, he leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, rubs his hands together.

  “Your mom told me you two talked,” he says.

  I nod again, unable to speak.

  “I take it she told you I moved out.” A pause. “And why.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  He sits back and crosses his arms. “I know you’re upset with me. And you have every reason to be. It’s something I’ve never forgiven myself for, and I don’t expect you to forgive me either. But...you’re an adult, and I feel like you might at least understand. If you’re still willing to listen to your old man.”

  So this is real. My parents are actually divorcing. I believed it in theory, the general idea that my parents wouldn’t be l
iving in the same house anymore, but to hear it from my dad’s lips, and to see the way his demeanor has already shifted, it becomes palpable. His eyes are clearer, and his face is brighter than I’ve seen it since I was a little girl. I thought I understood why Mom and Dad drifted apart after Abby died, but according to Mom’s timeline, it was more than that. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if it had anything to do with Abby at all. All this time, I thought finding some kind of justice for Abby might bring them back together, but maybe what I’ve been working myself to death for never would have made a difference anyway.

  “I’ll listen,” I say tentatively, “but Mom’s already told me everything.”

  He nods. “I’m sure she told you her side of the story. I’m sure she painted me as the bad guy, and I don’t blame her. I am. I didn’t give her any excuses for what I did, and I’m not going to give you any excuses either. You’re too smart for that. You always were.”

  I shift in my seat. I’ve always reveled in my dad’s praise. I’ve lived to make him proud, to be just like him. But after discovering a secret as big as him cheating on my mom, I question everything he’s ever said to me. That’s the thing about secrets—they quickly become lies, and lies are a cancer, infecting every good memory, every gesture of love, every truth. He was supposed to teach me how to be strong and how a man treats the woman he loves. Maybe he did. Maybe that’s why my relationship followed the same path as his.

  “You remember how your mom was,” he says. He shakes his head, the memory still fresh—last week instead of ages ago. “She hasn’t gotten better over the years. Worse, in fact. I did try to be understanding of what she was going through, but the truth is...she broke my heart. She pushed me away. She didn’t want to talk to me. She didn’t want me to touch her. Sometimes I would walk into a room, and she would get up and leave. I tried everything I could to make her happy again, but she didn’t see it. I was hurting, too, Dylan. But she was so caught up in her own pain, she just didn’t care. So I bottled it up.” He swallows hard. “And I took the pain of being rejected by her and put the lid on it.”