by Jane Green
I snatch it up, instantly breathless, my heart sinking as I hear Kim’s fake-concerned voice. “Maggie! I didn’t think you’d pick up! Everyone’s been calling you for days. We were so worried.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Thank you for your concern, though.”
“But are you really fine?” Her voice is like honey, so slippery and oozy, you’d never know what a bitch she is. “I just wanted to let you know you’re in all of our thoughts. Is there anything I can do, Maggie? Anything at all?”
“You could find my husband” comes out of my mouth as I mentally curse myself. I didn’t mean to say those words out loud, and certainly not to Kim. “I’m kidding,” I cover up quickly. “We’re just figuring it all out.”
“So it is true?” she asks. “He does have this wife and child? Linda was a divorce lawyer, and she says he’s definitely going to jail. You poor thing. This must be so awful. And I heard the money’s all gone. Oh, Maggie. You must be in hell. I just cannot even imagine what you must be going through. Honestly, if I had to sell this house, I think I might kill myself. Especially after you’ve put so much work into it. Where are you going to move to?”
“Kim,” I say firmly, “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but that’s certainly not true. Our finances are perfectly fine, and as for the house, we’re not going anywhere.”
“Really? But I heard—”
“I don’t really care what you heard. It’s not true. I have to go now. Thanks for all your concern.” This last bit was dripping with sarcasm, and she can’t have missed me slamming down the phone as I gnash my teeth in fury.
When you are on top in this town, the world is your oyster. I have only ever been on top; I have been the one gossiping about the others, feeling more grateful, blessed, lucky than those poor souls who have gone through changes in life circumstances that make the rest of us shudder with horror.
The women who live in huge houses until their husbands leave them for the brighter, shinier, younger model; paying for killer lawyers and accountants who make the beleaguered former wives look insane; claiming poverty until the divorce is finalized, when husband and second shiny wife build a bigger, better, more impressive home as first wife, now ground down by divorce, squeezes into a rental apartment above someone’s garage.
Those first wives, once one of us, have “closet sales.” Scores of women lucky enough to have held on to their wealthy husbands claw frantically through piles of Chanel, cashmere, Hermès; sifting through diamonds and pearls; paying whatever the poor former wife is asking; telling ourselves we are helping her, refusing to feel guilt at benefiting from someone else’s misery.
There but by the grace of God. It could be us. Any of us. Each time we see a former first wife, now working in a clothing store, or getting her real estate license, it reminds us of the fragility of our own marriages.
After the obligatory rounds of “Hihowareyou!” and “Youlookfantastic!” or “You’velostsomuchweightmustbetheDivorceDiet!” we try to get away as quickly as possible, away from the reminder that this could be us if we’re not careful.
Which is why we are addicted to Pilates, yoga, highlights, tans, waxes, Perlane, Juvéderm. We take it for granted that we are all top tier, and we plan on staying there, on keeping our husband’s attention, on making sure we don’t become like them.
Yet here I am. Alone. Betrayed. Humiliated. And the subject of everyone’s attention. The object of their schadenfreude. Oh, how they delight in talking about other people’s misery, attempting to hide their joy with sympathetic expressions, murmurs of concern, casseroles left on the doorstep as if being left is an illness, an affliction.
Which, of course, it is.
I want to know what people are saying. I want to tell them none of it is true, but I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. I know only that bad rumors are like multiple games of whispers—one salacious rumor will only produce more, until the end result bears no resemblance to the truth.
I can’t march into town. I can’t even drive through. The prospect of people’s sympathy fills me with horror. And shame. I cannot, will not be an object of pity.
I cannot, will not take their phone calls. Welcome their visits. Not until I have somehow managed to get over the humiliation, the shame, the devastation of everyone knowing what I have always tried to hide, the reason Mark has left:
I am not enough.
* * *
Later, I get angry. It fuels me, gives me the energy to get dressed, go downstairs. Anger sees me pulling dishes out of cupboards, layering pasta and tomato sauce, furiously grating Parmesan cheese over the top. Buck and Chris move quietly around me, setting the table without being asked, feeding the dogs without complaint.
Buck even goes outside to gather his lacrosse stuff up. I watch him out the window, seeing him go into the pool house. Everything has been removed, all evidence of the day everything changed.
I pour a glass of wine and follow him outside, walking slowly to the edge of the lawn, turning and looking back over the pool, to the terrace and house. Whatever the rumors are, whatever ends up being true, I will not lose this house. I could not be happy anywhere else.
Even if I have to take on the most expensive lawyers in the business, I will not end up in some garage apartment on someone else’s property, having to take Buck out of private school, even—heaven forbid—working.
I will not go back to where I started. I heard what Sylvie said, about gathering information, finding out where we stood, but I haven’t been ready. I’m almost there, though.
Am I scared of what I might find? No. I am terrified.
* * *
The boys sit at the table as I spoon lasagna onto plates and pass them over to outstretched hands, with warnings to be careful, plates are hot.
“Where’s your sister?” I look from one to the other as they both shrug.
“Go tell her it’s dinner.”
