Family Affair (11 page)

“We’re not even in the same book,” she says. “Not even in the same library!”

“No kidding. We aren’t. Because I thought I got the book that had a happy ending. Not the one where my wife and I lose touch and she becomes such a part of my family that she may as well be my sister!” I snap.

“Hardly, because your sister doesn’t like men. She’s
smart.”

“So what does that make you?” I snap. “Because you…you
love
men. You’ve loved men since … how long exactly?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking me. How long have I loved you?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what I’m asking you, either,” I grunt. “How about this: Who’s the first person you had sex with?”

So now you know. I lost it at fifteen. To say it was a rough patch in my young life would be understating things: It was like being dragged over a bed of nails in a nylon body stocking.

Why didn’t it come out earlier? At first it was because I didn’t want to blow things with my new boyfriend at the time—Brett—who just assumed that I was a virgin, too, and that we would lose our virginity together. For that reason I said nothing about my first and certainly only meaningless sexual encounter, which happened in the basement of Doug’s house, drunk. It was our first time drinking, too, a silly experiment with Jim Beam that got way out of control. (It was as horrible as you might imagine, and worse—contrary to his confident assertions, his mom was upstairs folding laundry nearly the whole three and a half minutes.) I said nothing to Brett through high school and college because I feared the news would poison our blossoming relationship, even as I comforted myself with the rationalization that it wasn’t a big deal. Funny thing about big deals: What looks like one to me doesn’t always look like one to you, and vice versa. Better just to let the other person get a look and decide for himself.

Shame has a habit of snowballing, and by the time Brett and I
were married, I was positively terrified of telling him, though doing so at any time before he stumbled on the truth by himself probably would have defused the whole situation. Instead,
ka-boom
.

But I didn’t take the vow “’til death do us part” with the intention of dying before I turn thirty. And the vow was “’til death do us part,” not “’til uncomfortable truths do us part.” And since Brett and I are both alive and plan to be for some time, I am not parting with my husband.

Marriage is about commitment. And compromise. And if need be, change. If things aren’t working the way they are—and clearly they are not—then I am willing to do the work necessary and/or make changes. But until I know what needs to be changed, I can’t know how to work. So just before Brett and I get home, each not talking out of anger and sheepishness, I swear to him I’ll make an emergency appointment for us with a marriage counselor for tomorrow night. Brett says he’ll go, but he sleeps on the couch.

• • •

I walk into the office, and Brett is already there in the waiting room, seated by the window. There’s an air conditioner jutting out of the wall, dripping condensation on a pile of month-old
New Yorker
magazines. What, are they trying to keep us awake by keeping it cold, or does the therapist just like to avoid seeing his patients sweat? Brett’s nervously tapping his fingers on his lap.

“Hi,” I say, trying to be civil—a grown-up. He’d already left the house when I woke up. It shocked me. I left a message on his cell phone telling him where to show up. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”

“Of course,” he answers distractedly, as a door opens in front of us.

“Mr. and Mrs. Foster,” the therapist says, as he gestures toward the empty room behind him. “Please, come in.”

The first half hour is awkward. I imagine the first half hour with any new therapist is awkward, but our therapist has an enormous flesh-colored mole just slightly to the left side of his nose, and for some reason I can’t get past it. So while I make it seem like I’m making eye contact, I’m actually just trying not to stare at the mole. My eyes drift back and then dart away, and I put my hand on my chin and crinkle my eyes as if thinking,
You’ve got a really good point there
, but instead I’m thinking,
You’ve got a really big
mole
there
. How am I supposed to focus on fixing my relationship?

The fact that I have no idea what is going on with Brett makes everything even more confusing. I try to get Brett to tell me what needs to change, because obviously he’s not happy, but he doesn’t offer anything. I explain away my stupid
real
first time with big-mouth Doug, and aside from the one comment Brett barks out about our whole relationship being based on a lie—a bit of an exaggeration, given how truly unimportant to me the encounter with Doug was—he’s not particularly combative. He just seems uninterested. At one point he actually asks the therapist, “You have a Chase branch next door. Do you know what time it closes?” Apparently, he’s more interested in his savings account than saving our marriage.

Finally, when I bring up the whole seven-year-itch thing, he snaps. “This isn’t about other women, Layla.”

