Then I start thinking that if it could happen once, it could happen again. Maybe this isn’t even the first time. Maybe it’s happened before, but for some reason the guilt finally got him and so he’s admitting this one. Darren travels a lot for his job. He’s had lots of opportunities. And he often travels with John. All of our friends know that since John got divorced—because Amy cheated with her tennis instructor—he’s been like a seventeen-year-old boy whose hormones just kicked in.
As I approach the next hill, I’m in a groove, and I resolve to start a regular running regimen again. It was part of my plan anyway, but I forgot how good the endorphins feel. Speaking of my plan, I realize this changes everything. All the energy I was planning on investing in reconnecting with Darren will now have to go into salvaging my marriage. Or not. At this point, I basically have two options. Option one is to get divorced and option two is not to.
There are loads of reasons why I should get a divorce. I tick them off in my mind: 1) How could I ever trust him again? 2) How much could he really love and respect me if he let something like this happen? 3) If he loved and respected me more, he wouldn’t have allowed this to happen, right? 4) Will I ever be able to be intimate with him again?
On the flip side, there are loads of reasons why I shouldn’t get divorced: 1) What we have (had?) is so solid. 2) I don’t want to foist a divorce on my boys; I know they won’t be the only kids in the world growing up with divorced parents, but having grown up that way myself, I know it’s not ideal, and if I can avoid it, I’m going to try. 3) While I’m not defending his actions, I know that biologically, anthropologically, there’s a difference between men and women when it comes to sexual needs. I did read The Clan of the Cave Bear, after all. I know that it is possible for a man to be unfaithful (I’m talking a one-time drunken sexual encounter, not a long-term emotional affair—completely different animals) and have it not mean anything. 4) I believe that Darren regrets this, loves me, and is hoping that I’ll forgive him. At least I think I do.
I don’t want to get divorced. I’m not convinced I want to be married to Darren right now, but I know I don’t want to be divorced from him. I don’t really know what I want. I’m still completely shocked that I am even in this situation. I can’t believe it happened to me. How cliché am I?
I see the parking lot ahead, and I sprint, amazed at how much energy I have. I haven’t done more than a mile on a treadmill in over a year. I know my quads will be paying for this burst of exuberance tomorrow, but I don’t care. I don’t really care about anything.
I mainly keep thinking that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. Am I supposed to call my mom? Cameron? Am I supposed to call Darren and tell him off? Or tell him to come home? Or tell him never to come home again? Am I supposed to insist he sleep in the guest room? Or move out? Am I supposed to be consumed with anger? With sadness? With regret? Or am I not supposed to feel much of anything at all because I’m supposed to be in shock? Am I supposed to suggest counseling? Or is he? Am I supposed to make this hard for him in order to prove that he messed with the wrong woman? Am I supposed to make it not hard because he’s my husband, and I love him for better or for worse? Or am I just not supposed to care what I’m supposed to do and just do what I want to do?
I get back to my car and feel like I’m going to throw up, mostly because of my run but partly because my confusion is manifesting itself in anxiety and that always goes straight to my gut. I stretch against my car as my breathing recovers and feel relieved that my worst fears for this run didn’t come true. Then I check my email on my phone. Amidst the random ones from the PTA, Target, and various friends, there are three from Darren. They are apologies: pleading, remorseful, groveling apologies. Our power balance has never been like this. It feels horrible.
“Was this the first time?” I text.
“Yes,” comes the answer immediately.
I don’t write back.
Later, after I’ve showered and answered emails and texts—all but Darren’s—I email Cameron to see if she can have lunch with me in the city tomorrow. She can’t always get away from the office for a proper lunch, so I hope that her schedule is light. I don’t write that it’s important in my email, because I don’t want to alarm her. I want to tell her the story in person. Cameron is incredibly rational and able to be unemotional while dealing with stressful situations—handy traits for a doctor—and I need to discuss this with her.