Chris looks at Buck to do it; Buck stares straight back at Chris.
“It’s your turn,” Buck says. “I fed the dogs. And I picked up stuff in the yard.”
“Yeah, because it’s your stuff,” Chris says. “I set the table. And got the mail.”
“Jesus!” I shout, banging the spoon on the table, which makes them both jump. “Stop fighting. Just go tell her.”
“I’m glad spring break’s over next week,” Chris mumbles as he pushes back his chair belligerently.
“You know what?” I turn on him. “Me too.” He stomps upstairs to get Grace, and I instantly regret snapping at him.
“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as he walks into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean it. I just can’t deal with the fighting right now.”
“’Kay,” he mumbles as I sigh.
“Did you tell Grace?”
“Yeah. She says she’s not hungry.”
I walk to the foot of the stairs and yell her name, which is something I never do. I have a no-yelling policy. Yelling makes me think of my parents—there’s something so déclassé about screaming through the house that I have indoctrinated the children, much to their disgust, to actually walk through the house with the phone if there is someone on the line who needs to speak to a person not in the same room.
Yet here I am, breaking all the rules.
“What?” she yells back.
“Get down here!”
I wonder how long it will take. A week ago, she would never have dared speak to me like this. A week ago, she was respectful and polite. I feel as if my daughter has been swapped in the middle of the night for this sullen, rude, furious child whom I am finding increasingly unlikable.
“What?” She lingers on the landing, looking at me with disdain.
I temper my voice. “It’s dinnertime.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care.” I grit my teeth. “We are all sitting together as a family, and you are joining us. You don’t have to eat anything.”
“We’re not sitting together
as a family,” spits Grace. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed, Dad is missing. Thanks to you. So I won’t be joining you.”
I speak slowly. “You damn well will.”
“I damn well won’t,” she says before pushing past me, slamming her shoulder into mine, then running out the back door and disappearing up the driveway as I stand there, shocked to my core.
I have no experience of this. I have no idea what to do. So I close the door, walk into the kitchen—ignoring the open mouths of both Chris and Buck—and pick up my fork.
“You may start,” I choke the words through my food as I try to bring a little normality to what is rapidly becoming a life I do not recognize at all.
30
Grace
Landon’s mom is trying to treat me as if everything is normal, but she’s being extra careful, and I know she’s trying to be a mom to me right now, in the way my own mom isn’t.
She hasn’t asked me anything, hasn’t brought it up, but is suddenly treating me as if I’m another family member. Sure, Landon and I have been together for ages, and I’ve always gotten on really well with his family, but I’ve rarely been included on their regular weekend outings to, say, Cedar Point, and now I’m invited sailing as if I’ve been a permanent member of the crew.
Not to mention that Mrs. Carver has offered me use of the guest room whenever I feel like it. She even replaced the white quilt with a blue and white one that used to be her daughter’s because it makes it warmer, and she’s filled the shower with fresh shampoos and conditioners. The brands I use.
I’m staying here tonight because I can’t face being at home. Everyone in the house is asleep, including Landon. He has made jokes about tiptoeing across the landing, but I warned him not to. The last thing I need is for his mother to kick me out, and I will not go home. I refuse to go home.
I climb under the covers and prop the pillows behind my back, pulling Landon’s old teddy bear onto my knees, making him sit there, then open his arms to give me a hug.
He’s squashy, and scratchy. Bits of him are still furry, but most of the fur has been loved off. I rest him on my shoulder like a baby, pat him on the back as tears well up in my eyes.
I should be home. I shouldn’t be here, in this unfamiliar room that is becoming more familiar by the night. I want to be there for my brothers, Buck in particular, but every time I see my mother, I feel this wave of fury, and it’s all I can do not to explode.
I blame her. I do. And I hate her for it. For seventeen years, I have lived with her, watched how she treated my dad, how she took him for granted, barked orders at all of us, put all of us down, and how, eventually, she drove him into the arms of someone else.
I wanted to hate Eve, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hate her mother, but I couldn’t even do that. Everything Eve had said about her mom, before we’d figured things out, sounded amazing. She sounded like the mother I wish I’d had. She was, it seems, the wife my dad wanted too.
But how could he do that to us? How could he just walk away from us? I understand that he’s not answering Mom’s calls. I understand why he’d want to get as far away from her as possible, but to not answer my calls? To ignore me? I have never been through anything more painful in my life.
I don’t feel like I’ve lost one parent. I feel like I’ve lost both. My father, the man I have spent my entire life worshipping, has disappeared. The only thing I was ever sure of, growing up, was that I was a daddy’s girl—that my father loved me, that no matter what happened, Daddy would be there for me. How wrong I was.
Which leaves only my mother, whose love I have doubted as far back as I remember, unable even to pretend to care about us, unable to put aside her own concerns to attempt to take care of her children. My mother, who is the most self-absorbed and selfish woman I have ever come across, doesn’t care about pretending to be a good mother anymore. She doesn’t care about putting on a show.
She just stays in bed.
