She smiles at me, eyebrows dancing madly. “Deal.”
“C’mon. Let’s go to work.”
She hops out of the car, somehow looking taller, older. And suddenly, I feel very lucky to know her.
We head inside and begin getting things organized. We’ve barely started when Kai flies in. He crosses the room and grabs me in a powerful hug for someone so small.
“Oh, Ittly Bittly, poor, poor little Mellie Mel, I couldn’t believe it myself. Is it a shock? Did you know? You couldn’t have known and not told me! The balls! And the gall! The unmitigated gall balls! Do you want me to cover you today? I can get you in with my masseuse. . . .” Kai is rubbing my shoulder, his brow furrowed, deep concern for my well-being pouring off him like feverish heat. And I haven’t the faintest idea what he is referring to.
“Kai, honey, I’m not sure exactly what you are talking about here. I’m fine. Why on earth do you think I have reason to not be fine?”
Kai puts on a soothing voice, similar to the tone you would use when speaking to a small child or someone of limited intelligence. “Melanie, princess, don’t you read the paper?”
“Like, the newspaper?”
He shakes his head. “No, the Pickwick Papers. YES, the newspaper!”
“Sometimes I do the crossword . . .”
Kai reaches into his bag and pulls out a section of the Chicago Tribune. “Sit, honey. Nadia, make some tea.”
Now I’m concerned. I sit down on one of the stools in the kitchen and Kai hands me the paper. Engagement announcements. Pictures of happy young couples, posed so you can see the engagement rings, son of so and so, daughter of so and . . . my heart stops.
Andrew. Andrew and Charlene. Andrew Lezak and Charlene Lindsay announce their upcoming nuptials to take place this June in Majorca. Andrew is grinning in the fake toothsome way he always does in pictures. Charlene, in all her enormous glory, is flashing a ring the size of a fucking doorknob. They are getting married next month, in goddamned Majorca, which was supposed to be where Andrew and I were going to go this year for our tenth anniversary. I feel sick. I feel hurt. I want to cry. Or maybe throw up. Or maybe throw up and then cry. Nadia puts a cup of tea in front of me, and sees what I’m staring at.
“Oh, Mel. That’s so awful.”
I take a deep breath. I am not going to lose it. They aren’t worth it. “Well, they’ve been together for nearly three years, why shouldn’t they get married?”
“He could have called you, given you some warning. . . .” Kai says.
“Why? He didn’t bother to tell me that they were fucking each other behind my back, why would he tell me that they are engaged?”
Nadia and Kai look at each other, unsure of what to do.
“I’m fine, guys, I’m fine. It’s a surprise, unexpected, but ultimately none of my business.”
They look at me blankly. My shoulders drop. “Not buying it, huh?”
They shake their heads in unison.
I think about it. I fight every urge to put on a brave face and muscle through this day. “Kai, if you can take care of things here today, that would be great. I’m going to leave. Nadia, if I go out I’ll leave you a note at home or send you a text or something. Thanks, guys.”
I grab my bag and keys and head out to my car. And somehow, I don’t really want to go home. As I pull out of the alley, I dial Nathan.
“Good morning, beautiful.” His voice is gruff, and I know I have woken him up. “Why aren’t you here?”
“Do you want me to be there?”
“Of course. I always want you here.”
“Then unlock your door and tell the doorman I’m coming and go back to bed. I’ll be there soon.”
I wind the car through the Chicago streets, the calm of the early morning always surprising in such a big city. I’m feeling numb. I don’t know why it should shake me so; it isn’t like I would want him back even if he wanted to come back. And frankly, I’ve always felt sorry for Charlene as much as I was angry with her. Charlene had little experience with men, one of those self-loathing heavy women who allow their size to distance themselves from people, to prevent them from seeking out romance. In the time we knew each other she often said that she didn’t have time to worry about dating, and I got the impression she didn’t feel worthy of love, or that she was someone who could be an object of desire. I’m sure that when Andrew began paying her attention it was intoxicating, and while I can’t condone her behavior, I have always understood how it happened. Hate that it happened, but I get it. I’ve always gotten it. And when I realized that Andrew is at his very core simply only physically attracted to larger women, and Charlene, for all her moral turpitude, is very much what I was—smart, driven, successful, and most important, substantial—the two of them made perfect sense to me.
But married. And married in a place that Andrew and I had researched endlessly, talked about, planned on. It is such a slap in the face. And to put the announcement in the paper, it is insult to injury. Everyone must know. Everyone from my old life, our old colleagues, our old friends, they all must know that he was cheating, that I was being made a fool of, that I was one of those pathetic wives who didn’t suspect or chose to overlook the blatant infidelity. I’m mortified. As much as those people are no longer in my life, it feels awful to know what they must be whispering, what they must be thinking of me.
I find a parking space in front of Nate’s building. His doorman tips his hat and buzzes me in, and I take the elevator upstairs. The door is unlocked and I let myself in, drop my coat and bag on the couch, and go to the bedroom, shedding my clothes as I go. Nate is lying on his back, arm thrown over his head. Naked, I slip under the covers and slide up against the length of him. He turns and pulls me close into his arms, running his hands over my body, bringing his lips to mine and kissing me deeply. I melt into his embrace and give my thoughts over to his deft touches until nothing else in the world exists except for me and this man and the pleasure we can give each other.
