“Did you wear a condom?”
“Yes.”
“You had a condom?”
“No, she did.”
“Did she sleep in your room?”
“No. She left right after.”
“Did you tell John and Craig?”
“No. I haven’t told anyone.”
I sit quietly for a few minutes, trying to think of anything else I need to know right now. My brain feels like a traffic jam—I hear lots of loud noises, but nothing is moving forward. I realize that I need to be alone; I need to think. The thought of him anywhere near me is repulsive. “I think you should sleep in the guest room.” I mean to say that with conviction. It sounds more like resignation.
“Gracie, I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I realize that I’ve put our marriage, our family in jeopardy. Please forgive me. It meant nothing. You and the boys are everything to me. You are my entire life.” He stands up, runs his hands through his hair, and wipes his eyes. He looks pathetic.
“I just can’t have you near me right now,” I say, as the tears finally start to flow.
“I know. I’m so sorry. I understand. But please, can we talk about this tomorrow? I’ll stay home from work. I will do anything to make you understand that this was nothing.”
“Don’t stay home. I need to think. We’ll talk tomorrow night. But I think you should leave for work before the boys and I get up.” I turn to my side and bring the covers up to my face. Once Darren collects his clothes and toothbrush for the next day and I hear him shut the door to the guest room, I get out of bed and practically rip off the ridiculous getup I have on. I change into my most comfy pajamas, turn off the TV, grab a box of tissues, and get back into bed. My thoughts are racing, and I wonder if I will sleep at all. I try to remember the different calming breaths I had read about in a magazine once, but I can’t stop the thoughts. They keep me up late into the night, but eventually the exhaustion of sorting out the rest of my life puts me to sleep.
The morning after my dad had his first heart attack, I remember waking up with a weird knot in my stomach. It took me a moment to figure out why I felt so strange, and then I remembered my dad was in the hospital. I have the same experience this morning as I wake up to my alarm, and then I remember. Darren cheated on me.
chapter five
I drag myself out of bed, feeling absolutely nothing like I’d planned to feel when today was still supposed to be the first day of the rest of my life. This is about as far from momentous as I can imagine. This is like if momentous were the North Pole, I’m hanging out with the emperor penguins in Antarctica.
I wash up, and walk down the hall toward the guest room. I’m relieved to see Darren is not there, and I’m surprised to see that, though it’s not going to win any awards in an army barracks contest, the bed is made. Darren has never made a bed in the twelve years that I’ve known him.
I wake up the boys, trying to be cheerful about the first day of school, and then I make my way downstairs. I realize that I have to push all thoughts of last night aside and deal with getting the boys off to school. I will have plenty of time today to think.
“Please stop telling your brother that his scrambled eggs are dead baby chicks,” I implore Henry, as I quickly spread butter and jelly on two pieces of toast.
“But they are dead baby chicks, Mom,” Henry protests. “Last year on the field trip to the nature center, I saw the mother chickens pooping out the eggs in their nests. So the eggs are their babies, and when you cooked them you killed them, so now we’re eating dead baby chicks,” he says with all the authority of a precocious eight-year-old, pushing his gorgeous blond curls out of his eyes.
“They’re not actually dead baby chicks, and they’re not pooped out. They’re laid. And they’re not fertilized, so they were never going to become chickens,” I say, trying to be patient.
“Well, they taste good, so let’s eat them anyway,” Henry says.
And with that, my two boys Henry and James (we just liked those names; it had nothing to do with any affinity toward a certain literary realist) dig into their scrambled eggs and whole-wheat toast with butter and jelly. A nutritious enough first-day-of-school breakfast, I think as I gulp my coffee, willing it to work. I cut up an apple and a banana, quickly arrange them on a plate, and slide it between the two vegans-in-training who are propped on the navy and white bistro barstools at our kitchen island.
