On Grace (14 page)

“Oh, these?” I say dismissively. “No, not me!” I laugh, hoping I sound convincing. “But it’s such a shame, my sister’s husband cheated on her. She’s a mess, holed herself up in her bedroom. I told her I’d get some books for her to read. I feel so badly for her, I just keep crying. We’re really close,” I nod, lips pursed,
tsk tsking.
I pray she buys it.

“Oh, well, tell your sister that there’s light at the end of the tunnel. I’m living proof,” she says, and I can tell she didn’t buy my story at all. But, at least she’s minding her manners. “I see you’ve got a coffee, but I was just about to get one. Do you want to join me?”

“Sure,” I say with a smile. “I’m almost done with this one anyhow and a second couldn’t hurt.”

I stack up the books I’ve amassed and find one of those carry baskets to hold them in. I turn the top book cover-side-down, so in case I have any more encounters with Midland School moms, I can avoid spreading my lies even further. Even better, as we walk toward the Starbucks, I pluck a copy of the latest Jodi Picoult from an end display and put that on top of the pile. When we sit down, Ainsley tells me that she’s a marriage and family therapist.

“Wow,” I say, “I should tell my sister about you, if she decides she wants to talk to someone.”

She hands me her card, and as I read it she mentions that her office is in Yonkers. She’s still building up her client base and had some time between appointments so she came over to pick up a new book about communication in relationships by one of her colleagues.

I remember meeting Ainsley at the Midland kindergarten orientation the week before school started. She definitely stood out. In her Milly dress and high-heeled sandals, she towered over the blonde-bob Midland moms in their seven-inch J.Crew chino shorts and sherbet-colored Lacoste polos. She was standing close to the sandbox talking to a little boy, while most of the moms were milling around near the benches. Always one to make the newcomers feel welcome, I walked over to the sandbox, where James was also playing, and introduced myself. I could tell right away that, though she oozed confidence, Ainsley was relieved to have someone to talk to. We only had time to introduce ourselves though, because Evan Castleton threw sand in James’s eyes and I had to take him to the bathroom to clean him up and calm him down. When we got back to the playground, I didn’t see Ainsley.

Now, over coffee, our conversation flows easily. We talk about the school and our town, and she asks me for recommendations for bakeries and barbers, pediatricians and plumbers, tailors and toy stores. We never revisit my sister’s misfortune. After about an hour that just flies by, we walk back to the self-help aisle where she locates her friend’s new book and I resume my search. When we say goodbye, I tell her I’ll email her so we can set up lunch or a playdate for the boys. I really enjoyed getting to know her, and I’ll definitely follow up.

That little break had a way of taking the emotion out of my mission, and after a quick scan of the rest of the relevant titles, I winnow my collection to the five that look the most promising and head to the checkout. The checkout guy is a pimply, twenty-something who doesn’t seem to care that my husband cheated on me. I’m glad I didn’t get the checkout lady at the next register. In her sixties and wearing glasses on the edge of her nose, I know she would have taken one look at the titles, glanced at me, and made some sound that meant she wasn’t surprised at all.

When I get home, I stash the books under my mattress. My boys love looking in my nightstand drawers, through my desk, everywhere that I have stuff in their constant pursuit of Scotch tape, gum, and pencils. To my knowledge, they haven’t once looked under my mattress. Darren is on a business trip until Wednesday evening, so I’ll have plenty of time after the boys go to bed tonight and tomorrow to peruse my latest selections from the Scorned Women’s Literary Guild. And plenty of time to worry that he’s decided to push his luck with another cocktail waitress. Like when you get a parking ticket and then leave your car in the spot to run a few more errands because you know you’re not going to get another.

I check my emails and see one from Nicole Winters. My stomach drops as I wonder if she’s made her decision.

Sadly, she has not. She was just responding to my “thoughtful” emailed thank-you note. I guess I’ll just have to wait patiently until Thursday when she’ll let me know. The more I think about this job, the more I realize how badly I want it. And I know it’s because I want the
job
, not because I want to beat my competitors. This is not a
Bachelor
situation. On that show, the girls with their plastic bodies and trashy pageant clothes just don’t want one of the other girls with more silicone and more sequins to win. By the end, how many of them even want to be with the bachelor? In this case, though, it truly
is
the bachelor I want. I want this job.