“Then what?” I plead. “What is it?”

“It’s
you
! It’s you … with my sister, you with my mom, you with my dad, you with my brother!” The therapist’s eyebrows rise.

“There’s nothing going on with me and his brother,” I say. Then I add, “Or his dad. And for the record, the Doug thing was more than fifteen years ago—before I even kissed Brett.”

The therapist writes something down on his yellow legal pad. I’m not sure why he’s taking notes, and I’m not sure how I feel
about it, but I’m hyperaware of the beads of sweat forming above my brow. Guess the air-conditioner trick didn’t work. “You’re not like a
wife
,” Brett blurts.

“What do you mean by that?” the therapist asks, and I’m all ears because I think I’m a pretty damned good wife.

“I mean that she’s all over my family. She’s very close with them. Too close. It’s like they all come first. Her relationship with them takes priority over our marriage. She’s partners with my sister, and shops with my mother, and plays card games with my father. I didn’t get married to have another sister.”

“I’m hearing you feel neglected,” the therapist says.

“This is helpful,” I add. “This at least lets me know what I’m dealing with. I know you don’t want a divorce. I know you’re frustrated, and I guess I understand. So okay, I’ll make changes. Trish and I have a successful business, so that’s not exactly going away, but I won’t play any more Rock Band on the Xbox with your brother. And I’ll cut down on the poker with your dad.”

Brett just looks at his lap. One bead of sweat starts to make its way down my temple.

“Okay, fine. I won’t spend so much time with your mom?”

Still he says nothing.

“Are you serious?” I ask. “Do you really want me to stop being partners with Trish?”

“I didn’t say I want any of that,” Brett says, still not looking at me. “You’re not getting it.”

“Tell her what you want,” the therapist says. “Tell her what she isn’t getting.”

Finally, Brett looks at me. “I feel like you’re my sister. Not my wife. And I do think we should get a divorce.”

• • •

When you set out to live according to some grand master plan, you are essentially assuring yourself a lifetime of letdowns.

Expectation is planned disappointment, and I am nothing if not a planner. At twelve, I planned how I’d lose my virginity to the man I loved (I suppose the
how
is obvious, but I meant “how” as in: not in a car, not on prom night, and not to any current pop song that would one day be irrelevant and embarrassing), how I’d wear my hair at my wedding, and how old I’d be when I had my first child (calculating also how old I’d be when that child turned twenty-one).

Let’s revisit those three things. We’ve just learned that I lost my virginity—no, not in a car, but alas to the scintillating soundtrack of Lisa Loeb’s “Stay (I Missed You)” with a side order of Beck’s “Loser.” And to Doug. My wedding hair? On my wedding day my hair was still growing out from an Unfortunate Bangs Incident, so my updo was actually an updon’t. And I’d planned to have my first child at the ripe old age of twenty-five, which would make me forty-six when the kid turned twenty-one. I am not only already four years late for that projection, but on the night I thought I was going to start the baby-making phase of my life, I learned instead that I’m quite possibly on my way to being single again. I’m also driving like a fugitive on the 405 to get home.

But not
my
home.

I need my family. So I’m driving straight to the only home the adult me has ever known: the Fosters’.

• • •

When I walk in I head straight to the basement and dig through five boxes until I strike gold—or rather gingerbread. I pull out the gingerbread-house kits and dust them off. I know that Ginny usually buys new ones each year, but there’s always one or two tucked away in the basement, and I have a desperate need to decorate a gingerbread house.

I don’t even go upstairs into the kitchen. I take off my jacket, turn on the AM radio, which barely gets reception, roll up my
sleeves, and start decorating. A few moments later I hear Brett’s dad calling down to me, although he doesn’t know it’s me who’s down here. “Hello?”

“Hi, Bill. It’s just me.”

“Layla-cakes!” he bellows, as he bounds down the stairs. “What are you doing down here?”

I wave my right arm before me to show off the beginnings of my house. “I am creating.”

Bill cocks his head backward and bunches his mouth to one side. He reaches up to scratch his neck and looks to the stairs as if an explanation will be heading down—or at least maybe his wife. You see, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with me helping myself to the basement and these gingerbread house kits, if it weren’t October.

“Gin?” he calls out.