She emails me back right away, says she’s free, and asks me to meet her in front of her office at noon. I dock my iPhone, crank-up Cat Stevens, and spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning out my pantry. My pantry is like a vintage clothing store: There’s way too much stuff crammed together, and a lot of it is way past its expiration date. The project is almost meditative—but not entirely. I can’t turn off my brain, and I think back to when Darren and I first met.
We talked and danced all night at Cameron and Jack’s wedding, much to the delight of Cameron and Jack. As we said goodbye, Darren whispered, “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow” in my ear as he gave me a sweet kiss and said goodnight. I walked out of the wedding with a huge smile on my face, butterflies tangoing in my stomach, and the excited feeling that comes only when you’ve met a guy who is not insignificant.
The next morning at the post-wedding brunch, I could barely eat my omelet because every time he smiled at me, I felt—and blushed—like a thirteen-year-old girl with a wicked crush. In his fitted blue-and-white checked button-down and jeans, he was the perfect combination of conservative and sexy. I had to force myself not to stare. And when he asked me what I was doing the rest of the day, I decided my errands and laundry didn’t hold a candle to this beautiful and exciting man.
We walked aimlessly through Central Park for hours, talking about our families (he grew up an only child in Atlanta; I come from a drama-laden family in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley), our jobs (he was on the rise at an investment bank downtown; I was an associate editor at a health and fitness magazine), our dreams (he wanted to give it all up someday and live on a Caribbean island surrounded by his kids, dogs, and palm trees; my dream had always been to be a dancer, but I took the safer route), and our bad habits (he often bought new clothes to avoid doing laundry; I read every issue of People, Us, and The National Enquirer cover to cover).
After a romantic late lunch at Isabella’s on the Upper West Side, we walked toward my apartment at Columbus Circle while he held my hand and made me laugh. By this point it was early evening, and I invited Darren up to watch 60 Minutes. We ended up talking on my couch for hours, sharing a bottle of pinot and a carton of Häagen-Dazs coffee chip, looking through my photo albums, and falling for each other. When our kissing turned to more, I told him that I didn’t usually do this on the first date. He told me he usually didn’t either, but he was willing to make an exception. And with that, we made and fell in love, all on our very first date.
I walk outside a few minutes earlier than the bus is scheduled to arrive, because I’m hoping to see Monique O’Donnell, whose husband Matthew is, rather was, the owner and publisher of the Westchester Weekly. I want to ask her what’s going on. No luck. I see her nanny in the nanny huddle off to the side.
I approach the mom huddle and find Lorna talking to the Kelly-Ripa-esque Ellen Statler, whose newly purchased breasts—that are decidedly un-Kelly-Ripa-esque—are spilling out of her fitted V-neck. (My own tiny breasts twitch with envy.) Ellen and Monique are next-door neighbors, so I ask Ellen if she’s heard anything about them moving away or Matthew switching jobs.
“Well, this is probably not news I should spread around, but I will tell you, Grace, because I know you don’t gossip.” At this point, I should pull her aside so that Lorna, who does gossip, won’t hear, but Ellen is fully aware of that so I let her continue. “Monique’s housekeeper told my housekeeper that they’ve been separated for a couple months. Apparently, Matthew had an affair and demanded a divorce from Monique.”
“Wow. That’s t
errible,” I say, trying not to stare at her breasts, which are abnormally spherical, while mentally adding the O’Donnells’ to the growing list of affair-induced divorces among our friends and acquaintances.
“Why do you ask?” Ellen asks. She’s harmless, but I don’t want Lorna to know the details of my career, or lack thereof. So I fudge it.
“I went onto the Weekly’s website today to check a restaurant review for a new Honduran place I heard about in Port Chester, and there’s a notice on the homepage that the magazine is closing. I was surprised, and I wondered if they had sold the business.” The divorce doesn’t explain why the magazine closed.
“That’s too bad,” Lorna clucks, referring probably to the shuttering of the magazine, not the marriage. “And that Honduran place is fabulous.”
As the bus comes to a stop, I search the windows for my boys and see James, his eyes closed and his cheek flattened against the window. When Henry shakes him awake, James catches my eye through the window, realizes where he is, and smiles that baby-tooth grin that slays me every time.