“Good job with the shoes, James,” I say to my little guy, noticing that he has put on his sneakers all by himself. Wrong feet, but it’s a start. “Henry, remember what we talked about last night? That we’re going to try to have better morning routines for school, to make getting out of the house easier this year? And how you’d put your shoes on before you sat down to breakfast?”
“I forgot. And you always say no shoes in the kitchen, so James is actually in trouble.”
“He’s not in trouble,” I say, glancing at James who looks scared, his big blue eyes opened wide. I’m relieved that my voice is still calm despite the fact that we only have nine minutes left before we have to rush to the bus. “It’s okay to break that rule in the morning, because I need you guys to be ready to go as soon as you finish breakfast.”
“I’m so happy for school today, Mommy!” James says.
“I know, buddy. You are the kindergarten man!”
“Kindergarten’s easy. It’s for babies,” Henry says, sneering at his little brother.
“It’s not easy when you’re the one in kindergarten,” I say lightly. “And there are no babies in this house.”
“No more babies!” the boys shout in unison, mimicking my familiar refrain whenever someone mentions we should have another baby. Two is just about all I can handle right now.
As the boys eat, I try to ignore the awful images of Darren’s dalliance going through my brain. I implore myself to focus. Just get them on the bus. Then you can collapse into a puddle. I take a deep breath and lean the backpacks (camouflage for Henry, SpongeBob for James) against the door and check, for the third time, to make sure their necessary first-day-of-school forms are inside, including the health forms that I forgot to send before the deadline. All there. Ditto for the school supplies and mid-morning snack (packaged and nut-free). Relieved not to have to worry yet about jackets, mittens, and hats, I return to the kitchen to move things along.
“James’s fish isn’t dead yet, so you have to feed him, Mom,” Henry reminds me.
“His name is Little Blue!” James insists, hands on hips and eyebrows scrunched, as I drop a few pellets into the tank. Damn fish won’t die.
When the boys finish eating, Henry puts on his socks and shoes while I quickly brush James’s teeth and load the dishwasher. I know what’s coming next even as I try to brace myself and remain calm. I have ten months of school mornings until summer vacation, and I had pledged to make it through at least the first one without yelling.
“None of these socks feel good,” Henry whines from the mudroom.
I feel the familiar knots starting in my stomach as a trickle of sweat makes its way down my back. I lower James from the step stool and stand in front of Henry. “But we tried on all these socks, Hen. You said you’d wear them.”
“But they don’t feee-eee-uhhll good,” he replies, trying my patience.
“Well, you’re just going to have to wear them,” I say in a calm voice that surprises us all. The boys are no strangers to my frustrated urgency when it comes to getting out of the house on time. “We don’t have time for this today. Just put them on and deal with it. Once you get your shoes on, you won’t notice the socks anymore.” This tactic has worked in the past, so I pray to the mothering gods that they won’t disappoint.
“Fine.”
Victory.
“Okay, now put your arms around each other. I need a first-day-of-school shot,” I say, as I rally the boys and search for my phone in my purse. “Henry, don’t make rabbit ears over James’s head, please,” I beg as the shutter clicks and capt
ures Henry smirking and James looking behind his head to see what the hell’s going on back there. It’ll have to do. The bus is about to arrive. I sigh, “Come on guys, let’s go.”
The good thing about having my neighborhood’s bus stop right in front of my house is that I have until the last possible moment before we have to rush out the door. And, on the days that I don’t feel like engaging with the likes of Lorna Smithson et al., I can just send the boys on their way and wave from the house until the bus door closes. This being the first day, I brave the dewy grass in my slippers and join the other Central Casting suburban mothers and kids on my lawn.
Which brings me to the bad thing about having my neighborhood’s bus stop right in front of my house: The likes of Lorna Smithson et al. feel some inalienable right to comment on the state of my grass, and I can always be sure that as the bus pulls away I will find sundry breakfast food wrappers from some of the neighborhood children littering my lawn, especially those for strawberry Pop-Tarts, which I know for a fact don’t belong to Lorna Smithson’s triplets, because I know for a fact she feeds them only steel-cut oats with organic blueberries and a kale shake. She just told me so. And how that woman gets those fifth graders to dress in identical outfits for the first day of school and actually have smiles on their faces, I will never know.
