I fully expected to find him in the living room when I returned, but he was still on the porch, staring at the sheet of water that pelted down beyond the shelter of the roof. Silently, I handed him his bag; he cradled it awkwardly in one bent arm.
“Okay. You’re all set.” When he didn’t move, I sighed. “Adam, I need you to go. That’s how this is right now.”
“But we have to try to fix this. Nothing will get better if you refuse to speak to me.”
“Nothing will get better if I don’t understand why this happened. I just asked you a couple of very important questions, and you couldn’t answer them. Anything we say to each other has to start with you answering those questions.”
He pressed his free hand to his eyes; tears seeped out from under his shaking fingers. “Please don’t do this, Caro. I love you too much.”
Adam was the only person who called me “Caro.” Everyone else preferred the simple, natural “Care” if they were going to truncate my name, but not Adam. Adam liked the unusual sound, the “awkward elegance” I believe he called it, of that final o. It was so typical of him, to prefer the thing that was special.
And Patrick Timothy was certainly very special.
“Stop acting like I’m being cruel to you,” I said. “This is all happening because of a decision you made. Please…I am begging you to leave me alone. I can’t stand to have you near me right now.”
He slid his hand down to his mouth and stared at me, eyes searching mine. Then he yanked his hand from his face, nodded once, and stalked across the porch and down the stairs. A minute later, I was watching the yellow car reverse way too quickly down the driveway, spitting gravel.
“Be careful!” I screamed. The highway down to New York is dangerous even on a clear, dry day; and I was so angry that I’d just sentenced my husband to drive it in tears, in a thunderstorm, in the growing dark. After listening to me spit out words as vicious as a whip to the face.
What in the name of god had he done to us?
6
•
Whenever we lay down together, you always told me, “Dear, do other people cherish and love each other like we do? Are they really like us?”
—A widow, to Eung-Tae Lee, June 1, 1586
Ruby blew into my house like a hurricane. My sister has always had the trait of shedding her belongings throughout a five-foot radius of her person, no matter where she is or what she’s doing. No sooner had she set foot over my threshold on Friday evening than she had kicked off her leather flip-flops, tossed her handbag—so bedecked with zippers and tassels I could barely tell where the opening was—onto my entryway bench, and tipped a refrigerator-sized suitcase belly-up like a beached whale in the middle of the hallway.
“Whew! Pretty sure I blew a vein hauling that thing up your steps. Hi, Care!” Ruby said, throwing her arms around me and squeezing like she was attempting a reverse Heimlich. “Aren’t you glad I’m here? This is going to be so fun!”
And suddenly, in spite of everything, I was glad. Ruby could be exasperating, but she was also never more than thirty seconds away from laughing—as bright and cheerful as the lemons she always smelled like. We were going to have a good weekend.
I nudged her suitcase with my toe. It solidly resisted any hint of movement. “Ruby, what do you have in here? Burqhart’s dismembered body?”
“Ninety seconds inside your house and you’re already mocking my pain,” she said, breezing past me on her way to the kitchen. “Did you get my Bud Heavy for me?”
“I assumed you weren’t serious about that, because you’re not a nineteen-year-old frat boy.”
She spun, hand on hip. “Caroline. Remember the plan? Achieving my rebirth in a bath of emulsifiers and flavor enhancers? The Bud Heavy is an essential part of the process.”
“It’s in the drink fridge,” I said, then trailed after her as she went to retrieve it. I often found myself trailing after the human whirlwind that was my sister when we spent time together.
