“I make a very good ham sandwich.”
Rosie nodded vigorously. “That’s true. Very generous with the mayonnaise, though, isn’t he?”
“See?” I said to Anne, reaching for the keyboard. “It’s not exactly deep stuff.”
She swatted at my hand. “Shh,” she said. “They’re sweet.”
“And Rosie,” went my voice again. “Can she cook?”
“Does a bat have wings?” said Harold. “Oh, she can cook, all right. Rosie used to make a blood pudding that would have you—”
An alarm started going off on my phone. I turned it off and put the video on pause.
“What’s that?” asked Anne.
“I was going to wake Camille up so she’d sleep tonight, you know?”
Anne nodded.
“Should I wake her?”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know.” She looked at the computer screen. Harold was twisting the dish towel around his fist, and Rosie was frozen in midlaugh. “I guess so,” Anne said. “She’s got a big week.”
“Right,” I said, standing. “Are her friends better?”
Anne shrugged. “Not really. Everyone’s still got the flu. Do you want me to get her?” she said, half standing as I walked toward the stairs.
“No, no,” I said. “Stay comfortable. Hopefully she’s not too deep asleep.”
“Can I watch more of this?” she asked.
My face reddened from surprise. “Well, sure,” I said. “If you want to.”
“Is that all right?”
I stood there like an idiot, staring at the screen. The heat from Anne’s presence carried over me in waves. There was something in the air that was making me feel both nauseous and excited, like the artificial hunger you get from eating foods cooked with MSG.
“Is that all right?” she repeated.
“Sure,” I said, leaning over to switch to another video clip. “But it’s really nothing. You just—this is the beginning of Harold’s bit, so you just hit play.”
A few seconds later, at the top of the staircase, instead of Harold’s baritone I heard my own voice ring out:
“Okay. Welcome to my parents. Edna. George. When did you two meet?”
“We met swimming. She had on a red suit.”
“A one-piece.”
“I offered her an ice cream.”
“A Mr. Whippy! You know, from the little lorry that used to pull up outside?”
I put my hand against the wall to steady myself. The clever girl had figured out how to watch the video of my parents. I felt flushed with shame for both the fact that she was seeing it and the fact that I’d tried to hide that I’d been watching it before she arrived. In the bedroom, I sat down on the edge of the mattress and listened to the breathing of our sleeping child. My parents’ voices filled the kitchen below. I was overtaken with the need to cry.
I moved closer to the top of the bed and bent my head toward Camille’s. I put my hand to her forehead—it was clammy, but not too hot. The poor thing was caught in the snarled web of sleep. It felt cruel to wake her up, but something dark was building inside of my small flat. An undeniable sadness was seeping up into this room and I was worried that if I didn’t get Anne and Camille out, I would never be able to feel safe in this place again. They were too near to me. I loved them too much. And the love overtaking me combined with the fact that I was going to spend another evening alone, doing nothing with it, being weighted down to motionlessness by my own actions, made me want to get it over with, and fucking be alone.
“Sweetheart,” I said, my hand on her shoulder. “Mon lapin.” I shook her gently. “Mommy’s here, darling. It’s time to go home.”
I watched one eye open. And glare.
“Mmmmggghh,” she went, pulling the blanket over her.
I pulled it back down. “I know, love,” I said. “It’s no fun, is it, but you have to wake up. You’ll have school tomorrow, and—”
“I want to keep sleeping!” she said, turning the other way. “I want to stay here!”
I tried tickling her back.
“You’ll be back soon, love. But Mom’s waiting downstairs.”
“It’s so stupid!” she said into her pillow. “I don’t want to!”
My chest burned. Again, I felt an aching need to cry. I would wait until they were gone, though. I would wait, and I’d shut down that bloody computer, and then I’d sit inside the bathroom that was the size of most people’s sinks and I would do it. I would cry.
“Camille,” I said, “let’s go now. Your mom needs you to go.”
Camille tossed off the blanket.
“You’re mean,” she said. “I don’t want to.”
“I know, sweetheart. But haven’t we had fun?”
I brushed hair out of her sticky, sleepy face and saw that she had tears smarting in her eyes.
“Oh, love,” I said, holding her. “Don’t you feel well?”
“I’m tired,” she said, her face hot against my jumper. “I want to stay here.”
“Darling,” I said, kissing her head. “Trust me, I know. But your mum’s made a great dinner and, here you go, let’s get your shoes. Can you put your shoes on?”
Camille kicked and frowned.
“There you go, love. Let’s try to be smiley for your mom, yeah? She’ll want to hear about the zoo, I think. And the horses?”
Camille shrugged her little shoulders.
“Okay,” she said, “Fine.”
I had to help her to her feet, as she was still wobbly with sleep. I tossed the duvet back into place and thumped at the pillows so that I wouldn’t be totally depressed when I came back up and saw the imprint of a body that was no longer there.
“Let’s go, then, pumpkin,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Careful with the stairs? You got your jacket?”
“It’s downstairs.”
“Tickety-boo, then,” I said. “Down the hatch we go!”