“So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Nate asks me around a mouthful of French toast.
“I decided to take an extra day off.”
“You never take an extra day off. You barely take your regular day off, off. What gives?”
“Andrew is getting married.” On our second date I told Nate about Andrew’s affair, about the double betrayal, about finding out that my marriage, which I always thought was so great, was just a sham. “Kai brought in the paper today and there in the announcements, Andrew and Charlene and their engagement and her ring and their happiness and I just had to get out of there. Instant extra day off.”
Nate puts down his fork and takes a swig of coffee. “So you came here.”
I smile. “Sanctuary.”
His face is impassive. “You’ll have to forgive me if it takes some of the shine off the morning.”
“What do you mean?”
Nate pauses, thinking carefully. “I mean, I thought that you just woke up this morning and missed me. I thought you had a flash where you suddenly wanted me so badly you couldn’t stay away, had to suppress all your work ethic and run to my arms. I thought this morning was about you and me, not about you and your ex.”
I can’t believe he is actually upset that I came to him. “You’re kidding, right? I was shocked, yes, thrown for a loop, certainly, a little hurt and angry, to be expected, but I came here to feel better, because I wanted to remind myself why I shouldn’t care what the hell Andrew and his slamhound get up to. I came here because I love you, and I would have thought that you would want to comfort me.”
“Ah, but there’s the rub. You didn’t come to me and tell me you were upset and in need of comfort. You didn’t come to me and say that you had this big shock and that you wanted me to know that my love makes it all better. You didn’t say anything at all, you just called and invited yourself over, sidled into my bed, and worked out whatever your personal demons are.”
My hands are shaking. “So, what, you fee
l, I dunno, used? Like I just came here to pounce on you, lure you into sex for my own insidious purposes?”
“Don’t get overly dramatic, I’m just telling you how I feel. Not used, exactly, but not included either. It isn’t that I don’t understand why this would bother you a bit, I just wish you had been honest with me about your motivation for coming over.”
“Sorry to be such a manipulative drama queen, and such a disappointment to you.” I get up and grab my bag and coat off the couch where I dropped them earlier.
“Don’t do that; don’t run out on this like some child.”
“NOW I’M A CHILD!” Of all the insensitive, stupid things he could say to me. Whatever anger and betrayal I felt earlier about Andrew and Charlene is now focusing full attention on Nate. “You know what, Nate? In a relationship the point is to support each other, to help each other, to be there for each other. I’m sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities by not telling you everything that happened before I got here. Frankly, you didn’t give me much of a chance. You didn’t bother to ask why I was coming over, and when I got into bed you kissed first. I guess I should have thought to stop you and say ‘Gee, honey, before we get all hot and bothered, I just want to have full disclosure of my mental state,’ but at the time I was just so happy to be here with you that it didn’t occur to me to give the news bulletin. Not to worry, it certainly won’t happen again.”
I cross the room to the door and move through it. It catches behind me, and shaking, I press the elevator button. And to my enormous and devastating disappointment, the elevator comes and Nate’s door remains closed. He isn’t coming for me. I get in, and watch as the elevator doors slide shut, and wonder if this is a place I’ll ever visit again.
It takes me about twenty minutes to get home, fuming and alternately trying not to cry and muttering, “fuck fuck fuck asshole fuck” under my breath, and I have no idea if I am referring to Nate or to Andrew, which in a weird way makes me wonder if Nate wasn’t the teensiest bit right, and that is the worst feeling in the world. Because the most basic human impulse, the most core desire of any person, is to be right. And on a day like today I need it; I need to be the one in the plus column, I need to be infallibly right, and even if I’m not, I needed Nate to pretend that I was.
I go upstairs and let myself in, wanting a long hot shower, hating that I can still smell Nate on my skin, that I can still feel his touch, the evidence of him throughout my body.
Going to the fridge to grab a bottle of water, I notice a container from the store with a note on the shelf. I take it out.
Mel—
I’m really sorry about your ex and that whole thing, it totally sux and I hope you are having a good day and doing something fun. In case you needed it, I wanted to bring this home for you . . . I told Kai about your plan for the day and he and I worked this up. I think it is awesome, and hope you do too. See you at some point, if I’m asleep when you get home, feel free to wake me if you need to vent or anything.
Nadia
I open the container.
Chili. Perfect.
Without even thinking I turn and in one fell swoop throw the thing against the backsplash over the sink with all the force in my body. The container explodes, making a splotch on the wall that reminds me in a sick way of movie special effects when someone shoots himself in the head. The smell of the spicy, meaty stew as it slowly oozes down the wall turns my stomach, and I leave the kitchen, head for the bedroom, and close the door. I open the nightstand and grab my Ambien, a prescription my doctor gave me for occasional insomnia. I take a little white pill. Crawling into my bed still dressed, I leave all of my messes behind and fall into dreamless sleep.
