My Husband's Sweethearts

by Bridget Asher

  I slide the credit-card key into the slot. The door clicks, the green light flashes. I walk in and the door closes behind me.

  Elspa isn't on the bed. She isn't in the bathroom.

  "Elspa?" I call out uselessly.

  Her duffel bag is still beside the bed, but she's gone.

  There's a knock at the door. "Elspa?" I jog to answer it, but before I get there John's voice rises up on the other side.

  "Lucy, it's John. Will you let me explain?" He's breathless, too.

  I pause for a moment. I don't want to hear an explanation, but Elspa is gone and I know, deep in my stomach, that something's wrong. I might need John's help.

  I open the door. One of his cheeks is red. There's a scratch that's bled a little near his eye, from one of my nails. I don't feel guilty in the least. For a brief moment, he looks relieved that I've opened the door at all, but it doesn't last.

  "Elspa is missing," I say.

  "What do you mean?"

  "She isn't here!"

  I push past him to my mother's hotel room, four doors down the hall. I knock. Eleanor appears and then my mother, holding a wet, yellowed flattened bunch of toilet paper. "Bogie peed," she says, by way of explanation. "It's a new place. He was disoriented. Poor baby."

  "Is Elspa with you?" I ask.

  "No," they say in unison.

  "Maybe she went to get ice," my mother says.

  And then both women, at the same moment, notice John and his red cheek and the scratch under his eye.

  My mother charges forward. "What happened to you?" she asks, all in a dither.

  Eleanor glances at me suspiciously. I still can't muster any guilt.

  "I walked into a door," he says, waving my mother away. "I'm fine." He turns to me. "I handed you the car keys in the lobby," he says. "Are they in your room?"

  I turn back and run to my room. The keys are gone. "Elspa is gone," I say.

  My mother and Eleanor are ready to go. The pee-pee paper has been disposed of. Bogie's been left. They have their pocketbooks. We all rush to the elevator.

  My mother says that she and Eleanor will stay in the lobby, waiting. "Someone should always stay put in these situations."

  "I'll get the concierge to call a cab," I say, though I have no idea where to say we're going.

  "I'll check the parking lot for the car," John says. "Just to be sure."

  We all rush from the elevator. John stops at the edge of the hotel awning. He can see from there that the car is gone and reports this with a shake of his head. The good news is there's a cab right there, letting out a couple who look like they've been to a wedding.

  John talks to the cabbie. Eleanor and my mother are standing outside the entranceway of the hotel in front of the automatic sliding glass doors, setting them off.

  "Do you think we should call someone?" my mother asks.

  "Who would we call?" John says.

  "Where are you going to go?" Eleanor asks. "It's a big city."

  "We should have faith in her," my mother adds. "I'm sure she'll make good decisions!"

  John and I get in the backseat of the cab. He tells the driver to head toward Charles Village, which is the area of town near the burned-out building. The cab picks up speed, merges into traffic.

  John tries to catch my eyes. "I didn't know how to tell you, and if you'll let me explain you'll see why."

  "Not now," I say. "I can't deal with any of that now." What is there to say? He's been faking being Artie's son for his entire life, and he's been lying to Elspa, my mother, Eleanor, and me so that he can cash in. I don't want to hear that. I learned from Artie's confessions that you shouldn't ask too many questions. Betrayal is betrayal. You don't want details. "In fact, when we find Elspa, you can just go home."

  "Go home?"

  "There's no money. You aren't Artie's son. That's it."

  "This has nothing to do with money," he says.

  "You know what you can do that would actually help me?"

  "No."

  "When I wake up tomorrow morning, it would be very nice if you weren't here," I tell him.

  "Is that my only option?"

  I nod. "For the time being, I want to focus on Elspa. You're a distraction, that's all. Can you do me that favor and just leave?"

  He sighs, leans back in the seat with his hands on his knees. "Okay, if that's the only option," he says.

  "Thanks."

  John sits forward in his seat and explains to the cabbie where to go. "Just loop around here," he says.

  "I don't pick up hookers on drugs," the cabbie says matter-of-factly.

  "No, we're looking for someone who's lost."

