by Amy Hatvany
“Our grandson isn’t even going to be here for our visit?” my mother exclaimed. “We come all this way and Ella is working and we don’t get to see Tuck?”
“Sheila, it’s fine,” my dad said. There was a sharp edge to the words.
“I told you he had the tournament,” I said.
“And I told you that this was the only weekend your father could be away from the hospital,” my mom said. “I thought the least you could do was have Tuck stay home.”
“She’s being ridiculous,” my dad said sharply, as though my mother wasn’t there. “Ignore her. We’re just happy to be here.”
My mother’s gray eyes were glossed with tears, which shocked me; I couldn’t ever remember it happening before. Everyone was silent for a moment, and it felt as though a thick fog had crept over the room. I glanced at Jake, who was very studiously looking at the fingernails on his free hand.
“Hey, Mom,” I finally said. “I thought you and I could make a dessert to bring to the barbeque.” Charlotte was having the gathering catered—she loved to eat, but didn’t like to cook—but my mother and I tended to do better if we had a project to work on together instead of simply sitting around, so I told Charlotte we’d make something.
“Okay,” she said. Her tears were gone so quickly, I wondered if I had imagined them.
“Peter sent us a video of Tuck’s games today,” Jake said. “Want to watch them with me upstairs, Dad?”
“Sure!” my dad boomed, a little too cheerfully. He’d never gone to any of Scott’s swim meets in high school, so I knew Tuck’s baseball game likely didn’t interest him, but he looked happy to have an excuse to leave the room. He didn’t look at my mom as he passed her by, deliberately giving her a wide berth. I gave Jake a grateful look.
“Is everything all right?” I asked her, when we were finally alone. “I’ve never heard Dad snap at you like that.”
“You know how your father is.”
“He’s never made you cry.”
“I had something in my eye. Maybe it’s the dust.”
I decided to ignore that particular jab. “Mom. What’s going on? Tell me.”
She sighed, and looked at me. “He’s not very happy with all the time I’ve been spending with my friends. He thinks I’m wasting my time socializing and taking trips when I could still be teaching full-time or doing more research.”
“That seems strange. He doesn’t want you to have friends?” I knew my father’s admiration for my mother’s intellect was a huge part of what he loved about her, but it never crossed my mind that he might resent the way she’d cut down on her time at the college.
“He’s just used to our life being a certain way,” my mom said, sounding resigned. “He’s not good with change.”
I nodded, thinking about his regimented behavior through the years, and it struck me how something I’d admired about him might actually be an impediment. Life was messy—constantly shifting, taking you down unexpected paths. If you weren’t willing to bend, to go with the flow of opportunities as they appeared, you could become stubborn, paralyzed—unable to grow.
“He deals with so much chaos every day,” my mom continued. “Patients in crisis, people in terrible pain and dying. His routine gives him some sense of control.” She shrugged, and gave me a wan smile. “We’ve been together so long, what I do has become part of that routine, and now that I’m doing something different...well, it’s been a struggle for him to adjust. Nothing I do seems like enough.”
Welcome to the club, sister, was the first thing that popped into my head, but as this was a rare instance when my mother was talking with me instead of at me—treating me like an equal—I managed to bite my tongue. “That must feel terrible,” I said, instead. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said, sincerely. And then, she grabbed my hand in an uncommon gesture of affection. I felt a swell of love in my chest. “Can I tell you something?” she asked.
“Sure.” I held my breath, having no clue what she might say. Is she thinking about divorcing my dad? Have things between them gotten that bad?
“I want you to know that when I see you with Jake, when I see how both of you light up when you look at each other, the way he’s affectionate with you, and always seems so present and aware of what you and the kids need—well, it makes me so very happy for you.” She paused, and squeezed my fingers, blinking away tears once more. “I’m so happy you have that kind of relationship.”