When I wake up, it’s dark outside and the clock reads nine forty-five. I’ve been asleep almost eleven hours, and my body aches, and my head is groggy. I reach for the water bottle on the nightstand and drain it in one go. I get up and realize I’m still in my clothes, and take them off, grabbing my pajamas and slipping into my robe. I head for the bathroom and run the shower, letting the needles of hot water bore into my muscles, and soak my hair. I scrub myself from top to bottom, and, feeling refreshed, get into my pajamas and head for the kitchen, suddenly starving, and also remembering that I have some truly nasty cleaning to do.
But my kitchen is spotless. There is no evidence of my earlier apelike behavior.
“Hey,” a voice says softly behind me. Nadia is sitting on the couch, a book in her lap.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Not really. Thank you for cleaning up, that was very unnecessary . . .”
“Don’t even think about it. I was sort of proud of you, actually. Kind of glad I got to see it.”
“Why?”
“You’re so together, and calm all the time and I guess, I mean sometimes I want to throw things and yell and hit something, and I feel like a freak, but if you can be pushed to, like, attack your own house with food, then I’m probably more normal than I thought.”
There is an odd logic here that makes me smile. “Well. I’m glad that my tantrum is a source of comfort for you.”
“Was the chili that bad?”
“No. Chili is not bad. Men are bad. Chili is an innocent bystander.”
She looks confused, but I don’t have the energy to explain.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks, letting my inane chili commentary go without question.
“Not tonight, honey. Thanks, though. I just had a shitty day, and all I want is to eat something and go back to bed and start over tomorrow.”
“Can I make you something? When I was blue as a kid my mom would always make me buttered noodles. I know I’m not a great cook, but I could do that, if you wanted.”
She is so sincere, so sweet, and buttered noodles sound pretty good to me right now, soft and soothing and totally benign. “I’d love some buttered noodles, actually, that would be great. Try to go easy on the butter, though, okay?”
She bounces off the couch, glad for a job. “You sit over here and watch TV, and I’ll bring it to you. Light on the butter, I promise. I think you have a thousand episodes of Cold Case on your TiVo.”
“Perfect.” I sit on the couch, and Nadia actually tucks the throw blanket around me and hands me the remote before heading for the kitchen. I turn it on and settle in to watch a strong, smart woman solve the problem.
APPLE PIE
There are dog people and cat people. Coke people and Pepsi people. Night people and morning people. And there are cake people and pie people. I’m a cake person. Always was. Not, obviously, to the exclusion of pie. I’m still me after all, so if someone puts pie in front of me, with the exception of mince-meat, I’m going to eat it, probably to excess. But if you hand me a dessert menu, the cake options have to be pretty bad for me to pick pie instead. While I’m not a pie person, even I have to admit that Gilly’s signature apple pie is spectacular. There was never rhyme or reason to when she would make it, Gilly isn’t predictable, so it wasn’t a holiday pie or a birthday pie or anything like that. It was usually a Tuesday pie, or an “I had a nice day” pie, or, in a house of three women, PMS pie. You’d come home and there it would be, brown and fragrant, cooling on a rack. Once, when we were in high school, Mom took us out to Quig’s Orchard to pick our own apples. We laughed and picked three bushels and ate cider doughnuts, and came home and made applesauce and apple butter, and Gilly made four perfect pies. Gillian always does her own thing, follows her own rules, is independent often to the exclusion of making deep connections, but when she makes you her apple pie, you have to forgive her.
“Wait, wait,” Gilly says, sounding surprisingly close for someone an ocean away. “Andrew is marrying that heifer and you are mad at your boyfriend. Andrew and she can have each other and good riddance, but when did I miss the boyfriend part?”
I sigh. “Well, remember when I went to D.C. for that event, and met that guy in the museum?”
“Yeah, I remember that. Now he
’s your boyfriend?”
“I think so, yes, but I’m not sure for how long.”
“Honey, why didn’t you tell me? That’s so great for you to be seeing someone. I mean, obviously not if he’s a schmuck. But still, good for you! Why the secrecy?”
“Gill, c’mon, we talk so rarely, and by the time I get home from the store I just want to collapse, sending long e-mails about boys seems like the last thing on my mind.”
“I know, I know, mea culpa. I’m a terrible sister, I never write, I never call, I don’t make you a priority, but I love you and of course I want to know that there is a boy. Yay you. So now fill me in, bullet point it for me.”
Gilly and I have gotten good at bullet points, both in e-mail and on the phone. Actually our relationship has always been, in many ways, bullet pointed—small concise bits of time, specific tasks or events, everything at its most fundamental and unadorned. We aren’t excessive with each other, but our love is strong. We don’t need each other generally, but when we do, the need is deep and the response is instantaneous. “We started dating, it’s been great, met his family and love them, sex is fantastic, makes me laugh, makes me feel like me, but we are having our first real fight, and I don’t know if it is something minor or something we’re not going to come back from.”
“I see. So congrats, and I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“Blue-ish alert level?”
“I’m at cornflower. I was azure yesterday, and midnight on Tuesday, but I’m hoping to downgrade to sky later tonight when I see him for dinner.”
“Okay, so I don’t need to hop a plane to kick his ass and make you pie?”
Good Enough to Eat Page 14
