She Makes It Look Easy

by Marybeth Whalen

  My mind raced as I struggled for something to say. I was used to Justine providing the answers, not me. “Hiding from what?”

  “Life,” she said, drawing a crumpled-up piece of toilet tissue to her nose and daintily dabbing at it. She sniffed and looked at me. “Reality.”

  “What reality?” I pressed.

  She sighed, a long inhale and exhale. “Mark lost his job. They gave him hardly any severance. They took his company car, his company phone, his company computer.” She looked at me for a beat. “Our company life, I guess you could say.”

  “Where is he?” I asked. Mark had been nowhere in sight when I walked through the house.

  She shrugged. “How would I know? I can’t call him. He doesn’t have a phone.” She fiddled with the shredded piece of toilet tissue. She laid the tissue in her lap, picked it back up again.

  I sat silently, running through options of what I could say next, but nothing sounded right. “I’m sorry,” I offered. It was nothing, two words as flimsy as that piece of tissue she was holding.

  She nodded. “I know. I know you are. I guess I just need Mark to come home and tell me this is going to be okay. That nothing has to change. That he’ll take care of it.” She smiled grimly. “I want him to come home and lie.”

  “So, what—what are you going to do?” My mind raced with possibilities of what I could do. Call David? Help organize a job search? Make a meal?

  “There’s nothing I can do. Get a job myself like Mark wants? Be his cheerleader while he looks for another job? Because he has to find another job.” She waved her hand at her closet, the line of clothes hanging up, the rows of shoes and purses and accessories all around us. “All of this came with a price. We can’t go without a job.” The tears began to roll down her face again. “We won’t make it. We weren’t prepared for this. We didn’t save for a rainy day or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

  I thought of the many arguments David and I had had over his propensity to save instead of spend. How angry I got over his frugality. And yet, if something like this happened to us, I reasoned as I knelt in Justine’s closet, we would be okay because of the very thing I railed against. Shame colored my face, and I was grateful for the darkness.

  I thought of the time I found my mom hiding out in a darkened room. I crawled into bed with her and asked her if she was sick. She pulled the covers back, and I snuggled underneath them, curling up beside her in the shape of a comma. Our faces were so close I could feel her breath every time she exhaled. I remembered it was raining, and for a while the only sound in the room was the rain hitting the roof and the window. Finally she spoke. “I’m not sick,” she said. “I’m sad.”

  “Why are you sad, Mommy?” I asked. I was eight years old.

  “Because Daddy went away,” she said.

  The night before, my daddy had read me a story and tucked me into bed. He hadn’t mentioned going away. He hadn’t packed a suitcase or promised to bring me back a surprise like he usually did. I remember rubbing her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mommy,” I said. “He’ll be back soon.”

  “No, Ariel, honey, you don’t understand,” she said. “He’s not coming back. He’s left us.” She corrected herself. “Left me.”

  I remembered trying to absorb the meaning of her words. My daddy had just read a chapter of The Boxcar Children to me. Who would read the rest? How would I find out what happened? Did the children’s adventures sound so good he’d wanted to go on one of his own? And if that was what had happened, did that mean his leaving was my fault?

  Years later in a class on child development I learned that children nearly always try to take responsibility for a divorce. That it’s up to the parents to communicate to the children that they did nothing wrong. My mom said nothing more that day in her dark room, as though the mere effort of telling me my dad was gone took the breath right out of her. When I got up from the bed and went to find my sister, she reached out and stopped me. I looked back at her in hopes that she would offer some words of comfort or perspective. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I could just make out her face. “Yes, Mommy?” I asked.

  “You have to work hard to keep a man, Ariel,” she said. “You better take care of him, or be prepared to take care of yourself.” I nodded as though I understood, but the truth was—all these years later—I was still trying to understand her words to me.

  I noticed Justine staring at me and laughed. “Sorry,” I said. “My mind wandered.” I hurried to add something. “I’d like to pray for you before I go.” I felt lame as I said it. The emptiness of my words echoed around us. Why did I always feel like I was offering a consolation when I suggested prayer? It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in it—I absolutely did. It just felt so … passive in the face of such a huge issue.

  Justine stared back at me blankly. “You can pray if you want,” she said, sniffling. “God and I aren’t really on speaking terms right now.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder, the lightest touch, ready for her to brush it aside. But she didn’t. I wanted to pull her into a hug, but I feared her stiffening against me. Justine was not the hugging type. So I sat motionless, silent, my hand resting awkwardly on her shoulder as I prayed quietly for her. She dabbed at her eyes, and we sat that way, saying nothing. But inside I was saying a lot.

  That night David arrived home after dinner was cooked and cleaned up, after the boys had surrendered to sleep, after I had given up on flipping through reality television and courtroom dramas and headed to bed alone. He slunk into the room, his head ducked as if he was already prepared to be assaulted. “Sorry I wasn’t here for dinner. My flight was canceled. I had to take a later one,” he said, not looking me directly in the eyes, a disobedient child waiting for his reprimand.

  I put down the book I had been pretending to read. “It’s okay,” I said and smiled.