For a moment, I was too shocked to speak. This outpouring was so out of character for my mother, it hit me that my vision of my parents’ marriage—my interpretation of it as a child, and even now, as an adult—was limited, because clearly, there was an entirely different world going on between them than what I had been privy to growing up. Just as my children didn’t understand the full scope of my relationship with Jake, the story I’d told myself about my parents was composed only of footnotes—the brief flashes I was there to witness, and the conclusions I’d reached as a result. For every one of those moments, there must have been a thousand others that only happened between them. Only they knew the full scope of what they were to each other. As much as I hated it when I felt like my mother judged me, it also wasn’t my place to judge her, either, as I had so often over the years. Maybe it was time for that to change.
“I appreciate it that, Mom,” I said, my voice breaking. “I really do.” I leaned over and hugged her, pressing my face into her shoulder. At first, her body was stiff, but she quickly relaxed and hugged me back, with fierce strength.
“Take care of your marriage,” she whispered, and I nodded, wondering how she would react if she knew what I had done with men other than Jake, and what I would soon do with Andrew, but then forced the thought from my head.
There were some things that other people—your mother, especially—just didn’t need to know.
Seventeen
I got a text from Andrew around noon the next day, as we were all getting ready to head over to Charlotte’s house for the barbeque. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “What your body is going to feel like under mine.”
My cheeks flushed; I was flattered—and instantly aroused—as I read his words. I’d only texted with the other men I’d been with to confirm the places and times we were going to meet. Talking with Andrew now, a kind of mental foreplay, felt marvelously forbidden—and a little dangerous. “Me, too,” I quickly texted back. “Can’t talk now.” I deleted both messages, and then threw my phone in my purse before we headed out the front door, feeling our communication burning like a secret, hot flame inside my chest.
“Who else is going to be here?” my mom asked, as we pulled up in front of Charlotte’s house ten minutes later. Charlotte and Richard lived in a similar, but bigger house than we did, and it was set upon a full acre that butted up to a lush, tree-lined green belt. It was a sunny day, and both sides of the street were packed with parked cars, with no less than ten people making their way across the lawn, heading toward the side gate that led into Charlotte and Richard’s back yard.
“Bentley just Snapped me and said that there were at least fifty people in their backyard,” Ella said from the back seat, where she was sandwiched between her grandparents.
“Why would she snap at you about that?” my dad asked.
“Snap Chat, Grandpa,” Ella explained, laughing. “It’s sort of like texting.”
“Looks like more than fifty,” Jake said, as he finally found a parking spot for our SUV, more than a block past the party. After getting out of the car, we walked along the sidewalk, my dad striding at least five feet in front of all of us—after years of rushing down the halls in the hospital, he didn’t know how to walk at a leisurely pace. As we approached Charlotte’s house, my phone buzzed inside my purse.
“Here,” Jake said, taking the rectangular baking pan filled with the coconut cream cake my mother and I had made the night before. He nodded toward my purse, which was slung over my shoulder. “You’d
better take it, in case it’s work. We’ll meet you there.”
“Thanks honey.” I grabbed my phone as the rest of my family headed toward the back yard. A glance at the screen told me it was Charlotte. “Hey. I’m right outside.”
“I invited Bryan, last minute, last night,” she said, sounding panicked. “Am I out of my fucking mind?”
“Holy shit,” I said. “Maybe.” But then I thought if it didn’t faze Richard to walk in on his wife using a vibrator—if he didn’t realize that something was going wrong in his marriage when they hadn’t had sex in nine months—then maybe he wasn’t observant enough to pick up on any vibes between Charlotte and Bryan. Or worse, maybe he wouldn’t care.
“I just really wanted to see him,” she said. “We talk all the time, but we haven’t seen each other since the fundraiser where we met. I thought the party would be a good excuse.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “Are you drinking yet?”
“I’ve had two. You need to catch up.”
I laughed, and hung up, only to see that I’d received another text from Andrew while I was chatting with Charlotte: “I know you can’t talk, but you can read. I keep thinking about your red lips. How they’re going to feel on my skin. And your body. Your beautiful curves. I want to explore every inch of you.”