And we three are left, like orphans, to fend for ourselves. Chris has gone back to college already, the drama too much for him, but I am seventeen, still at home, and Buck? Buck is barely a teenager. Buck needs his mother. I know, in her absence, I should be the one there to take care of him, but I can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand being around her, knowing she is the one to blame for all of it.
I always knew my mother never loved me. I never knew, until a few days ago, that my father never loved me either. I sit, teddy on my shoulder, tears silently rolling down my cheeks until the entire house is quiet. I watch the clock until it is after midnight.
The Carvers go to bed early. They like cocktails before dinner, large ones, then wine with. They encourage us to join them, rules and laws be damned. This means they sleep early and heavily, and I know where all the liquor is kept.
When I am absolutely sure everyone is asleep, I tiptoe down the hallway and listen outside everyone’s door. Huge snores from both Mr. and Mrs. Carver, lighter ones from Landon.
I make my way downstairs, using my iPhone as a flashlight. In the pantry is three quarters of a bottle of red wine they opened earlier tonight. I know they won’t notice if it’s missing. Landon’s always joking they have no idea what’s in the cellar. I fold it into my robe and go back upstairs, softly shutting the door and sitting back down on the bed.
I never used to like wine. Or vodka. Or, in fact, any alcohol in particular. I am finding the more you drink, the more you develop a taste. The Carvers, in particular, have delicious red wines. Granted, you are not supposed to swig them from the bottle, but I am still able to appreciate it, and I will say one thing: It definitely helps take my mind off all the shit in my life.
31
Maggie
At four in the morning, I am staring at the full moon, not even trying to get back to sleep. The computer is next to me on the bed, open to tab upon tab of men leading secret lives.
I am stunned at how similar their stories are.
And stunned at how stupid I have been.
There are, apparently, eight key deceptions used by spouses leading a double life, all of which I have spent years explaining away.
1. Change in sexual appetite. Of course Mark had a change in sexual appetite. So did I. Who has the time and energy with numerous children and the craziness of our lives. Surely this is the same for all the married couples we know? How was I to know this was a sign?
2. Hidden money or financial records. It has never been officially hidden, but I have no interest in any of that. Mark takes care of the money. He always has. He’s a hugely successful businessman who was able to buy the company he worked for, and build it into something that enabled us to live the life we always dreamed of. When I see a bank statement, my vision starts to blur. I’m sure I could have been more involved if I’d wanted to be, but I didn’t. That was Mark’s job. I was busy raising the children—was I really expected to keep an eye on that too?
3. Regular clandestine contact with an ex-spouse or ex-girlfriend/boyfriend. There are no ex-spouses or girlfriends, and my God I hope there are no ex-boyfriends. That would be one betrayal too many. There’s no clandestine contact with anyone, because there isn’t anyone. Although, I suppose, clandestine would mean I wouldn’t know about it. But as charming and handsome and loved as Mark is, he didn’t bring old friends to our relationship. He always said he was making a fresh start with me. I never questioned it. Maybe I should have.
4. Hidden or inaccessible pagers, cell phones, or e-mail accounts. He has one cell phone, one e-mail account, and no pager. That I know about.
5. Frequent travel. Of course. His clients were on both coasts. I didn’t like it, hated how many events I had to attend unaccompanied, but I understood. It all made sense. Then.
6. Exclusion from the usual “couples events.” When Mark is here, he comes to “couples events.” Admittedly, he doesn’t like large crowds of people he doesn’t know, but neither do I. He is exceptionally private, and careful about our social circle. We have built a circl
e of people we trust. No. A circle of people Mark trusts. The truth is, I never understood it. I’m beginning to understand it now.
7. Deceptive body language. What does that mean? Does it mean he shiftily looked away when I asked him where he’d been the last few days? He didn’t, and I never asked. It never occurred to me to question him. Sometimes, obviously, I expressed my discontent at having to constantly go to events by myself, but so many husbands here are away, there was always someone else on her own, usually a group, so we’d meet first for a cocktail. It was fun. More fun usually than going with Mark.
8. Mysterious use of cash for “incidentals” or poorly explained expenses. Why would he get cash from me when he is the one working to provide for us? Wait … We were supposed to be taking the kids to Aspen for winter break, and he canceled at the last minute. Not that, he wouldn’t be able to come but we should still go—the whole thing was canceled. The hotel had made a mistake and double-booked, and there was no other availability. The kids were devastated. I’ll admit, it sounded odd. No other availability? In Aspen?
Now that I think about it, when I told Mark that I’d just find another hotel, he went nuts and said that the kids had been too spoiled, and there would be no Aspen this year, end of story.
He apologized later, explained he’d been under a tremendous amount of stress, and went on to say that he was so worried the kids had been brought up with an enormous amount of privilege, he wanted them to have a time-out; he wanted them not to fly somewhere glamorous for a vacation, but to learn to amuse themselves at home.
It sounded plausible at the time.
The money.
Why aren’t the credit cards working?
Sylvie seems as concerned as I am. Mark is worth millions. This doesn’t make sense. Money doesn’t just disappear. If Mark has disappeared—and no one could deny that now—he must have taken the money with him.