It must be noted that in many of the houses down the block and across the street, there are freshly baked cookies awaiting the kids, this being the first day of school. Lorna baked both chocolate-chip and heart-shaped frosted shortbread, and brought the overflow to the bus stop. She handed a paper plate filled with both varieties to the nannies to pass around their group, while she held court with the moms, distributing the cookies herself from a white basket-weave Tiffany platter. This from a woman who called the school board last year to complain that the cafeteria brownies were made with white flour.
At our house, we have something even more special. Just before the bus was to arrive, I realized I had forgotten to do the whole freshly baked cookies thing, so I scrambled and made a snacks platter out of all the cookies, crackers, and granola bars from their almost-empty boxes.
“Yummy!” cries Henry as he spots the colorful masterpiece of partially hydrogenated soybean oil-laden treats.
“I’m so glad you like it!” I say, happy that my boys have no clue that there is any domestication lacking in their mother. They settle into their stools, and I pour us each a glass of lemonade from the carton. “So?” I ask with anticipation. “How was the first day of school?”
“Good,” they answer in unison.
“And?” I say, hoping for a tad more information.
“Just good,” Henry answers. “Except my cubby has Megan on one side and Emily F. on the other. Not good.”
“I thought Megan was your girlfriend?” James taunts.
“That was in kindergarten when I was a baby, dummy,” Henry says, kicking his little brother under the counter while he stuffs another handful of unnaturally orange fish crackers in his mouth.
And let the games begin.
“C’mon guys. Henry, you know we don’t say dummy in this house. I would appreciate it if you would be kinder to your brother.” Trying to move the conversation onto happier subjects and bring back the brotherly love, I say, “So, Hen, did you walk James into class?”
“Yeah, and he has the same cubby I had when I was in kindergarten. Miss Marsha said she likes to do that for brothers. And she even let us write our names real small with marker way back inside the cubby. I did “James” for him because he can’t write real tiny-like. It was cool.”
“It was cool,” James repeats, smiling adoringly at his big brother. This undying love for Henry allows James to focus less on the times Henry calls him names, gives him wedgies, spies on him, and splashes him in the bath. Instead, he focuses on the loving things Henry does which are plentiful as well, like generously doling out hugs, stories, and invitations to play baseball. And that’s what makes it all bearable for James. And for me.
As they finish their snacks, we hear the garage door open.
“Daddy!” the boys shout, surprised and thrilled that their dad is home so early.
chapter seven
Being born with a name like Grace can put a lot of pressure on a girl. My mom, the oh-so-elegant Nina Roseman, always made a point to remind me that I should do my best to personify my name. She did not have such requirements or lofty expectations for my older sisters named Eva and Danielle. But I, Grace Julia Roseman, took the assignment seriously.
One of my first memories is from ballet class. I must have been four or five. I can picture us all lined up in head-to-toe ballet pink, hair in careful buns, standing at the barre waiting for Mrs. Murkowski, the ancient pianist, to begin. As Miss Natalya starts counting and telling us which positions to take, she says, “Remember, girls, be graceful.” Now, when you’re four or five, you don’t necessarily realize that word has any meaning outside of your one and only name. So when Miss Natalya, in her exotic Russian accent, entreated us to be graceful, I heard be like Grace.
I’d like to think that I was a little surprised that the teacher was asking all of the girls to be more like me. But I’ve seen the photographs from those days: they show a tiny little thing with her chin held high and her smile so proud. Modesty yet unlearned, I bet I believed that all of those little girls were being told to dance just like me.
My comfortable and sheltered upbringing allowed me to act with grace most of the time. Until I was fourteen, there was no darkness in my life. No opportunity to be less than graceful. True, my parents divorced when I was only three, but I was so young, I didn’t know any differently. I have no memories of them married. Barely any photos of us all as a family. Having my mom and dad in separate houses with separate lives was always my normal. Their divorce didn’t define me, and luckily, they acted in a civil way in front of my sisters and me. They spared us the unfair burden of having to choose who received more love.