  Lost? She isn't lost. She isn't a child. Has she left us? Abandoned the whole thing? Abandoned her daughter again, in this new way, by giving up?

  We circle several blocks in silence. My eyes dart from one car to the next, one dim figure to the next, and then John says, "Isn't that your car?"

  It is. We watch it turn around a corner, back toward the major road that leads to the highway. I can see the outline of Elspa's spiked hair. John tells the cabbie to follow her. We wind along all the way back to the hotel. She pulls into the parking lot.

  Once the cabbie has stopped the car, I jump out, but then stop short. What am I going to say? Am I angry at her? Am I just relieved? As she makes her way toward the hotel entranceway, Eleanor and my mother, who were on guard, are there, too.

  Elspa hands me the keys. "I'm sorry I borrowed your car without asking," she says, as if this is the only thing to apologize for. She walks through the doors into the hotel.

  The rest of us exchange a confused glance and then follow her to the elevator. She's pushed the button. We're all waiting.

  "Where did you go, dear?" my mother asks.

  "I had to get close to it," she says.

  I know she means she had to get close to her addiction, to test herself, to make sure she was strong. Sometimes I feel that way about Artie—mostly I know that I'm not strong enough and so I've had to keep my distance. Everyone else must be translating this in their own way. We're quiet. The elevator doors open. We all step inside.

  "We were worried," I say, though I cringe, afraid this comes out overly maternal and chiding.

  "I was worried, too," she says.

  We step off the elevator and follow her to our door. She can't find her key, so we all wait for a moment. I don't want her to get out of this so quickly.

  Finally, she says, "How can I sell my parents on the idea of me as a mother if I'm not sold myself? I can't talk to them about it. I'm not tough."

  As Elspa starts to sob, my mother puts her arms around her. I slip the card key into the lock and we all step inside the room. John stands there awkwardly, not sure what his role is now—should he stay? Should he go?

  And I'm wondering where my toughness has gotten me. Nowhere—only cut off, shut down. Elspa is the strongest of all of us. "Forget all of my strategies," I say, feeling a jagged tightness in my throat. "Forget I said anything. Speak from the heart. Tell them what you want. What you're afraid of. Tell them everything. Honestly. Don't shut yourself off. Feel it. Feel all of it!" For some reason, I feel furious. I feel like throwing the TV out the window and overturning furniture. "What good does it do not to feel anything? People lie to you and disappoint you." I'm shouting now, my eyes shut tight. "You find out your son-of-a-bitch husband is a serial cheater, and if that's not enough, next thing you know he's going to abandon you—just up and die. And if you don't feel that, then you won't ever feel anything. Bad or good, ever again. So, fuck it! Feel it—all of it!"

  When I open my eyes, I find that I must have slid down the hotel wall because I'm sitting on the carpeting. They're all staring at me, stunned. There's a moment of silence.

  "Okay," John says. "New plan. Feel all of it."

  This breaks the tension. I wipe my nose and almost smile. Elspa laughs nervously.

  "Can you go in there tomorrow and face them?" I ask.

  Els
pa nods.

  "Okay," my mother says.

  "Good," Eleanor says.

  Having felt everything at once, an upheaval of the heart, a cavalcade of hate and love and betrayal, I say, "The new plan."

  *

  After Elspa falls asleep, I walk to the bank of windows, look out at the restless harbor lights. I've been here on business a bunch of times, but only once with Artie—a day trip about two years ago. We whiled away much of the day in the aquarium, gazing at the blue poison dart frogs and the shy scarlet ibis. Artie argued politics with the yellow-headed Amazon parrot that, despite its investment in the environment, was a vicious Republican—at least according to Artie. The pygmy marmoset, which Artie said had a striking resemblance to his Uncle Victor, stared at us, cocking its little head, until we felt sure we were the ones on display and it was the observer. Later, we rented a paddle boat, toured the harbor, our thighs knotting up, and made out in it like teenagers, the boat dipping and bobbing.

  I call Artie. I'm expecting the night nurse, but it's his voice. "Lucy?" he says.

  "Were you waiting up for me?" I speak quietly.