It’s strange having nothing to do. I’m ignoring the list I have dutifully kept over the years entitled, “Things to do when I have nothing to do.” It contains perennial favorites, such as “make albums from digital photos,” “clean kids’ closets and donate too-small clothes,” “plant bulbs,” and the evaded-for-years “write in kids’ baby books.” Truth is, when I have time to do those things, which I haven’t had until now—they’re the last things I want to do. I’m used to being busy, busy, busy. This down time is getting me just that, down.

I call Cam to check in and she tells me she’s doing okay, that she’s been thinking a lot, and that she’s going to take a nap. I really ache for her. But I’m hoping that once her body heals a bit and she’s had time to grieve, she’ll consider other options. Cameron will be a great mom someday. I just hope that day comes soon.

I check my other emails and see one from Jake.

hey gracie: what do you think of flying your pretty little self out here this weekend? bunch of the old group including your girls kiki and arden are throwing scotty and abigail a little engagement dinner sat nite and we thought it would be fun if you joined. your welcome to crash here if you want. i'll be a gentleman, i promise

While reading, I force myself to overlook certain things like the fact that Jake, unlike my eight-year-old, has still not mastered the proper usage of your vs. you’re, so that I can focus on the content of the email itself. And, by golly, it appears as if I’ve been invited to L.A. for the weekend to hang out with all my old friends. I picture myself at that dinner, laughing with Kiki and Arden, doing shots with Scotty and Jake, filling Abigail in on the parts of Scotty’s history that only I know. I feel giddy. Of course, I’d stay with my mom. I would never even consider staying with Jake. That sure would be a cozy conversation with Darren, “Oh, honey, by the way, when I’m in L.A. for the weekend, I’m gonna stay at Jake Doyle’s house. Can you pass the ketchup?”

But let’s get real. I can’t go to L.A. I’m in the middle of trying to fix my marriage. My best friend just had a miscarriage, and she might need me. I have children to care for. And, if I get this job offer on Thursday, there are 647 things I’m going to have to get in order, like hiring an after-school babysitter and buying a couple of office-suitable outfits, before I start working. Would have been fun. But not going to happen. I write back to Jake.

Thanks so much for the invite. Sounds like it will be a great night. I’m so sorry to miss it. There’s just too much going on here right now. But thanks again for thinking of me.

I decide not to address the offer of becoming his harlot roommate for the weekend.

That night, I feed the kids neon-orange mac and cheese, a delicacy reserved for those special nights when my husband is off boffing cocktail waitresses. I make myself a healthy salad, but, of course, end up eating the boys’ leftovers and the remaining contents of the pot. I would admit that I actually scraped the caked-on cheesy bits from the side of the pot, but that would be pathetic.

I bring the boys upstairs and read them
Owl Babies
, by Martin Waddell, a book that is way too young for Henry and almost too young for James, but it was Henry’s favorite for years and brings out the sweetness in him, which is something I need tonight. Plus, I love the way Waddell structures his prose and how the words roll off my tongue as if they’re a song, “‘Mommy!’ they cried, and they flapped and they danced, and they bounced up and down on their branch.” It’s Shakespeare for children. I didn’t choose this book tonight with an ulterior motive, but I could have. It’s about three sibling owls who wake up one night to find their mother is gone. They wait patiently, assuming she’s out hunting but eventually become upset that she might never come back. Sure enough, the mother owl returns, announcing, “‘What’s all the fuss? You knew I’d come back.’” Because mothers, human or owl, always do. There’s no mention of a father.

After a couple rounds of tucking in and kissing, I get into bed with my new reading material. I look through the books, trying to find sections that relate specifically to what’s going on in
my
marriage. I’m drawn to the case stories, recounts of people—clients, in the case of the books that were written by therapists—who are dealing with infidelity in some way or another. I quickly realize that though I’m in the same boat as these case study subjects, I’m wearing sunglasses and a bathing suit and checking out the view while they’re donning lifejackets and grimaces and trying to bail out the water that threatens to sink them.

