by Wendy Wax
“Well, it sucks. And I am not a ‘good egg,’ damn it! I’m a person. A woman. Your wife. And what we just did together proves that there’s still a spark. Only we both have to fan it to keep it alive.”
I’m on a roll now. I get out of bed. Eager to lay it all out, to persuade him, I begin to pace the room on my side of the bed, ticking the points off on my fingers. “I believe we can find a way to regain what we’ve lost. We just have to want to. I need you to understand who I am. And care about what’s important to me.” I reach the end of the bedroom with its view of what used to be the Parkers’ house and turn. “We’re comfortably off, the kids are self-sufficient. This could be the best time of our lives. If we want it to be. But we have to share ourselves and take care of each other.” I swallow. “I wasn’t put on this earth to take care of you and make your life run smoothly. I should never have acted like that was all I was capable of or wanted. And you shouldn’t have let me.”
I stop and turn at the head of the bed. Once again, I wait for him to comment. To agree or disagree. To tell me he loves me and that he’ll try harder, do better. Or even that he’s done. But he just lies there.
“I can’t believe this.” The hope I’ve been nursing begins to evaporate. I thought that sex might rekindle the spark and facilitate this conversation, but I’m the one who’s turned an orgasm into something more than it was. “I’m pouring my heart out here and you have nothing to say?”
I stalk over to where he’s lying, talking the whole time. “How like you to not even listen. I’m telling you how we could save our marriage and avoid a divorce, and you don’t even care enough to pay attention!
“I’m talking to you!” I lean over and poke his arm as hard as I can. His head still hangs to one side. I climb onto the bed to look into his open eyes. They’re glazed and vacant.
“Nate?” I grab his shoulder and shake him. He’s limp and unresisting. “Nate!”
I lean in until my face is only inches from his. This is when I realize that his chest is not moving up and down.
I race to the nightstand and grab my phone. I punch in 911. Praying that they really can trace a call to its location, I yell, “Help! My husband isn’t breathing!” Then I shout our address into the phone and throw it down so that I can drag him onto the floor, kneel beside him, and frantically start performing CPR.
“Oh no, you don’t!” I shout as I begin the compressions on his chest. “You are NOT allowed to die while I’m yelling at you!”
Twelve
Judith
I cower in the bedroom chair while the EMTs attempt to revive Nate. My vision blurs and stretches as if I’m staring into a fun-house mirror. A dull roar fills my ears as they insert a breathing tube and hook up an IV. I try to breathe deeply and calmly, like I learned in yoga, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. Worse, I keep remembering the sound of Nate trying to catch his. Gasps that I assumed were of a sexual nature.
You know it’s been too long since you last had sex when you can’t tell a heart attack from an orgasm.
“Does your husband have a heart condition, ma’am? Does he take medication?” one of them asks while the other begins a much steadier, controlled version of CPR than the frantic version I’d managed.
“No. No medication.” The answer is automatic. We belong to a concierge practice that includes yearly physicals and wellness visits. When asked, Nate brags that he has “great genes” and “the ticker of a much younger man.” Then he grins and adds, “I hope he doesn’t want it back.” I never asked for details.
A policewoman materializes in the doorway. She scans the room, the rumpled bed, Nate on the floor with the EMTs working over him. Me in my robe and bare feet rocking in the bedroom chair. “Mrs. Aimes?”
I nod but can’t take my eyes off Nate. His chest still hasn’t gone up or down on its own. My own breathing is ragged.
“I’m Officer Vetrano. Is that your husband?”
“Yes.” It’s a whisper. My eyes are pinned to the EMTs who are putting pads on his bare chest. Connecting wires. A mechanical voice starts issuing instructions. I hold my breath as Nate’s body jolts.
“Can you tell me what happened?” the officer asks.
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” I don’t want to look at Nate’s jolting body or the measured compressions that one of the EMTs performs in between. But I can’t tear my eyes away. “I . . . I . . . he . . . he’s only fifty-eight.”
The EMTs talk calmly, their movements practiced and efficient. The machine’s voice tells them to “get clear of the body” before sending another jolt of electricity through Nate’s body.
“Shouldn’t we be going to the hospital?” I cry at them. “Can’t we take him to the hospital now?”
Neither of them answers.
“Can you tell me what happened?” the policewoman asks, trying, I assume, to distract me as another current is sent through my husband’s body.
“Mrs. Aimes?” She leans closer, drawing my gaze back to her face.
“I . . . we . . .”
“Clear!” The EMTs lean away from Nate at the mechanical voice command.
I sneak a peek at Nate, who is still unresponsive. “We . . . were in bed and . . . he . . . he was gasping . . . He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.”
“Were you asleep?” she asks. “Did the gasping sound wake you?”
“N . . . no . . .” I flush at the memory. Riding Nate like a jockey hell-bent for the finish line. The burst of pleasure. My retreat to the bathroom. “No. We . . .
“We were . . . we had . . .” There is no way I can say this. Not to this stranger. Not in front of the EMTs who are now conferring quietly over Nate’s body, their sense of urgency gone.
