He promised he would never lie to me.
He promised me that divorce would never be an option for him.
For five years I didn’t think it was possible to feel this good.
For five years I didn’t think it was possible to be this happy.
But then he forgot all those promises he’d made. He forgot why he loved me. He simply stopped loving me.
And this is how he did it:
He stopped talking to me unless I spoke to him.
He stopped holding my hand.
He stopped kissing me good night.
He stopped kissing me good morning.
He stopped kissing me.
He stopped smiling at me.
He stopped laughing.
He stopped bathing and showering with me.
He stopped wanting me.
He started swearing at me.
He started lying to me.
He started cheating on me.
He hurt me.
And then he told me he was in love with another woman and wanted a divorce.
Oh, I forgot. He said he was sorry.
I wanted to blow his fucking brains out. But instead I just kicked him out and signed the papers in my pajamas when I got served. I became a ghost of myself. My mother helped with Estelle, because I couldn’t get out of bed for almost two weeks except to go to the bathroom and bring in the paper. But I couldn’t read it. I called the hospital where I worked at the time and told them I’d had an emergency and wasn’t sure when I’d be in. I would end up using all my vacation time to recover from the hole that had been drilled into my heart. I didn’t comb my hair. I didn’t shower. I had no appetite and forced myself to eat yogurt. Saltines. Wanda almost broke the door down when I wouldn’t answer the phone. She wanted to shoot Michael. Violet said this shit was like recovering from a C-section and that it could take up to a month before I’d be able to walk without wobbling and holding on to something.
I ran out of tears. And by the time I went back to work, I realized I wasn’t angry. I was numb. I felt as if he had killed me and this is what it felt like to be dead.
But then as weeks and months passed, something funny started happening. I stopped missing him. I stopped mourning the loss of him, and in fact he was the one who became dead to me. I was relieved to have our condo to myself. I started feeling like I was on vacation in my own home. I did whatever I wanted to do without needing to clear it with him. I learned how to stop editing my every move. I stopped apologizing for being myself. Because I liked who I was. It took a year before I had the desire and the courage to even go on a date, and then the next two years were nothing but a series of false starts and fuckfests, and then along came Eric, who was the balm I needed. But then he had to up and move to Paris to learn how to cook, and I couldn’t go, which made my heart feel like a valley again. That’s when I decided I needed to take a break from men, because their stock was too damn high and I was tired of not getting a return on my investment.
—
I change my mind about the new black getup and opt for the chocolate brown outfit I was going to wear to the party. I’m not trying to inspire Michael. I just want to look inspired. God, I hope he has a big fat gut and his teeth are rotting and he can’t stand up straight because his penis has fallen off and he smells like mustard.
Not even close. He looks like a new and improved, older version of his younger self. He smells light blue, and before I know it, he puts his arms around me and hugs me as if he once loved me. “You look wonderful,” he says, lying through those beautiful veneers.
“You look old,” I say, and we both chuckle.
I chose a twenty-star Mediterranean restaurant in the Financial District with no view. I’m not the least bit hungry, which means I’m going to have to pretend.
“Would you care for a cocktail or wine?”
“I’m afraid to drink this evening, Michael, so I’ll just have sparkling water.”
“Afraid of what?”
“That it might make me say something I’ll regret.”
“It’s the reason I called you. To let me finally have it.”
“It’s ancient history. But seriously, what did make you call me?”
“Honestly? I want to make amends. What made you come?”
“Honestly?”
He nods but looks a little nervous.
“Because this is the twenty-first century and we’re old and I’m trying to be more civilized. To be very honest, I was thinking about looking you up on Facebook at some point just to see how you were doing and maybe to remind you I still hate you, but after thinking about what we once had, I was going to tell you I would be ever so grateful if you would clear up some things, because I’m still not sure what happened to us, but for starters I’d really like to know why you loved me and what made you stop. And I think I will have a manhattan.”
I can’t believe I just said this.
Michael leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Wow. You are serious, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
He uncrosses his arms and places his palms gently on the white tablecloth. “I loved you because you were beautiful inside and out. Because you were honest and patient and sensitive and smart and sexy and you had opinions about things and you liked helping people and you were good in bed.”
“Is that all?”
“I loved the way you cooked. The way you made eye contact when we talked. You weren’t afraid to try new things. I loved the way you laughed. That you were a good mother. How you used to hug me. For no reason.”
“Okay, stop. Let’s get to the ugly stuff.”
“Can we order first?”
“Certainly, Michael.”
“I still love the way you say my name.”
I roll my eyes at him.
He orders my drink, and all I can handle is a salad, so he orders two Caesars.
“Well, this sure is a perky reunion,” he says.
“It’s better if we get the ugly stuff out of the way, don’t you think?”