“Did you get a good first-day-of-school photo?” Lorna asks me, her monstrous Nikon hanging from her neck as her pink Prada scrunch ballet flats sink into the wet grass. She cornered me, despite my attempts not to make eye contact with anyone. Just deal, Grace. A few more minutes.
“Not so good. But good enough. I just like to capture the essence of the boys. I’ve always felt that the super-posed shots feel too forced,” I tell her, crossing my arms in front of my chest so no one will be able to tell I’m not wearing a bra under my threadbare U2 Joshua Tree concert T-shirt. I’m convinced she can read in my eyes that my husband cheated on me.
“Mmmm.”
Condescending bitch.
Lorna continues, “I actually have all our first-day-of-school photos framed in the hallway outside the triplets’ rooms in shadow boxes with each year labeled and containing each child’s photos from school, soccer, and Little League and/or hip hop. It’s such a nice way of preserving the memories. You really should come over for coffee one day, Grace. You haven’t been over since we finished the reno on the kitchen.”
“I’d love to, Lorna,” I lie, wondering how she has time in the morning to apply blush and her trademark red lipstick, put on a coordinated outfit including a belt, and prepare whole grains. Saved by the bus.
“Bye, guys,” I say cheerfully to Henry and James, giving them big wet ones and giant hugs that swallow them whole. “You’ll do great, James. I’ll be right here after school. I love you!”
“Love you too, Mom,” they say as they charge confidently onto the bus.
Love that. Love that they’re independent and don’t give a second thought to leaving me and going off into the world. Through the windows, I proudly watch Henry lead James into a seat and help him with his seatbelt.
“I thought the kindergarten moms were supposed to bring the kids into school on the first day?” Lorna asks accusingly, interrupting my thoughts.
“It’s optional this year. Plus, James has been at the school so many times, and he has Henry with him on the bus and to walk him into school. He’ll be fine.”
“Oh. You must be so sad your youngest is starting kindergarten,” she says in a baby voice. “I couldn’t get Lisa Millerton off the phone last night. Poor thing was hysterical that Maddie was starting school.”
When Henry started kindergarten, I walked him into school the first day, James on my hip, Henry’s tiny clammy hand in mine. All the moms were swirling around, putting backpacks into cubbies, posing their kids for photos, greeting the teacher, the works. Like a seething tornado of attentive mothering. And most of the moms were crying. I tried. Honestly. I tried to cry. And considering I am ridiculously sentimental and cry at Harry Chapin songs and weight-loss reality television, I was surprised my eyes remained dry.
I wanted to feel what those other moms were feeling. That powerful sense of loss, of transition, of crossing that line from being in charge of the needs of your child 24/7 to relinquishing that responsibility to someone named Miss Marsha. But I just felt joy. Joy that I had raised my baby, that he was ready for this next step in life, that I was closer to regaining time for myself. Still, I felt sad that I couldn’t cry. That I was denying myself a universal rite of motherhood. And, of course, me being me, I thought I was doing it wrong.
“No, I wouldn’t call it sad. Maybe sentimental or nostalgic, but not sad. He’s ready. And I’m certainly ready to have time for myself,” I respond confidently to Lorna.
“That’s great, Grace. I remember when the triplets started kindergarten, and it freed up my days. That’s when I got involved in the hospital. Let me know if you’re interested in working on the fall fundraiser. We need all the help we can get,” Lorna says cheerfully.