“Intercourse?” she asks in the same tone she might ask whether we were playing chess.
“Yes.” The word comes out in a rush. “And then I went into the bathroom to . . .”
One EMT puts two fingers to Nate’s neck again, then shakes his head slightly. The other nods, pulls out a cell phone, and steps away to make a call.
A sob escapes my lips as the two men begin to disconnect the wires from the pads attached to Nate’s too-pale chest and stomach. This is my fault. I wanted Nate to love me more and to show it. If I hadn’t been so angry, so focused on myself, I might have understood what was happening in time to save him.
The EMTs look to me. “I’m sorry,” one of them says. “We weren’t able to sustain a pulse or heartbeat.”
I sob harder as they unfold a sheet they’ve brought and pull it over Nathan. This is my fault. I did this. I want to throw myself on his body—his body!—and beg his forgiveness for letting my anger and resentment blind me to what was happening. I am too wracked with guilt to do anything but cry as I watch the EMTs pack up their equipment.
“Do you have family or friends nearby?” the officer asks when we’re alone. “Someone I can call?”
At first, I don’t understand the question. When I do, it takes time to find an answer and even longer to express it.
“The medical examiner’s office will send someone to pick up the . . . your husband. From there, he’ll be released to the funeral home, if you have one.”
She leads me into the living room, where I sob louder and hold tightly to myself. Nate had never been one for grand gestures or the romantic surprises I craved, but he had always been prepared. His twentieth wedding anniversary gift was not platinum jewelry or crystals but joint burial plots. He had made sure our wills were updated periodically and that all of us knew where to find the important paperwork in the event of . . . this.
I rock and cry as memories bombard me. Not the things he didn’t say or do that I’ve held against him, but the care he took with the details of our lives. The servicing of the cars, the life insurance policy, the investment portfolio meant to protect and support us in our old age. An old age that Nate will
never see.
I’m still rocking and blubbering when the policewoman answers the door and Meena rushes in.
“Oh my God, Judith. Are you all right? What happened? Is Nate . . . is Nate really . . . gone?”
I nod and cry as she throws her arms around me.
“I’m here. I’m here for however long you need me. Just tell me what you want me to do and who you want to call.”
Once the hugging and swaying dies down, the policewoman stands in front of me. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” She hands me her card. “I’ll be filing a report. If there’s anything you’d like to add to what you’ve already told me, please be in touch.”
Everything that follows moves in slow motion. The kids come home, and I’m way too freaked out to adequately cushion the blow. I have always put them first, but what I’ve done is too big to be pushed aside or shared. I was seriously contemplating divorcing their father. Then I let him die while I was issuing ultimatums. I made his last minutes all about me.
“Will you be all right?” Ansley asks. “I can’t imagine you without each other. Whenever one of my friends’ parents got divorced, I felt so sorry for them. I knew you and Dad would be together forever.” Tears stream down her cheeks. “I just assumed you’d have longer.”
Hannah rubs her back. “They were lucky to have each other as long as they did. Not everyone finds their soul mate.”
Now I’m crying, too. Hot, salty, guilty tears. The last time we were together as a family, I was angry that their father went to Europe without me, disappointed in the gift he gave me, furious at being dismissed as a good egg. Pretending to be happy for their sake.
“You gave us an example of what marriage could be,” Ethan says. “Most of my friends spent years watching their parents fight and their families come apart. They got shuttled back and forth and had to deal with stepparents and stepsiblings. Running all over the place on holidays. I always felt so lucky that you and Dad had such a great marriage. It made me feel secure, you know?”
I’m having trouble breathing now. But I’m grateful for the scrim of tears that keeps them from seeing not only my shame but my relief. That I did not destroy their childhood memories by tearing our family apart. That they didn’t have to see their father as I came to see him.
“He loved you both so much,” I say, confident that this at least is true. “And he was incredibly proud of you.”
Is it wrong to be glad that they came home for a funeral rather than a divorce?
* * *
• • •
The church is full for Nate’s funeral, an impenetrable blur of bodies and faces. I try to listen to the service, but the roaring in my ears remains, and I stare numbly at the casket. I know Nate is wearing his favorite blue suit and lucky tie, but I can’t stop seeing him naked, with his head lolling to one side.
After the service, Ethan, Ansley, Hannah, and I are ushered into the funeral home’s black limo. In it, we follow the hearse, clutching one another’s hands.
At the graveside, I try to focus, but I keep imagining my husband trapped in the casket, being lowered into the ground. Covered with dirt. Where he will lie alone in the dark. Forever.
Our house is packed with people by the time we arrive. Meena orchestrates the receiving and arrangement of the casseroles, without which no one in the South is allowed to mourn, and charges Stan with tending bar and lubricating the guests, beginning with me.
I accept condolences from old neighbors and a smattering of new ones, from Chickin’ Lickin’ store managers and longtime employees. From tennis partners and golf buddies. From the kids he helped coach on Ethan’s soccer teams.