I could never quite figure out whether Ruby and I looked like each other. Where my features were more rounded, hers were pointy and elfin: upturned nose, wide mouth in a heart-shaped, sharp-chinned face. Her hair was straighter, better behaved, and, depending on the season and her mood, either blonder or darker. At the moment, it was a bright wheat blond, almost platinum, and piled into a charmingly sloppy ball on the top of her head. We both had the same general endowments in the chest area as the rest of the women in our family, to which I had always given a wholly sarcastic “Thanks, Mom,” but on Ruby they were a little more manageably sized. Somehow, though, she’d stolen our dad’s scrawny frame from the waist down, and though she complained extensively and often about her total absence of butt, I personally thought it well worth the trade-off when one considered how killer the girl looked in a pair of skinny jeans. Or shorts like she was wearing now, which were weirdly baggy but had an inseam the length of a matchbook. One thing Ruby and I did not share was our fashion sense.
“Seriously, though,” I said, “why on earth did you bring so much stuff? You planning on taking up a new outdoor sport while you’re here?”
She made a face like a cat who’s just been dosed with a mouthful of medicine, and strolled past me without answering. I followed her to the living room, where she collapsed on the couch and popped open the beer. “I was thinking I might stay a little longer than the weekend.”
“Um, how much longer? What is this, some kind of impromptu vacation?”
“You could say that,” she murmured into her beer.
“Ruby.”
She set the beer down on the side table with a deep sigh. “I got laid off.”
“What? Are you serious?” I folded onto the couch next to her and propped my head on my fist.
Glumly, she nodded.
“But what the hell? I thought you were, like, the number one account manager over there.”
“I was. Until my two biggest clients left for a new boutique agency that’s been getting a ton of buzz lately. And which doesn’t charge quite as much as we do.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, that absolutely sucks.”
“At least it wasn’t the same day as I got dumped,” she said, and took a deep glug of beer. “I had a good forty-two hours in between.”
I reached across and scritched her head with my palm the way I used to when she was little. “Man. Fuck this month.”
“A-freaking-men.”
“Did they give you a decent severance, at least?”
“They did,” she sighed, rotating the beer can slowly in her palm. “They weren’t total dicks about it. My boss felt horrible. It’s just the rejection, you know? I busted my freaking ass for that place, and now out of nowhere it’s like, Take a hike, jerk. You’re obsolete.”
I groaned with sympathy. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if the museum suddenly decided they didn’t want me anymore. Although, apparently, since the development department seemed to have concluded I was the magic key that would unlock the coffers of Crush and spill its gold into our laps, I could be looking at a nice solid boot in the ass if I couldn’t deliver. Or, at the very least, some seriously oppressive disappointment.
“So what are you going to do? Did your boss set you up with some contacts? Seems like the least he could do.”
“He did. But…I don’t know.” She folded her knees in front of her and wrapped her arms around them. “Whenever I think about calling up these other agencies and going in and doing the dance, I just…ugh. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be an account manager anymore. I’ve been doing some freelance graphic design and branding stuff here and there, since even before I got canned, so I’m thinking I’ll stick with that for a bit and see how it goes.”
“Freelance isn’t going to pay your bills once the severance runs out, though.”
“Not yet,” she said.
“I know. But remember, there’s a reason why they moved you from creative to the account side.”
“Yes, becau
se they were assholes.”
“And because you’re phenomenal at selling,” I reminded her.
“Any friendly person can sell. I am an artist,” she said, in a deliberately grandiose voice.
I rolled my eyes and stretched my legs out on the coffee table. There was no reasoning with her when she wasn’t in the mood to hear it. “But why come up here, though? Aren’t you going to need to meet with clients and whatnot?”
“Every so often, yeah; but most of it is actually sitting down and doing the work they’re paying me for. I just don’t want to be in the city right now. Everything reminds me of my job or stupid Burqhart or both. And it’s so relaxing up here. Plus, this way I can keep you company in your time of need. Have you talked to Adam any more?” she added, after a brief pause.
“Since the monumentally inadequate conversation on Tuesday? Nope.”
“Inadequate how?”
“In every conceivable way. He says he’s sorry, but he won’t be honest with me about why he did this. Or why…” My words, like my thoughts, trailed off before they approached that particular element of the situation.