“I’m on your side.”
“What if I told you I cheated on you?”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“You don’t know that for sure, now, do you?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Well, I did.”
He looks at me like I’ve just castrated him. “You didn’t. You couldn’t have. Who was it? When was it?”
“Hold your little ponies, now, soldier. See how worked up you’re getting? And we’re talking about American history here.”
“Did you?”
“I probably should have, but no. It takes a lot for a woman to cheat.”
“Like what?”
“Misery. We do it to escape marriage hell, and when we do, most of us don’t break up our families. In fact, sometimes that can invigorate things.”
“Wow. You learn something new every day.”
“But you guys cheat and expect to be forgiven. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it. See how worked up you were getting at the mere thought?”
“I do.”
“Have you learned not to make promises you can’t keep?”
“I’ve gotten better.”
“You promised me you would never cheat on me, that you’d love me forever and we would never get a divorce.”
“I still love you, and I hate that I cheated on you, and I wish we’d never gotten divorced.”
He sits there looking down at his glass, then twirls it around and looks directly into my eyes.
I believe him. And almost feel sorry for him. “Then what made you cheat, Michael?”
“Because I could.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You have to do better than that. I’ve waited a long time to hear this.”
“Is it really that important? After all, we’re sitting here thirty-five years later like old friends.”
“But we’re not old
friends. You were my husband, who lied and cheated on me, and I want to know why.”
“I just told you.”
“Did you fall out of love with me?”
He nods his head, slowly up, then down.
“Why? How? When?”
“I don’t really know why or how, and I don’t even know when. You were the same wonderful woman I first met, but then after a few years there was a sameness to us, and I began to get bored with our life, and you seemed more interested in being a good mother, and you were so into your practice—”
“What?”
“Let me finish. I’ve never really thought about this until now, as ridiculous as that may sound, but I wasn’t thinking about you when I first did what I did. I was only thinking about me.”
“When you first did what you did? You mean it was with more than one woman?”
He nods.
“How long?”
He’s quiet, and I feel myself getting worked up all over again.
“About the last year and a half of our marriage.”
“Oh, really? You sneaky, lying son of a bitch!” I remember we’re sitting in a restaurant, so I lower my voice and say, “You lying sneaky son of a bitch,” again.
“I was conflicted.”
“Con-what?”
“It’s hard to justify it, Georgia. Almost impossible.”
“Did you marry one of them?”
He nods.
“Did you have any children?”
“A daughter. I brought her to the party.”
“Wait. Wanda said you were with a woman young enough to be your daughter.”
“That was Ming. This happened when we were married, and I never had the heart to tell you.”
I lean forward and ball up my fist like some young hoochie, then catch myself. “Let’s stop right here, Michael. There’s some things a person is better off not knowing, and I think this qualifies.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Other than our daughter, is there anything you got from me that you’re thankful for?” he asks.
“Let me think.”
He looks worried.
The waitress brings our salads and my drink, and I take a long, slow sip.
“I’m super grateful for how well you taught me how to manage money, how to invest it, and how to hoard it. Thanks to you, my credit score teeters around eight hundred.”
“That’s it?”
“Does Estelle know she has a sister?”
“Yes, she does.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Yesterday.”
“Really?”
“We talk on a somewhat regular basis. I just don’t think she wants you to know how much we’re in communication, because I believe she senses you still despise me. Do you?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I say, laughing. “And I’ve enjoyed reminding myself of it whenever you cross my mind, which is hardly ever.”
“I’m sorry to hear this.”
“I’m overstating it, Michael. And I’m sorry for saying it. Did Estelle mention anything about her living situation?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. She said they’re thinking of moving closer to your neck of the woods, maybe Walnut Creek.”
“Really? And did she tell you when and why?”
“It sounds like you’re not aware of this, Georgia.”
“Of course I know about it, but I was just wondering why she told you.”
“Because I’m her father.”
I wish I could eat, but I can’t. I wish I could tell him that those years he took up space in my life and my heart were magnificent. I wish I could tell him that I tried to give him everything I could, everything I had to give, everything I thought he wanted and needed, but mostly what I thought was good. I want to ask if he ever thinks about when we met in the library. How he held my hand walking down Telegraph Avenue? How tenderly he kissed me on my cheek? Did he forget how much joy and beauty and love we shared? I want to ask him when did we stop floating? When did we lose the fucking delight? Instead, this is what comes out of my mouth: “I’m glad I met you and glad I loved you, Michael.”
He looks at me like he can’t believe I just said this.
“I’m grateful for the years you made me happy. The years you made me feel safe. Cared for. The years you weren’t the cause of my worries. The years you made me feel valuable. The years you put our daughter and me first.” I sigh and lean back in my chair and take a sip of my water.