I cry at each accolade and memory. But even as I mourn Nate and our life together, my sorrow is laced with fear that my guilt will show through. That people will see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice. That they’ll know that Nate was only “going through the motions” and that I had consulted a divorce attorney and was attempting to draw a line in the sand while Nate was gasping out his last breaths.
The long-standing members of book club are there in full force. Each in their own version of mourning. Wesley and Phoebe wear matching black blazers. Carlotta has on the perfect little black dress.
Sara looks like she’s in mourning herself. Annell embraces me and tells me how sorry she is. Stan refills my glass. Each time he gives me a hug and says, “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Meena brings glasses of water to counter the alcohol and treats me as if I might break. She gives no hint that she knows exactly how Nate died, that I am drowning in guilt, that I am not the typical grieving widow. Widow!
Angela and Jazmine serve as Meena’s “seconds,” taking and retrieving coats, replenishing food platters, ushering drinkers to the bar. They join the ranks of those making sure I have food and drink even though I’m only interested in the alcohol, which blends with the Xanax and allows me to listen to other people try to say the right things while I attempt to do the same.
But inside the fog that fills my brain, it’s still all about me. My loss. My anger. My guilt. My mistake.
“Your marriage was such an inspiration,” Dolly, a member of the neighborhood ALTA tennis team, says. “It’s rare to see people so happy.”
“Oh, God. I . . . I can’t . . . I’m sorry. Please . . . excuse me.” I bow my head to try to hide the tears and race from the room.
Murmurs of concern follow me as I pound up the stairs.
For possibly the first time in my adult life, I am forced to abdicate even the illusion of control. There’s nothing I can do about what has happened. There’s nothing to arrange or choreograph. But I feel as if there’s an awful lot to hide.
Sara
Judith’s husband is dead. Apparently, he suffered a heart attack at home in his own bed. A prime example of “here one minute, gone the next,” which is, I believe, how we’d all like to go.
I went to his funeral yesterday and spent most of the service wishing it was Mitch in that casket.
At least Judith’s husband didn’t choose to die. And he had the good manners to do it in his sleep. Probably with a smile on his face.
I haven’t smiled in weeks. Because my husband is in another city procreating. As if he has every right to live as many lives as he likes while I take care of his mother and keep the home fires burning.
Judith is allowed, even expected, to mourn, while I’m consigned to living in limbo. Still married in the eyes of the law and pretending that all is well. That Mitch is just commuting for work and not living another life that includes children he refused to have with me.
It’s been weeks since the surprise visit to Birmingham, and although I’ve been too hurt and angry to even attempt to reach Mitchell, I’ve overheard Dorothy leaving angry messages. Exhortations to at least “do the right thing,” by which I think she means coming to get her and divorcing me, which she actually described as “setting the poor woman free.”
I’m in the bathroom putting on makeup for my afternoon shift at Between the Covers when I hear his car pull into the drive. He doesn’t park in the garage—maybe he’s afraid he won’t be able to get out fast enough—and since I’m behind a locked door, I take my time getting dressed and straightening my spine. Deep breathing follows.
When I leave the bedroom, I do not sprint for my car like I want to but follow the sound of voices into the kitchen, where Dorothy is staring across the table at her son, her chin quivering.
Mitchell stands and walks toward me. I resist the urge to fall back. “Why are you here?”
“I came to say I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.” He says this quite sincerely.
“So, you accidentally impregnated a woman twice and are accidentally living with her and your son”—I can barely get the word out—“while pretending that we’re still married and sharing a life?”
“We are still m
arried,” he replies.
“No. Not as far as I’m concerned, we’re not.”
“Legally, we are.”
“Maybe on paper. But I plan to take care of that as soon as possible.” My own chin quivers. “You’re living the life I begged for. With another woman.”
“Her name is Margot.”
I shudder at the sound of her name and the way he says it. “I don’t care what her name is. I don’t want to know anything about her. If you came for your clothes, things that actually belong to you, be my guest.” I wave my arm in the direction of the bedroom. “It’ll save me the trouble of throwing them out in the yard and stomping all over them when I get back from the bookstore.”
“Like some wronged heroine exacting a clichéd revenge?” His mouth quirks in amusement. “This isn’t one of your romance novels.”
“No, it certainly is not.” I settle my purse strap over my shoulder and head for the hall closet to get my coat.
“I made a mistake,” he says, following me. “And I’m here to apologize.”
I yank my coat out of the closet and pull it on. “One child might be a mistake. Two—two is not a mistake. You’re a father, and you clearly have a longtime relationship with that . . . that woman.” I don’t intend to ever speak her name. “How could you come home on weekends and make . . . have sex with me . . . and then go back to her and to your other life?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. I slipped up and had an affair.” His voice turns pleading.
“That boy . . . your son . . . has to be close to four. And she’s pregnant again. You obviously have feelings for her. Do you have any idea how it makes me feel? I begged you to have children, and you had no problem saying no.”
“Yeah, well.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “She never asked.”
This sucks the air right out of my lungs. Dorothy gasps, too, from wherever she is in the kitchen. Listening. Hanging on to every word of this miserable conversation.