“Did you have any idea?” said Ruby, charging directly toward the topic I had quite obviously veered away from.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I snapped, and jumped up from the couch in search of something to cram into my mouth so maybe I could stop talking about this. So far, “everyone” had only consisted of two people, but I could already tell this was going to be my least favorite part of this conversation every single goddamn time I’d have to have it. Didn’t you suspect? Didn’t you sense something was off? He was lying to you, and to himself, all along. You must have sensed it. Somewhere in the unsounded depths of your heart, you must have known.
As if this silence, this redaction of such an immensely important part of his identity, were my fault. As if it were my failure.
“Sorry,” said Ruby, when I stalked back to the couch and tossed a bag of Cheetos forcefully into her lap. “Who-all is ‘everyone’?”
“Jonathan,” I said, through a bite of apple. “He was there when it all exploded.”
“What even happened, exactly? You never told me how you found out.”
With a sigh, I recounted the whole pathetic, humiliating tale. “It was the most surreal experience of my life, Rube. You remember when we drove up to see Aunt Jessie, and Dad’s car slipped in the snow and we slid right off the road, and we both had that same experience of not believing it while it was happening, like, as if it was a movie we were watching or something?”
She popped a nuclear-orange Cheeto into her mouth and crunched, nodding slowly.
“Yeah. It was like that. My brain was a good three minutes behind the rest of me. I don’t even remember a word Adam said after I realized. I don’t remember leaving the gallery. I just remember leaning against the side of the building, puking onto the sidewalk like a drunk freshman. And trying not to let it splash onto my shoes and my dress that I’d worn to look pretty for Adam, and wanting to die from the humiliation.”
Ruby leaned over and rubbed my knee with her one clean hand. “I’m so sorry, Care. It’s so fucking awful. And he’s just such a total fucking pig to have done this to you.”
“At least the Blaster had the sense not to make any jokes about how he always seems to get stuck taking care of me when I’m barfing,” I said, and one corner of her mouth lifted.
“What does he think about it all?” she said, scuffing one foot back and forth through the shaggy wool rug.
“He thinks it sucks. Obviously.”
“Yeah, but I mean, like…did he say anything about Adam? Like, did he ever pick up on anything?”
I gave a short huff of frustration. “No, Ruby. Nobody has ever ‘picked up on’ anything.”
“Is he gonna try to make a play for you now?”
“What—Jonathan? Are you kidding me?”
Digging in her Cheetos bag, she shrugged.
“Even if he were interested in me, which he is not, this is my marriage we’re talking about here. Not some high school relationship on life support.”
“It could be, though. I mean, it basically is. Jonathan’s never known you when you weren’t with Adam. I know you always said it wasn’t like that—”
“Because it wasn’t.”
A breeze from the open window pushed a tendril of hair against her cheek, and she brushed it away. “You say it wasn’t. I bet he’d say different. I mean, it’s a no-brainer. You’re a gorgeous woman, and he’s obviously loved you forever. Now he’s finally got his shot.”
Why was she so bent on misunderstanding? “He’s loved me as a friend forever. And that is all it is, hand to god. There are no shots being taken. If anything, he’s been encouraging me to try to work through it.”
Ruby grunted, unimpressed. And I wasn’t particularly surprised. To say that Ruby and Adam disliked each other was an overstatement. However, it was also something of an overstatement to say they liked each other. I would describe it as unspokenly agreed neutrality, with occasional moments of both genuine affection and genuine loathing.
When I was younger, I thought it was jealousy, on Ruby’s part. More recently, I’ve come to understand that we all have people in our lives who inhabit different ends of our polar charges. We’d like to think that everyone we love will naturally all love each other, but it’s not necessarily so; and in my case, I had a sister who was at one end of my personal spectrum and a husband who was at the other. Adam thought Ruby was flighty, giddy, and immature; she found him self-absorbed and a little pompous. In between them, I couldn’t wholly deny the truth of either charge.
Though Ruby hadn’t voiced her opinion, I already knew what it would be. My closest friend believed Adam and I could somehow work our way through this maze; my sister didn’t even want me to try.