  He set down his suitcase on the floor. “What?” he asked. “No lecture about why I didn’t call or wasn’t more considerate?”

  I shook my head, my smile widening. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

  He crawled onto the bed, smiling back at me. I didn’t even tell him to take his shoes off lest he mess up the bedspread. He nuzzled his face in my neck. I felt his warm breath as he kissed me. He was looking me in the eyes now. “Why are you glad I’m here?” he asked, his eyes saying much more.

  “I missed you,” I said. I gave him a look that was meant to be coy. I wanted to be a mystery to him again, a conquest. I would not tell him until later that I was just relieved that he had a job, that he took care of us financially, that we weren’t in Justine and Mark’s boat. Just for tonight I would let him believe it was nothing more than him and me and passion resurfacing, like a glimpse in a magic mirror of the person you once were. I helped him remove his shirt and counted my blessings, still smiling as his mouth covered mine.

  Chapter 18

  Justine

  I didn’t know how to get a job, but I knew how to throw a party. Mark didn’t say anything as I busied myself with throwing a party for Ariel’s birthday. He didn’t mention that we didn’t have money to host a party or that he wasn’t really in the mood to have a houseful of people. Instead he slipped away at odd times, really only smiling if I smiled at him first. I saw the light go out in him, watched it flicker and die. I offered nothing in response, no oxygen for his dying flame. We barely spoke that week, giving each other a wide berth as we passed each other in the hall. Sometimes I made myself reach out and pat his shoulder. He always stopped and closed his eyes when I did.

  Here is what I know about throwing a party: I know that lighting matters. Overhead lighting is a no-no. Lamps and candles make everything glow, including faces. Music is a must. I try to pick good background music: piano, acoustic guitar, something like that. Hors d’oeuvres should be easy to eat standing up, preferably in a bite or two. The less formal and stuffy t
he party feels, the better. A relaxed, informal atmosphere will get guests talking and socializing. Get a good cake, and grown-ups will gather around it and ooohh and ahhh like kids. And finally, don’t let couples hover together. Find a way to split them up.

  David had grudgingly gone along with my idea when I caught him in the yard and proposed the party. He always looked at me funny, as though I had said something about him behind his back or kicked his dog when he wasn’t looking. He was a handsome man, and handsome men didn’t usually look at me that way. There was usually more appreciation there. His lack made me work harder, want it more.

  That day in the yard I leaned over the fence, knowing that the V-neck of my shirt slipped down as I did. I saw his eyes flicker there and away. But instead of the look of appreciation I was used to seeing from a man, the look in his eyes was different. Not discomfort. Not anger. Not revulsion. It took me a few days to name it, but when I did finally determine what it was, I felt ashamed. David had looked at me with pity. As I told him about the party I wanted to throw, I looked instead at the fence, picking at the peeling white paint with my red nails. Our exchange lasted mere minutes but stayed with me for days.

  I worked hard to make the party all it could be, even inviting some friend of hers I didn’t know like David had suggested. I also invited new people from the neighborhood I thought she would like to meet. It was part “welcome to the neighborhood” and part “happy birthday, new friend.” That’s what I told myself. But the truth was, it was a nice diversion from what was happening with Mark and a guaranteed way to be in the same room with Tom again. I wanted to breathe the same air, eat the same food, talk to the same people. Most of all I wanted to feel the way my heart raced whenever he was nearby. It made me feel alive, and alive was good after years of feeling dead. There had been another brief time when I’d felt that way, but that was a long time ago and best forgotten. This was entirely different.

  What I had with Tom was real, and it was going somewhere. I thought of each time he had kissed me since that first kiss in the car. Three stolen moments, relived in my mind again and again, savoring the smell of his skin, the intimacy of his mouth on mine, our mingled breath, the softness of his lips. Sometimes when I was sleeping, the memory would wake me. In my dreams I struggled to get to him. Sometimes I sat bolt upright in bed, the longing seizing me like a lightning rod shooting straight through me. I would catch my breath and look beside me at Mark, sleeping away, entirely unaware of the secret thoughts I carried. I would relish standing beside Tom at the party, knowing the scent of his skin from memory, the same scent I had inhaled as I kissed him. More and more I wanted to possess him. More and more stolen moments were not enough, and we both knew it. This … affair … was moving faster than both of us were prepared for.

  On the day of the party I went over to Ariel’s with a recipe for play dough for the kids to make. She had no idea about the party, and I relished the thought of seeing the surprise on her face. Whatever David saw, his wife did not. When I knocked on the door, she always looked grateful to see me standing on her doorstep. She welcomed whatever I had to offer in the way of instruction—bread baking, organization tips, a new recipe. When I left her house, I wished just that was enough: that her approval, her friendship, would distract me from wanting Tom. That somehow I would be cured of the disease of adultery just by basking in her unabashed admiration. As much as I wanted to see Tom, I also found I wanted to spend time with her. She made me feel good about myself. When I was around her, I believed I could actually be what she saw in me. I just had to keep her from knowing the truth about what I was doing, or her friendship would be gone. Ariel was a good person. And good people, I had learned, did not tolerate following your heart.