I read his note three more times, feeling my heartbeat flutter in response, and then I deleted it, as well. But I still felt like I’d been lulled into a trance, and before I could stop myself I texted him back. “It’s your eyes that do it for me. And how you whispered right next to my ear. I love that.”
I stood on Charlotte’s lawn, waiting to see if he’d respond right away. It only took a moment for my phone to buzz again. “I thought you couldn’t talk?” he said, adding a smiley face at the end of his words. “I guess I’ll have to show you what not talking actually is when I put my hand over your mouth while I’m fucking you.”
A zing of arousal pinched between my thighs as I imagined him doing just that. Jesus, I thought as I deleted that message, too. Next weekend can’t come soon enough. I had to force myself to turn off the sound on my phone and return it to my purse. With a deep breath, I went through the side gate and entered the back yard, where people were either milling around with drinks in their hands, or sitting on the spacious deck in the two enormous outside living sets I’d helped Charlotte pick out at Costco the previous year. The sun was shining, but there was still a slight cool quality in the air, which was pretty standard for June in the Pacific Northwest. True summer, when it stopped raining and the temperature actually went higher than seventy degrees, didn’t usually hit until the middle of July.
I glanced around, spotting Charlotte through the kitchen window, standing in front of her sink, so I headed inside.
“It’s crazy, right?” she asked. “I’m crazy.”
I knew she was talking about inviting Bryan, so I shook my head, hoping this was the answer she wanted. I didn’t think it was necessarily the smartest thing she could do, but she’d already done it, so my pointing that out wouldn’t help.
“You look cute,” I said. She was wearing a dark purple sundress with white polka dots, and her red hair was pulled into a loose bun on top of her head, with long, straight wisps framing her face. Her brown eyes were highlighted with smoky gray shadow and a couple of coats of black mascara; her lips painted a soft, pale pink.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Which one is he?” I asked, peering through the window until my eyes landed on Tiffany. She stood next to her husband, Ben, talking with two other couples. I moved my gaze again, and found Jake sitting with my parents on the deck, all three of them already with a beer in hand. Charlotte’s mother, Helen, stood next to them, wearing a rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt and an ankle-length, blue and billowy skirt. Her hair was more strawberry blond than her daughter’s, streaked with silver, and she wore it in long, loose braid, down her back. She gestured emphatically as she spoke to my parents and Jake, probably in the middle of a story about her latest protest adventure. My mother’s mouth was frozen in a small-mouthed smile and my dad was staring at the bottle he held as though it were trying to memorize the label. The younger kids ran around the large back yard, squealing as they chased each other, while the teenagers, including Ella, Bentley, and Lizzy, sat together in the shade of a large maple tree in a far corner of the yard, their attention not on each other, but instead, riveted on their phones. I thought about Lizzy’s “ho” account, and cringed, reminding myself that I needed to talk to Lacy this week about what was going on with some of the girls on the team. I’d texted Charlotte about it last night, but Bentley had already told her about it, and she agreed it was right to bring it to their coach’s attention.
“He’s over by the grill,” Charlotte said, grabbing a half-empty glass of white wine from the messy counter. “Talking to my husband. Jesus. I’m an idiot.” She knocked back the remainder of her drink.
I moved my gaze again and saw Richard, in his standard party outfit of green plaid shorts and a matching t-shirt, standing by the built-in grill wearing a white apron and a wide black belt that held his large silver spatula and a giant, meat-piercing fork. (Charlotte’s caterer took care of most of the food for the parties she threw, but Richard always insisted on being in charge of the barbeque, itself.) Smoke rose from the grill as he moved chicken breasts out of the way in order to make room for the platter of uncooked hamburgers a man, who I assumed must be Bryan, held. He was tall, about six-two, and a little pudgy, like a former athlete gone soft. He had short light brown hair and what looked to be an easy smile. He wore khakis and a pale blue, short sleeved polo and an expensive-looking gold watch. The two men were laughing about something, so as far as I could tell, Richard had no idea that Bryan was Charlotte’s confidant.