“Yeah, BillyBoo?” she answers, using one of her pet names for him.

“We’re in the basement,” he says. “Come join us.”

“Who’s we?” Ginny asks, as she makes her way down, in her cute gold slippers with the silver detail.

“LayLay!” she exclaims, overjoyed as always to see me. But her smile soon turns to a look of concern, and suddenly I know why Bill called Ginny downstairs. Although I hadn’t decided at any point to start crying, apparently my eyes did and forgot to clue me in. The drip onto my house’s gingerbread dog gives it away.

Ginny and Bill surround me, then sit on either side as Ginny rubs my back and Bill sighs heavily and looks down at his lap.

Finally, he speaks. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out. I look at Ginny and remember our dinner and everything we talked about. It wasn’t just me. She’d thought the same thing.

“Honey,” Ginny says. “Whatever it is, we love you and we are here for you.”

I look back and forth at them and open my mouth again to speak, but this time only a yowl comes out. I am sobbing like a baby.

“For gosh sake, whatever it is,” Bill says, “it can’t be that bad.”

I sniff back a few tears and pick up a candy cane.

Bill takes the candy cane from my hand and a smirk spreads across his face. “Hey, what did Adam say on the day before Christmas?”

“What?” I ask.

“It’s Christmas, Eve!”

“Oh, Bill,” Ginny says, and I laugh at his silly joke, which turns into an even harder cry.

Sammy Davis Junior, always the intuitive beast, comes bounding down the stairs and jumps straight onto my lap.

“I love you guys,” I say.

“And we love you,” Bill says. “Dearly. Now, do you want to tell us why you’ve decided to start Christmas before it’s even Halloween?”

“Not that we mind,” Ginny adds. “I think it’s brilliant to get a jump start on things.”

“I just wanted to go to a happy time. I love our rituals. I love making these houses and cooking with you and going shopping and … and …”

And I’m sobbing again.

Ginny and Bill look at each other, both at a loss, and then Scott comes down to save the day.

“What’s the hubbub, bub?” Scott says, directed at me. He’s brought down a cup of Tropic of Strawberry, my favorite Celestial Seasonings tea. A tea that nobody else likes, yet they keep it in the cupboard just for me. I take the cup from him and sip. He must have heard me wailing from all the way upstairs, and he’s on the second floor.

When I’ve had a few more sips of tea and finally stopped hyperventilating, I take a deep breath and tell the Fosters what
happened at dinner, what happened in the therapist’s office, and that Brett wants a divorce.

To say they side with me would be putting it mildly. To say they are furious with him would be an understatement. But to say that fifteen minutes later when Brett shows up, they tell him to go away—their own son—would be telling exactly what happened.

Hearing Layla cry makes me feel like throwing up. Literally. I hate my brother. How do you have someone like Layla and
not
want to have like fifteen kids with her? There are no other Laylas around. Believe me, I’ve looked.

Brett is a giant fucking asshole.

October 9

Dearest Ev
,

I have set pen to paper—remarkable in this day and age, I know—because you once told me that if I ever felt like my heart couldn’t take any more, I should contact you posthaste. Remember that? I never forgot it. I write you now with a heart so heavy I fear it may tear right out of me
.

I don’t exactly know how to say this, so I’m just going to go right ahead and tell you: Things here are suddenly about as serious as a heart attack, as Mother used to say. But I’m already getting ahead of myself. I fear I’m going to have a nervous breakdown, and then Bill will be proven right when he tells me I’m too dramatic and getting worse all the time, never letting things go, rehashing the bad over and over. He calls it “repetitive emotion disorder,” which I don’t think is funny one bit
.

So tonight, well past the time Bill typically drifts off to sleep in front of the TV upstairs, our dear Layla charged into the house and began acting strangely. We asked where Brett was, and that made it worse. She cried and cried, so much so that we couldn’t make out
what she was saying, until Bill picked out the word “divorce,” and naturally we both wanted to know who, and then when we found out, we were sorry we’d asked, because it turned out to be her and Brett. Our own Brett told this beautiful, precious girl whom we consider our very own—with all she’s been through and her being an orphan, or as near as God made to it—that he doesn’t want to be married to her anymore. And all the while, the poor dear told us, she was thinking that he was taking her out to dinner to talk about having children! To think
.