I started down the stairs with Camille behind me, turning now and then to make sure she put the right foot on each step. Anne had had a fit when she’d seen this staircase, dubbing it the architectural personification of an accident waiting to happen.
At the foot of the stairs, I turned and reached for my daughter, and swung her down the rest of the way so we were both facing the kitchen table. Anne closed the computer abruptly, wiping at her eyes.
“Hey there, Camille bird!” she said, bending down to take Cam in her arms. Watching the two of them together made my heart drop all the way down to the soles of my damn shoes.
“You’ve got everything, sweetheart? You’ve got everything, yes?” Anne stood up and nervously ran her hands through her hair. A little bit of mascara had smudged beneath her right eyelash.
“That was great.” She nodded in the direction of the computer. “That was something. Really.”
Before I could respond, she reached to the right of The Blue Bear for Camille’s coat.
“You were having a great nap, weren’t you?” she said, helping Camille into it. “A lovely little rest?” She helped Camille get her other arm into her jacket and then she came to me. She kissed me once on each cheek, letting her lips linger there just long enough that when she pulled away, I could feel dampness on my skin.
“It’s very good,” she said. “It is.”
My throat caught. I just nodded. I couldn’t say anything else.
She swallowed hard. “Okay, sweetie, kiss your daddy.”
And Camille did.
Anne cast another look at The Blue Bear and then stared down at the floor. It seemed like she was about to say something, but she didn’t. After thanking me for the weekend, she pulled the door open for Camille and followed our daughter through my traitorous door.
As poorly insulated as the building was, I could hear their every footstep. Little
feet and big feet making their way down the wooden hallway, then stepping carefully onto the first turn of the winding staircase, which was wooden, and slippery, and also classified as an accident waiting to happen in Anne’s architectural book.
I waited until I couldn’t hear footsteps in the stairwell anymore. Then I sat down and opened the computer. The film was paused on an image of the TV in my parents’ house. I rewound the video several seconds to confirm what I knew Anne had seen.
“Oh, I wanted to talk to Camille, dear!” said my mother, turning toward the camera. “My goodness, is that on again?”
“It wasn’t Camille.” My voice. The camera zoomed in on my mum’s face. “And yes.”
“It’s not going to be a very interesting video you’re making,” went my father. “Us watching the tube.”
“Excuse me. But how do you make love last?” My voice—the lens focused on my father’s aging face.
“Honey, are you all right, dear?” My mother picked up the remote control from the coffee table.
The camera panned from my mother, who looked worried, to my father, who looked confused, and then back again.
My voice: “No.”
“Sweetheart?” My lovely mum got up from the couch. The camera jiggled as she sat down beside me. I had filmed her face first, then her hand. I had filmed her moving a throw pillow onto the floor so she could put her arm around me.
“Would you put that thing down?” My mother again.
And then my voice came out strangled, almost choked.
“What do I do?” A pause in which my mother’s eyes well up. “What have I done?”
More images of the television. An attractive woman was holding up a roll of toilet paper, demonstrating how thick and sturdy each individual ply was. And then the film salt-and-peppered into nonexistence.
I sat there staring at the computer, stunned that Anne had seen this. Seen me falter, seen me blabber, seen me with my parents, my voice broken in half. And I ached to realize how much I missed them all at that moment, how alone I felt without my parents, daughter, wife. How safe it had made me feel when my mother had come over to me, had sat by me on the couch. I was remembering the feel of her hand moving in circles on my back when I heard footsteps on the stairs outside my door. My heart sped up when I recognized two pairs of feet.
There was a kerfuffle in the hallway, and then a knock again. I opened the door and found Anne standing in the hallway, holding Camille’s hand.
“Sorry,” she said, “Can I come in?”
“Did you forget—” I stopped myself. “Sure.”
“Camille, love,” she said, turning. “Mommy’s just going to be a second, all right? Here.” She punched the switch that started the timer for the hallway light. “Just one sec.”
I opened up the door wider and whispered, “You’re just going to leave her there?”
“Leave the door open a crack,” she said. Then she pulled me behind the door, near The Blue Bear, where our daughter couldn’t see us. “Just a second, sweetie!” she called again.
“Richard, listen,” she said, her face turning grim. “It’s about . . . the dates.”
I closed my eyes. “Don’t do this,” I said. “Not again. I can’t.”
“No, listen, it’s—” Her voice was trembling. “I did go out a couple times. I got a babysitter, the whole thing. I got—” She turned around nervously. “You all right, little rabbit?” she called out.
Camille yelled back, “No!”
Anne started to whisper. “And it just felt like—I tried. I really tried to. But you have to tell all these stories, you know? You have to explain everything and everybody, you can’t just drop names, and it was just so—it was just so easy to make this buffoon fall for me, but it was also so depressing.”
“I am telling you that I can’t take this,” I said, my legs going numb. “Not now. Not here.”
She took my stupid face into her hands.
“I want you to come back. Richard. I think you should come back.”
“Mommy!” Camille cried. “The lights went off! I’m scared!”
Anne turned and yanked open the door, slammed her hand against the light switch again.