“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” I say as the bus pulls away, and I pick up a few wrappers and go back into the house. I immediately start to cry as I release the intense tension I have been holding in all morning trying to act normally in front of the boys. Yesterday, when I thought of what that delicious moment would be like after the bus pulled away, I pictured myself skipping back into the house giggling, indulging in a bit of crazy dancing while singing George Michael’s “Freedom,” luxuriating in the feeling that I had no lunches to make, no appointments to get to, no mommy-and-me classes to slog through. I never pictured feeling the way I do now.
chapter six
I pour another cup of coffee and think about what I should do next. When I lived in the city, I would run around the reservoir several times a week. That is where I always got my best thinking done. I would come up with the perfect lead for an article I was writing, the perfect wording for a complicated email I needed to send my boss, the perfect idea for my and Darren’s next travel adventure.
I decide to do a trail run at the preserve where Cameron and I hike every Saturday morning. My neighborhood is perfect for running, but I don’t feel like having to stop and chat if my neighbors are outside. Even having to smile and wave would be too difficult for me right now. I’d heard your typical cautionary tales about the preserve and have never gone there alone, despite the fact that none of the stories had ever been proven. But I just don’t care right now. I’m playing the odds. What are the chances I’ll get raped the day after I find out my husband cheated on me? Plus, that preserve is my favorite place. Being in nature soothes me. I need soothing.
I’m happy to see the parking lot is crowded. There will be other people to hear me scream when the rapist attacks. That is, unless he gags me with a towel. These are the things that go through my mind. Constantly. Always the worst-case scenario. It happens when anyone I love gets on an airplane, when my kids go to a drop-off birthday party at one of those wretched indoor play spaces that I’m convinced hire child molesters, when the technician looks at me funny during a mammogram. And now it will happen whenever Darren goes on a business trip.
I hold my keys in my fist and keep one key sticking out between my fingers to use as a weapon should the need arise. I start running, my blonde ponytail bobbing purposefully, and the world seems to fall away. I’m left with my thoughts. My brain is not the shy, silent type. No, it’s constantly churning, leading me to overanalyze, overspeculate, and overthink. At first, my thoughts are all swirling, and then I start to categorize them.
My first thoughts are purely about the physical contact he had with another woman; that disgusts me. I picture him kissing someone else, and my stomach clenches. In that picture, Tina, or as I’ve come to call her, The Chicago Husband Bandit, is in her late 20s and tall with long, brassy blonde hair, rust-colored lipstick, and eyebrows that she plucked too much and now draws in with a brown pencil. She’s wearing a tight, black tank top with a plunging neck
line that reveals her voluptuous breasts, a tight, black skirt, and heels that are sensible enough so she can work in them all night, but sexy enough to ensure good tips. I wonder if I really want to know what she looks like. I have a short fantasy about looking up the hotel name on Darren’s corporate AmEx statement, flying to Chicago, and sitting in the bar to watch The Bandit in action. I’m not crazy enough to picture myself with a gun in that fantasy. I don’t really blame her. I only blame Darren. He let this happen.
I start the first uphill part of the trail, and my heart starts beating hard. I haven’t run in a while, and I’m not really in good-enough shape to do three miles. The anger fuels me, and I power ahead. I can’t believe I’ve been so certain over the years that Darren would never cheat. That he would stick to his promise. Men cheat. It’s what they do. I think of the politicians I’ve seen on TV over and over again: the man shamefully announcing his transgression into a microphone, the wife in her Chanel jacket even more shamefully standing off to the side wondering what her mother must be thinking, how her kids will get teased at school the next day, and how unbelievably fucking inadequate and humiliated she feels. I just never thought it would be Darren. I imagine most women think it will never happen to them. I can’t imagine any woman thinking it could happen, or why would you marry the bastard in the first place?
But it’s just so not Darren. So I wonder if I should blame myself. If things had been better between us lately, if we had been having more sex, if I had a better body, then would he still have been tempted by the big-boob Bandit? He said it didn’t mean anything. I completely believe that. I have no doubt about that, actually. I do know that he regrets it. That he wishes more than anything that it didn’t happen. But it did. I pass two women walking their dogs and realize the dogs can maul the rapist. I loosen my ersatz brass knuckles.
On Grace Page 3