  Before I left that day, I offhandedly said something about her birthday, as though I had given it little thought. I saw a flash of disappointment in her face and had to stifle a smile. Later she would understand why I hadn’t come over and made a fuss. Later she and I would giggle about how I had kept her party a secret. Later I would pretend that the party was all about her. And she would believe me. That’s what I loved about her.

  Chapter 19

  Ariel

  For my birthday, David took me out for a nice long dinner that didn’t involve cutting anyone’s meat or scolding anyone for burping at the table. Okay, well, one time I did have to scold David for shaking his knee up and down so hard the table was wiggling. “What are you nervous about?” I asked as I gently laid my hand on his knee. We were sitting side by side.

  He shrugged, looking sheepish. “I just want tonight to be special for you. Are you having fun? I mean, it’s your birthday after all.”

  I took a bite of my steak and chewed for a moment with a rapturous look on my face, then smiled at him. “Yes. It’s perfect,” I said.

  “Wow. I hardly ever hear you say something’s perfect.”

  “I admit I want a lot,” I said, laying my fork down.

  He gripped my hand and leaned his forehead against mine. “It’s sometimes hard to keep up with.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “For the pressure I put on you. For the way things have been between us. I just get so … worried.”

  “About what, though? What are you so worried about?”

  “That if things aren’t perfect it’ll … fall apart.”

  He ran his hand through my hair and looked at me. The noise of the restaurant dimmed, and the surroundings faded away as I willed myself to really hear what he would say next. “We have everything I ever wanted. The boys, the house, you.” He laughed. “Even Lucky. When I pictured my life, I couldn’t even imagine this life—it was too good. It seemed impossible. That’s not going to fall apart.” He lowered his voice. “This is not your past, Ariel, this is your present. And it will be your future.”

  “But how do you know?” I asked.

  He looked at me intently, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I don’t know what will happen. But I know that every day I get up and do my job and look forward to coming home to you. And to our boys, our life. A life I chose. A life I would choose over and over again. Please don’t think differently of me, always accuse me. I’m not going away. I’m not your dad.”

  I nodded, blinked away tears at the mention of the real reason I wanted an ironclad life. I had lived the reality of a life that was fragile, easily broken. I had grown up vowing that I would one day have a real family, not the fractured farce I had grown up with.

  David excused himself from the table and returned a minute later clutching a square, flat, wrapped package. He placed it on the table in front of me. “I got you this. I hope you like it,” he said shyly. I tore into the paper, smiling at him with a question in my eyes as I did. The paper revealed a copy of the book I had lost weeks earlier when the boys took it outside and let the dog chew on it. My beloved childhood book, now out of print, yet restored to me. I held it to me and felt the comfort of being a little girl dressed for bed, dampness still clinging to my hair after my bath, the timbre of my father’s voice rising and falling as he read to my sister and me. That was before he left and the stories stopped.

  “How did you—”

  “The miracle of the Internet. Turns out there’s quite a network for out-of-print books. I found the ruined copy in the trash so I had the title and author.” He smiled proudly. “Do you like it?”

  Still holding it with one arm, I reached out with the other and hugged him. “It’s the best gift you’ve ever given me.” I pulled away, my eyes shining with tears. “Really.”

  “I love who you are.” He covered my hands, holding the book with his own. “I love that you are passionate about kids’ picture books. I love that you are most likely to be found running crazy, always scurrying around because you’ve lost your focus. I love that your biggest focus is on me, and the kids.” He laughed. “I love that when you get distracted it’s most likely
because you’ve found one more thing you can’t resist capturing on film. You intrigue me, still. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  “But you said—” I stopped, realizing he never knew I heard him talking to the moving-van guy.

  He pursed his lips. “What did I say?”

  I shook my head and grinned. “I heard you, talking to the moving-van guy that day. You said you were frustrated with me. I thought—”

  He smiled. “I’m going to get frustrated when you forget stuff. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop loving you, or that I’m going to leave. You’ve got to trust me more. Trust us more.”

  He was right. “I’m sorry. I kind of freaked out. And between you traveling and Justine’s impossible standards and hearing the man cheating on his wife, I’ve been feeling just crazed lately.”

  “The man cheating on his wife?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

  I laughed. “We really need to talk more,” I said.

  “I’m all ears,” he said.

  As the server cleared our plates away and brought us after-dinner coffees, I told David the story of the man and my night out. It felt good to tell my husband everything, to lean on him and just be heard. It occurred to me that I wanted nothing more than just what I had at that moment.

  Chapter 20

  Ariel

  When we pulled into Justine’s driveway instead of our own after dinner, I looked at David, confused. He smiled. “She wanted to do something for you … for your birthday. It was her idea.” He got out of the car and came around to open my door for me. “Act surprised,” he said as we walked to the front door. He held my hand.

  Justine opened the door, and I noticed many of the neighbors I had seen at the pool this summer behind her. “Surprise!” she said, her eyes wide and her smile as brilliant as I had ever seen it.