I have three main takeaways from reading the books. The first is that while my situation sucks big time in the context of Darren’s and my relationship, most other people have it much worse. From the asshole husband who was doing the nanny for three years while the wife actually gave her extra vacation days so she could visit her sick “dad,” to the asshole husband who admitted to his wife that he had regular affairs with his secretaries, these situations seemed much more harsh than mine. (There were disproportionately fewer asshole wives than asshole husbands in these books.) In other words, if there were an ER for infidelity, the triage nurse would keep me in the waiting room for hours, maybe even days, while the other patients received the urgent care they desperately needed.

The second takeaway is that despite the pages upon pages of advice, the bottom line is that I have to do what’s “right” for my particular marriage, for my particular situation, with my particular asshole husband. There is no one-size-fits-all solution to infidelity. Different experts say different things, and I realize I’m not going to find the simple answer I was hoping for. It’s similar to the frustration I felt when I was a brand-new mom, and I felt overwhelmed by all the parenting decisions I had to make: Let the baby cry it out? Or sleep with me? Feed the baby on demand? Or by a schedule? Every book had a different opinion. And my pediatrician had her own as well. Just like then, I’m left to trust my instincts and try to figure this one out on my own. And just like then, I have no experience I can use to make an informed decision.

Finally, the books also make me realize that every cheated-upon woman (or man) goes through the process differently, depending upon the level of stability of the marriage prior to the indiscretion, and depending on her own upbringing, life experiences, religion, disposition, attitudes toward monogamy, and other factors. Whereas I might sometimes feel sympathy for Darren for having suffered a moment of weakness that has such monumental consequences, other women might only feel anger or resentment toward their husbands and head straight for divorce. And I know there are loads of women who would never think of allowing something like a one-night stand to end their marriage because of a whole host of reasons, including fear of being alone, the financial implications of divorce, because they just don’t think it’s a big deal, or because it would blow the carefully constructed image they so desperately want other people to believe.

It’s been almost a full week since Darren did a number on my heart, and I’m making my way through all the emotions. I feel each one at different times of the day: Sadness when I’m getting the boys ready for bed. Shock when I look at our wedding portrait framed in sterling silver on the mantle. Anger when I’m cooking dinner. Confusion when I decide whether to wear my wedding band. Fear when I’m trying to fall asleep. And disappointment pretty much all the rest of the time.

It was a luxury last Monday when my mind was filled with pleasant thoughts like school starting, my new job at the
Weekly
, or whether I should serve hamburgers or chili at our Labor Day party. It’s only when I am experiencing some sort of heartache—my dad’s heart attacks, Cameron’s miscarriages, Darren’s screwup—that I realize how much I took it for granted when my brain was free to ponder the insignificant.

On Wednesday morning, I make a double batch of hamburger soup and bring it to Cam at lunchtime. She doesn’t seem to have moved much from when I saw her on Monday night. She tells me that one of the pediatricians she shares on-call weekends with is helping with her appointments that can’t wait.

“I don’t know if I can ever go back to work, Grace,” Cameron says, her eyes staring blankly at the TV screen.

“Well, you don’t have to make that decision right now,” I say, opening up the drapes and cranking open a couple windows in her bedroom to get the air flowing. “Just concentrate on getting through this one week. You can take a few walks around your neighborhood, and we’ll go hiking on Saturday. In fact, don’t we have dinner plans with you guys on Saturday night?”

“Oh, meant to tell you. About Saturday. I’m going to Maine. It’s my mother’s birthday, and she’s been trying to get me to come home for a while. When I told her what happened, she convinced me that this would be a perfect weekend to visit. And now that I’m talking about it, I guess I am a little excited to see my family. It’s been a while.”

“That’s great, Cam, really. I think that could be the perfect thing. You always come back transformed when you go home. It’s like the you in you gets rebooted,” I say, collecting a brown banana peel and some empty mugs from her nightstand to bring down to the kitchen.