“Don’t stop now!”
I toss my napkin at him. This is starting to feel like some sentimental made-for-TV movie, but I’m not going to change the channel.
“I can’t believe you just said that. I needed to hear this, Georgia. Thank you so much for forgiving me.”
“What makes you think I’ve forgiven you?”
“Haven’t you?”
“I’m considering it.”
He starts laughing, but I don’t.
“To be honest with you, Michael, I had decided to hate you forever and hoped that somehow you’d feel it and suffer because of it. But you obviously weren’t affected, and it took me a long time to realize I was poisoning myself with that anger. It made it impossible for another man to get anywhere near my heart.”
“Well, I’m glad you did finally realize that.”
“I was on the verge of conjuring some of it back up tonight, but then I just thought how pathetic it was.”
“I do regret what I did to you, and although you may not believe me, I hated myself for how I did it and have prayed all these years that you’d forgive me.”
“Pray a little harder,” I say, and I feel a smirk emerge. “So tell me what you liked least about me.”
“Wow. Seriously?” he asks.
I look at him like, That’s a yes.
“You always had to be right. You always wanted things to be done your way, as if it were the best way. And—”
“Wait! That’s enough! Okay. One more and that’s it!”
“You were impatient.”
“Who isn’t, Michael?”
“Well, you’d get a little unhinged when things didn’t go the way you thought they should go or the way you planned.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“And you had almost zero tolerance for people you didn’t think were as intelligent as you.”
“And these are character defects?” I start laughing. “Don’t think I haven’t figured some of this out—even though the things you mention are only minor imperfections.”
“What about me?” he asks, looking a bit scared.
“They were minor things and not deal breakers. However, you were a little on the lazy side and had no household skills, but other than that I would have to put being dishonest and sneaky on the top of this small list.”
“I’ve gotten much better at being honest. And learned it’s not half as expensive as being dishonest.”
“You know what I’ve figured out?”
“No.”
“Men are stupid.”
“Georgia,” he says, nodding as if I’m right, which I am. “I’m sorry for hurting you, for disappointing you, and for breaking the promises I made to you,” he says. When I see the whites of his eyes turn glassy pink, I feel mine stinging, too.
“I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that.”
“I hope you haven’t made other men pay for what I did.”
“Believe me, you’re not the only one on that bus, dude, but at least you seem to have finally gained a modicum of insight based on your fucked-up ways—or is this all staged?”
“I’m almost saintly,” he says, trying to relax and head back to being serious. “I’m still hoping to meet someone like you, Georgia.”
“You met me a long time ago, Michael.”
“It’s too bad we don’t get do-overs.”
“If that’s a question, I think you’re right. Don’t you have someone in your life?”
“
No,” he says. “And you?”
I’m tempted to lie, but since this has become a damn honest party, I say, “No.”
“Well, it’s not over,” he says.
“That’s the word on the street,” I say, and he stands up and just smiles, and I say, “It’s nice to see you, Michael, and I’m glad we have more good memories than bad. So let’s just cherish the goodness we shared and consider it an amazing chapter in our lives. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says, and walks over to pull my chair out as I stand up. This time he wraps his arms around me and squeezes so hard I think he squeezes all that ancient anger right on out of me.
“You sound different,” Wanda says as she devours the chips and salsa I just set out for her and Violet, who shocked me by apologizing after I didn’t return her calls and said she still meant what she’d said, just maybe not the way she said it, and I just told her that it’s my life to live it the way I want to and that I didn’t need her approval to do anything, and then we hugged through the phone. This is nothing new.
“Hold on,” Violet says. “Where’d you buy this salsa? It’s delicious.”
“I made it just for you two huzzies.”
“Where’d you get the recipe?” Wanda asks. “You know Nelson loves salsa.”
“I made it up. It’s just heirloom tomatoes and lots of other stuff. I’ll write it down.”
They’re helping me pack all the photographs in tissue paper and Bubble Wrap as well as making labels for some of the art leaning against walls all over the house.
“You do look a little composed,” Violet says. “Did you make any sangria or what?”
“She saw Michael.”
“What? Did you finally curse him out? Did you punch him in the nose like you’ve been wanting to do all these years?” Violet never tires of animal prints, and today she’s in cheetah leggings and a tight black tank top. I’ll be glad when she realizes that animals come in solid colors, too.
“And?” Wanda asks, staring me in the eye.
“I swallowed it.”
“What’d you just say?” Violet yells from the kitchen, actually sticking her head around the corner. A giant areca palm standing in the corner makes her look like she really could be in a jungle. If only.
“You heard me,” I say as I pick up a picture and continue wrapping.
I Almost Forgot About You Page 8