  "Yes."

  "I feel different," I say, without any idea how to explain it.

  "Different how?"

  "I've been so wrong." I want to add: about a lot of things. I think of slapping John Bessom, but I can't tell Artie anything about John's lies. That's not my secret to tell.

  "How? What's wrong?"

  "I've been so practical about my emotions for a while now, trying not to be emotional. But it's not working. I can't make it through all of this and continue to try to feel even less. It'll be the end of me. I have to feel all of it."

  "All right," he says. "Wait a minute. If you're feeling more, does this mean you're going to hate me more?"

  "Maybe, but I might love you more, too."

  There's a pause. He's taking this in. "When I said I was despairing, I was despairing mostly because of you. All other forms of despair are minuscule in comparison," he says. "And if there's anything I can do to help you love me again, let me know."

  "Are you accepting the fact that you hurt a lot of women in your life? That's what I'd like to know."

  "I can't ever accept the fact that I hurt you, that I was the kind of person who would ever hurt you. I'll never accept that." But I know that men are liars. Just in case I forgot, for a moment—just in case I'd had a lapse and trusted one again—John Bessom has set me straight. Still, I want to believe Artie. I start to cry—the silent kind of crying—just tears slipping down my cheeks. And unfortunately, I do believe him in some way. I know he loves me, has always loved me. Maybe I'm feeling some kind of relief, some strange kind of acceptance of Artie, of men. "Remember the pygmy marmoset at the aquarium?" I ask.

  "Of course. Why?"

  "It's just that I'm here. Thinking of that trip with you and the marmoset that you thought was your uncle."

  "I've decided I might believe in reincarnation," Artie says. "When you're dying, you get to think of things like that a little more earnestly. Maybe that marmoset was my Uncle Victor. I want to come back as your lapdog."

  "They tend to be yappy."

  "I won't be. I promise. I'll be one of the few Chihuahuas to take a vow of silence. I'll be a monastic Chihuahua, or maybe a mute one. And I won't even leg-hump dinner guests."

  I laugh a little. "Well, now you're making promises you know you won't be able to keep."

  "Tell me something more. Anything at all. I just want to listen to your voice for a little while longer."

  "I should go. That's really all I had to say—about feeling more."

  "Don't go. Tell me something. A story. A bedtime story designed for a lapdog Chihuahua. Make something up."

  I think of the opening lines to The Beverly Hillbillies theme song—a story 'bout a man named Jed. I suddenly feel like I've lost so much and I'm only bound to lose more. My throat aches.

  "Or a lullaby," he says. "That would work, too."

  "I've missed you all this time," I say.

  "Is that part of your made-up story?"

  "No," I say. "That's the truth."

  "I've missed you all this time, too."

  "Good night," I say.

  "Good night."

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Waking Dreams Can Seem Less Real Than Dreams Themselves

  Elspa and I are standing on the grassy lawn while Gail works to secure the car seat in the back of my car. Rudy is holding Rose and her diaper bag.

  Eleanor and my mother didn't want to go to the zoo. My mother pulled me aside and said she wanted time with Eleanor, to talk to her about being a widow. "I know what it's like to still be in love with a dead man," my mother said. "And she still loves Artie. It's going to hurt terribly when he's gone." There are things that I trust my mother with. She'll be good for Eleanor.

  And John is gone.

  He slipped a note under my hotel room door before Elspa and I woke up. It was addressed to the four of us. He explained that there was a work crisis back at home. He was taking the train. He was so very sorry.

  I was relieved by the note at first, but then I imagined him with his scratched face, sitting on the train, and I wondered what kind of explanation he had for me. But I don't really want to hear it. Not really. I know I have to feel everything. But I can take one emotion at a time. And I can't help it; I'm tired of lying men.

  But then I see it from a different angle. Artie wasn't the lying man, in this case. He was the man lied to. The joke has been on him, hasn't it? He's spent all these years taking advantage of women while carting around this wound of not being able to see his one and only son . . . but it wasn't his son. He paid for another man's child.