•
But before I could begin to decide what to do, there was someone else I had to talk to. I got my chance a few days later, one afternoon after work while Ruby was at an appointment with a prospective client. I had a feeling she would not approve of this particular gambit, but I had to do it. I had to know.
I was certain he would answer the call. Though he wouldn’t know my number, he’d be hoping it would be somebody worth talking to. The trick was going to be keeping him on the line long enough to tell me what I wanted to know.
“This is Patrick. Who am I speaking with?”
“It’s Caroline Hammond. Please don’t hang up.”
He paused. “I’m pretty sure that this is a conversation I don’t want to be a part of. I’m going to go ahead and hang up.”
“Please. I’m not calling to yell at you. Just hear me out.” It burned my throat like acid—begging him—but I did it.
“So if you’re not calling to yell at me…”
“I need a favor.”
“A favor? From me?”
“I need to understand what happened. Adam won’t talk about it. I need to hear it from you.”
“Wow. That is not what I expected you to say. Listen…I have no idea why he won’t talk about it, but I do know he would not be happy if I got in the middle of this.”
I laughed, and it sounded like a normal laugh roughed up by a cheese grater. “Patrick. You already are.”
“The thing is, I’m not. His vows have always been his problem, not mine. I’m the way he chose to break them, and that’s it. So I don’t want to implicate myself in making this worse for him.”
“Aww, you don’t want him to be mad at you. You care about him. That’s so sweet!”
I could practically taste how badly he wanted to bite back at me. And I was dying for him to. Rage was surging inside me like lava.
But he didn’t. “Like I said, I don’t want to get involved. So, I think it’s time for me to get off the phone.”
“Wait.”
He paused. But I didn’t have the first idea what I wanted to ask. All the questions I really wanted answered belonged to Adam. Not
the ones I’d already asked him—the ones I couldn’t bear to. Why did you let yourself fail me? Why was it worth it? Or was my dignity simply not a consideration for you? Let alone my love?
“Caroline?”
I sighed. “Forget it.”
“Okay.”
And then he was gone. No apology—but why should I have expected one? He’d known it was a shitty thing to do when he did it, and he hadn’t cared then; there was no reason it should suddenly start mattering to him now.
I wondered who he thought Adam was. What parts of himself Adam had selectively presented, in his bottomless need to be adored—especially by someone as self-consciously cool as Patrick. Would I even recognize that alternate version of my husband?
Then again, there were huge chunks of my own version of Adam that I had never even suspected. A goddamned human iceberg.
I just couldn’t imagine what it would be like, to be with someone who barely knew me. Who hadn’t known me since I was a quiet bundle of twigs, hiding my new breasts under my dad’s sweaters and writing poems about loneliness. How on earth did people get married to people they’d only known for a couple of years? Let alone a couple of years only as an adult? How could you fully love someone without having shared their life for as long as Adam and I had?
You might learn that he hates bleu cheese, but you weren’t there the night he got annihilatingly sick on buffalo wings, and you didn’t spend the hours from one to four A.M. slumped against the wall outside the bathroom because he was sure he was going to die and you didn’t want to leave him alone with his paranoia and his bacteria. Patrick might have known that Adam’s father had had a heart attack, but he hadn’t seen his face when he got the news. Hadn’t held him, and felt him trembling. Hadn’t heard the words he mumbled into my hair the night Theodore was upgraded out of critical condition: “I don’t know what would happen to me without him.” Patrick might have fucked my husband, but he didn’t know him.
And yet. He knew things I didn’t. Things I didn’t understand, because Adam had refused to explain them to me. What was it—exactly—that had attracted my husband so strongly? I didn’t buy that “I love the person, not the plumbing” bullshit. We’re not just souls drifting around in sexless bodies, like the little cherubs in Fantasia: The plumbing is highly relevant. When you make love to someone, no matter how poetic it might sound, you’re not doing it to their soul.
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