“He looks nice,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” Charlotte said. “Me and my big mouth.”
”Is there anything I can help with?” I asked.
“Go make sure my mom isn’t traumatizing your parents. I’ll be out there, soon.”
I nodded, then headed outside, first pouring myself a vodka tonic from the bar Charlotte had set up by the French doors that led out to the deck. I will not check my phone, I chanted silently, inside my head. I will not, I will not. But again, I couldn’t help myself. I set my drink down and reached inside my purse. Sure enough, the green notification light was blinking.
“I’m hard right now,” Andrew’s text said, and I felt my entire body tighten. “I’m thinking about what you’re going to taste like. How it’s going to feel the first time I push inside you.”
I shoved my phone back in my purse, mad at myself for looking in the first place, but also unable to deny how much more reading them made me ache to see him. I picked up my drink, put a smile on my face, and went to join my husband and parents on the deck.
“Jessica!” Helen exclaimed when she saw me. “You look amazing! What have you been doing with yourself?”
Jake raised his eyebrow at me and smirked, and I felt a little sick, thinking about Andrew’s texts. really, they weren’t that big of a deal. It was all part of me ultimately coming home to my husband and telling him all the fun, sexy things Andrew and I did.
“Nothing new,” I lied. “Drinking a little more water.”
“From the fountain of youth?” Helen said, smacking her palm against her own leg as she chortled at her own joke.
“Dad,” Jake said, standing up from his chair. “Why don’t we go see if we can help Richard man the grill?”
I shot him a grateful look. I’d told him last night, as we lay in bed, what my mother had told me about the tension in their marriage, and the subsequent moment of connection we’d shared, but he’d agreed that it wasn’t our place to try to fix the problem. We could only try to run interference while they were here.
Tiffany and Ben approached us on the deck, along with a woman I could only assume was her mother, whom I’
d never met before. At a dance competition last year, Tiffany told me that they hired someone part-time take care of her mom when they couldn’t be home with her, but there were times when the aide wasn’t available and Tiffany would have to miss one of Lizzy’s performances on the team. Now, Tiffany looked more tired than usual—gone were her previously standard hair extensions, fake tan and lashes. She wore minimal make up and had on a pair of jeans and a thin, red sweater; her hair was in a simply ponytail. Tiffany’s mother, a petite woman with a short, silver-blond bob, not too unlike my mom’s hairstyle, had on a pink and white floral dress and a white cardigan. Her mouth was open, slightly, and she seemed to be looking off over the top of the house, at something in the distance.
“Hi Tiff,” I said. I gestured toward my mother. “This is my mom, Sheila.”
“Hello,” Tiffany said, bobbing her head. Her smile seemed strained, and I felt sorry for her situation, more than ever. “This is my mom, Theresa.” She touched her mother’s shoulder. “Say hi to everyone, Mom.”
Theresa looked at her daughter, clearly confused. “Where’s Joseph?” she asked. “He said he would be here. We’re supposed to talk about going to prom.”
“Your husband died ten years ago, Mom,” Ben said, in too loud a voice, as though his mother-in-law was deaf instead of suffering from memory loss.
My heart ached, watching this moment unfold. I couldn’t imagine how painful it was for Tiffany, having to watch her mother struggle like this, watching her fade away. It made me wish that I didn’t have to tell Lacy about what Lizzy had been up to with her inappropriate account on Instagram; more stress was the last thing Tiffany needed.
“Benjamin,” Tiffany said, tightly, and under her breath. “The doctor said it’s less confusing if we play along.”
“Please, call me Ben!” Ben said, addressing us as a group instead of responding to his wife’s comment. He had on tan cargo shorts and a white Tommy Bahamas shirt, his beer belly causing it to strain at the buttons. His brown hair was slicked back and heavy with gel; I could see where his comb had gone through it. “Nobody wants to buy a car from Benjamin. But Ben, Ben’s your buddy, Ben’s your pal. A guy you can trust!” He chuckled, and then glanced around our immediate circle. “I need a drink. Can I get anyone a refill?”