  And so why did John Bessom spend hours getting to know Artie? Was it an act of kindness or has he really just wanted the money all along? Was he lying when he said that he'd always wanted Artie in his life? Was he part of the hoax and still part of it—trying to cash in one last time?

  Gail says to Elspa, "There are Cheerios and peeled apple slices for a snack in the diaper bag, a sippy cup, and a change of clothes, in case she pees in her big-girl pants." There's something tender and intimate about the words big-girl pants that makes me feel for Gail for the first time. But then she rears from the car, takes Rose from Rudy, and says, "Are you ready to go to the zoo with Auntie Elspa and her friends? It will be okay! You'll see!" And this makes me sigh. Why does she have to call her Auntie Elspa? And why does she have to say it will be okay, as if Rose has been wringing her hands all morning wondering if it will be?

  Rose is a sweetie. She smiles shyly and wriggles to get down and climb into the car into her seat.

  "Look at her go," Gail says. "I've tried to teach her caution, but she'll hop out of my arms and go off with anyone, really, into any adventure—just like her mother, I suppose."

  Gail is obviously baiting Elspa, but Elspa doesn't seem to notice. She's so happy to be going off with Rose, almost giddy. "We'll meet at Chez Nous at six for dinner," she says. "It won't be too long."

  We all pile into the car, Elspa in the back with Rose. As we pull out of the drive, Elspa tries to wave to her mother, but Gail has already turned and is marching into the house.

  *

  The day is bright and clear. I haven't been to a zoo since I was a child. Elspa ties a balloon to Rose's wrist. She waddles with Rose near the penguins. Elspa and I squat with Rose to check out ants in front of the lions' cages. We eat peanuts. Rose pees in her pants near the giraffes. Elspa and Rose—in a new pair of pants—walk along pointing out birds.

  I begin to lag behind. I take some time to stare at llamas, and finally I feel guilty about John—not for the slap, no. I feel guilty because he's missing out on this, and he was invested in this trip, wasn't he? On some level? And what of all those hours spent with Artie—the soft patter of their voices? Was that all fake? He was the one who'd drawn out Eleanor, asking her questions about her connection to Artie. I remember the way he listened to al
l the stories about Artie and me, and that moment when he found the lost kid in the Walk-through Heart. Was it all an act? Could it be?

  Rose comes padding toward us. Elspa is running after her. Elspa catches her and swoops her up and makes her laugh. And then she sets her down. The sun is setting. Rose waddles a few feet away then gets distracted by the balloon attached to her wrist.

  Elspa says, "If I had to, I would be able to be happy with this, too. This may be all I get—moments like this, scattered here and there." And this reminds me of Artie— all I have left with him are moments scattered here and there. I'm ready to go home.

  Rose waddles to Elspa. She says, "Pick me up!" Elspa lifts her and holds her close to her chest. They walk over to a park bench and sit down. She pulls out the bag of Cheerios. Elspa feeds Rose, and Rose feeds Elspa.

  *

  As soon as we pull into the parking lot at Chez Nous, a Mercedes flashes its headlights at us.

  "That's their car," Elspa says in a hushed voice. Rose is fast asleep, head lolled to one side of her car seat. We're restlessly silent.

  Suddenly, I'm flooded with fears. What if this doesn't go smoothly? What if she can't see it through? And what if it does go smoothly? Have I really even thought of what life will be like with Rose in it? Am I prepared for any of this? Is Elspa really capable of being a good mother—not just in a zoo on a bright day, but every day, in the daily messy rigor of raising a family?

  The Mercedes pulls up alongside us. The window buzzes down. It's Rudy. Gail is a dim figure in the passenger's seat, sitting completely still. "Good evening, all!" Rudy says. "How was it?"

  "What's wrong?" Elspa asks, sensing something that I don't quite see.

  "We'll have to cancel dinner. Your mother has one of her headaches."

  Gail glances at us, two fingers pressed to her temple as if this provides the necessary proof.

  Rudy steps out of the car, leaving the engine running.

  "What?" Elspa says.

  He opens the back door of my car.

  "She's asleep," Elspa says. "Can't she just spend the night with me tonight? Let's not shift her now and then again when you get home."