Now, as my husband enters the kitchen, his transgression tainting my family’s headquarters of warmth, tranquility, and love, I beseech myself to act with grace. I will do no less in front of my children.
“Hey, guys!” Darren says, kissing the boys. He glances at me to get a read. I am blank.
“Daddy, I get to be Star of the Week next week, the first one in the whole entire class!” James says proudly, the first I have heard of this. I imagine there’s a note in his backpack listing all of the things I now have to do for this honor, including bringing in a nutritious snack for twenty-three kids and creating a poster of all his favorite things.
“That’s so great, buddy. How was your day, Hen?”
“Good. We had science today and got to see all the new animals that Mr. Kellogg got over the summer. He got a tarantula, and it’s so cool, and it’s so ugly. And guess what? He said that over Christmas vacation we can volunteer to take one of the turtles or little snakes or hermit crabs home. Can we, Dad?” Henry asks, his eyes shining with excitement.
“Well, that’s a long time from now. Mom and I will have to talk about it,” Darren says, and he smiles at me.
I realize I can’t do this. Not yet. “Guess what guys?” I say excitedly, staring into their innocent faces, putting my elbows on the counter and my chin in my hands. “Daddy came home early because he’s taking you guys to the playground and then for pizza and ice cream!”
The boys cheer and look at Darren with their best you’re-our-favorite-parent look while I busy myself with getting them ready. While he’s not about to disappoint the boys after that announcement, Darren looks at me searchingly and asks me if we can talk tonight. I just nod and help get the boys into the car.
I figure they’ll be gone for two and a half, maybe three hours, which only gets me till 6:30 or 7:00—too early to reasonably be sleeping when they get home. I feel guilty that this will be the second night in a row that I haven’t put the boys to bed, but I know what I have to do. I send Darren an email.
Thanks for taking them. I’m just not ready to deal. Would be great if you could tell the boys I’m not feeling well and that I went to sleep. Please sleep in the guest room again. I think I’ll be ready to talk tomorrow night. Just trying to sort out how I feel. Thx, G.
I know I’m being kind, but it’s just not me to be any other way. Even in a situation like this.
I doze off somewhere in the middle of the third rerun of Real Housewives of wherever. I awake to Darren coming quietly into our room. He gathers his stuff for work and turns off the TV. I pretend to sleep.
The next day, I take the 10:33 train from Rye, which gets to Grand Central at 11:12, leaving me enough time to walk the thirty blocks north to Cameron’s office on East 74th Street, between Madison and Park. I don’t miss living in the city, but being back always gives me a rush of energy. I love walking up Park, seeing whatever new sculptures have been installed in the medians, dodging tourists whose unmistakable pace is slower than a true New Yorker’s, smelling the exotic scents emanating from the food carts. Yes, technically, I’m bridge-and-tunnel now (a condescending term used for those who don’t actually live in Manhattan and have to enter the island via a bridge or a tunnel), but since I was a rent- and tax-paying citizen of Gotham for so many years, I feel I have an exemption. Plus, I walk fast.
I get to Cameron’s office a few minutes early and wait outside. She rents space from a reputable art and antiques gallery, and the building reflects its dignified image: it’s a beautiful old townhouse with distinctive iron handrails adorning the elegant front steps, window boxes displaying a colorful mix of blooms, and two potted topiaries guarding the handsome front door. As the door opens, Cameron walks out, a smile on her face and strappy crocodile sandals on her feet. She tells me she’s starving and craving pancakes, so we make our way to EJ’s Luncheonette on Third Avenue.
Though not the place I would have chosen for the moment I tell my best friend I’ve been cheated on, I’m not about to deny a pregnant woman her carbs. EJ’s is packed when we walk in; it’s mostly filled with moms and little kids, but there are pockets of businessmen and older people eating Reubens. On our way to a table in the back, Cameron is stopped by no fewer than five women who greet her with reverence. Turns out they’re all parents of her patients. If they only knew how many times I’ve held the esteemed Dr. Stevens’s hair while she’s puked!
On Grace Page 4