“Put your arm through the door, Camille,” she said. “I’ll hold your hand. But stick your finger into your other ear, though. Mom and Daddy need to talk.”
“Jesus,” I whispered. But Camille did it. Anne stayed firmly planted behind the partly opened door holding on to our daughter’s tiny hand. Outside in the hall, Camille started humming.
“It’s not going to be easy,” she said. “I know it. But I want you to come back.”
“You’re serious,” I said, feeling my chin start to tremble. “Please tell me that you’re serious.”
“I am serious,” she said. “I’m serious. But I won’t be your second choice.”
I couldn’t help it. I started crying. “You’re not my second choice,” I choked. “You’re not.”
“I don’t know what will happen,” she said, looking down at the small white arm poking through the door. “But I miss you. And I miss our fucking life.”
“Mom!” cried Camille. “The lights went off again!”
“Goddammit,” Anne hissed, squeezing Camille’s hand. “Just a second!” With her free hand, she smoothed her hair back. “I think that this should happen tonight. Like, now.”
“Now?!” I balked. “What will we tell her?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t—”
“Mo-om!”
“Jesus, Cam, all right!” Anne yanked the door open. “Camille, I swear to God, I just need one more minute. Hit that switch there. I promise. Then we’ll all go home.”
“I don’t want to hit the light.”
“Je te jure, Camille, si tu ne—”
I dashed out into the hallway and hit the light for her, promising her that we needed just one more minute inside.
Then Anne closed the door behind us and pulled me toward her and kissed me, kissed me deep and right.
“There’s no going back on this,” she said, her breath hot against my skin. “Forward is forward.”
“Cam’s gonna need therapy for this hallway shit,” I said, kissing her above her eyebrow, on the corner of her lips. Deep inside my pants, I felt my seigneur start to rise.
“I’ve already got her seeing someone,” she said, prohibiting my retort with another kiss. “We’ll talk about it. We’ve got time.”
23
THE WIDOWER who owned my small apartment was delighted to hear that I was moving out. Instead of letting it out to the friend he had first mentioned, he was thinking of using it himself when he came back from his cruise.
“You use so much less space when you’re alone,” he said over the phone. “And the bathroom! I can’t believe it. A bar of soap, a tube of toothpaste. I’m like a bachelor again.”
After deciding whether or not we should pursue some kind of couples therapy (we decided not to), Anne and I tackled the question of how to announce to our families that we were staying together. Finally, we decided that if we started showing up places together, they’d figure it out. It wasn’t their business, really, as long as we knew what we were doing. We were back together again. Living in the same house. Quarreling over the fact that I’d brought back unsalted butter from the store instead of salted. What other ending could they want?
Explaining things to Camille was another matter altogether. We admitted to her that we’d been having some problems, but that we’d worked them out together, that that’s what grown-ups did. I still worry that my departure and reappearance will lead her to think that marriage is expandable—that it ebbs and flows over time, with the principal characters coming and going as they please. But how can you tell the truth, the real truth, to a five-year-old? Expandable is exactly what a marriage is. If you refuse the
possibility that bad things might happen, a marriage cannot survive.
It isn’t easy. Neither of us is joyful every day, but there is an equilibrium and a rightness that has returned to our lives—the sense that we are doing exactly what we are supposed to be doing, and together. And though it would be a lie to say that we’ve had an about-face in the bedroom, there is an openness between us now that makes our coming togethers feel like the truest version of love—love in all its tenderness, its frustration, and the realization that despite its shortcomings, this place, with this person, is the place we’re meant to be.
I never found out if Anne actually slept with the person she’d been seeing, nor if it had been Thomas, and it’s possible that I never will. Sometime after I moved back into the house, she admitted that he’d been transferred back to Luxembourg, but that’s all that she will say about it, and over time, I’ve realized that that has to be enough.
Composed and faultless from the outside, Anne-Laure has a reserve of lust and strength and anger that I rarely see, but it is there, and it makes her capable of hiding things from me. When we’ve made love lately, I’ve noticed a lack of self-consciousness in her that I haven’t seen in a long while, and it makes me think that something did happen with that person, whoever he may be. Little things—the way she’ll touch her breasts when she’s on top of me, the veil of sweat she no longer wipes from her brow. She acts noticed and beautiful, and it makes me think they fucked. It makes me think that she spent time—or maybe just a moment—with someone who took time to appreciate her body, who truly found her beautiful, who made her feel powerful and feminine and mysterious again.
And I can’t let it matter. Because in the end, it doesn’t. If I let it matter, we’ll fall back into a cycle of resentment and claustrophobia again. I love her. I love her deeply. We are in this for the long haul. It isn’t always going to be pretty, and we will fall again—somewhere down the road, one of us is going to mess up. It might not be with another person—it might not be an affair—but there will be a hurdle. A reckoning. And a making up.
Because in the end, that’s why some of us stupid humans get married. Because we know that we can lose each other, and find each other again. Because we’re capable of forgiveness. Or at least, we think we are. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I had been in Anne’s position. And the fact that she had the courage to bring us back together makes me love her, and our small family, and our future even more.
I Am Having So Much Fun Without You Page 29