What the hell? I think that email definitely qualifies as flirting. Maybe he’s just lonely? And why can’t he use capital letters? I stare at the email and reread it several times, distressed to find that the butterflies are coming back. I can’t deny it feels good to be flirted with, even if that wasn’t his intention. I write back.
Hey, Jake. It is crazy, but you’ve always been a little crazy, haven’t you? Surely, wasting your precious high school years on Stephanie Campbell would qualify you. I don’t know why you got any impression that my marriage was in trouble so no legs need breaking over here. But thanks for looking out for me. Not the first time. Do you remember that motorcycle ride you took me on after my sister died? For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of anything. Not sure if I ever properly thanked you. I was pretty much in a daze. So thank you. Grace
I wait.
i do remember that-you were so sad. i think you were afraid tho. your arms were wrapped around me so tight i could barely breathe but i also kinda liked it. i think thats when i started having a crush on you
The email exchange continues, one after the other.
Me: Why didn’t you ever say anything?
Jake: because stephanie would have ripped my balls off. man she was a drama queen. plus you could have had any guy you wanted. especially all those guys who were 10 times smarter than me. didn’t think you’d ever go for a surfer like me
Me: I hardly could have had any guy! Hilarious that that’s what you think. Always fascinating to hear how other people perceive you. I went through high school desperate for a boyfriend. Oh how I swooned over you.
Jake: do you still?
Me: No. Sorry. Now I’ve got a husband to swoon over. You lost your chance.
Jake: and i will always regret it. what kind of work do you do?
Me: Funny you should ask, I had an interview today for a writing job for a health and wellness website. I really hope I get it. For the last eight years I’ve been taking care of my kids. Henry is 8 and James is 5. They’re adorable.
Jake: sounds great, gracie. really does. your family is lucky to have you. i always thought of you as kinda mature so you must be a great mom
Mature? No wonder he didn’t want to date me in high school. What sixteen-year-old boy is going to choose mature over hot and slutty? Two things I was never able to pull off.
Me: I think I am a great mom. Try to be. But ready to go back to work to challenge my “mature” mind again. How is your art?
Jake: always struggling but i just scored a show at a gallery in santa monica that has hollywood clients so that would be super rad if it all goes well. i’ve been getting a lot of interest from another gallery too so things may be picking up-keep your fingers crossed
Me: Fingers, toes, and eyeballs. Anyway, gotta go. Nice talking to you. Take care.
Jake: u2
I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. I realize that I have a huge, ridiculous smile plastered across my face. Am I flirting, too? Or just catching up with an old friend? When I decide to delete the entire conversation because I’d be mortified if Darren ever saw it, I realize I’m doing the former. At least I think I am, and that’s all that really matters. I decide not to initiate any email conversations with Jake. I don’t decide what I’ll do if he initiates. The thought brings the butterflies swarming.
chapter twelve
About two years ago, I was in the kitchen one Friday afternoon overseeing one of Henry’s homemade science experiments that he used to conduct with club soda, baking soda, food coloring, and other household staples, when I heard the familiar email chime on my laptop. The email was from Darren and said, “Want to see if Kimmy can sleep over on Saturday so we can go to New York City for the night?”
I immediately wrote back, “Who is this and why have you stolen my husband’s computer?”
He wrote back, “Hello? Who is this? This is Grace’s romantic husband.”
I wouldn’t characterize Darren as a romantic. He is incredibly kind, thoughtful, and loving. But it doesn’t come naturally for him to show it. I accept that about him and really don’t hold it against him. But when little glimmers of romance present themselves, and they do once in a while, I get really excited.
Kimmy had nothing going on, so she agreed to come late morning on Saturday and stay for twenty-four hours. Darren booked a room at the The Standard, the über-cool boutique hotel in the Meatpacking District. We spent that day meandering around, checking out art galleries, and drinking wine during lunch at Pastis. We had nowhere to be, nothing to do except whatever we wanted.
Darren surprised me by insisting we go into Scoop so he could buy me something to wear that night to dinner. Now, I’ve heard of men taking their women into boutiques, helping them select dresses, and then sitting patiently outside the dressing room in between showings of each dress. But I never, ever, thought Darren would ever suggest such a thing. One of his co-workers must have suggested it to him.
And even though we could blame the wine at Pastis for putting us in a silly mood, this was still one of the most fun things we’d done in a long time. We went through the store choosing dresses that we both liked and dresses that were outrageous, and I tried them all on. He ooh’d and aah’d and even gaped. At the end of our fashion extravaganza, we both agreed on a slinky black sleeveless dress that had a deep V-neck, a belted waist, and a slim skirt. It was gorgeous and made me feel incredibly sexy.
After our shopping spree, we went back to the hotel and did what The Standard is famous for: having sex in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows in our room. It was still daylight so we wouldn’t really qualify as exhibitionists; we’d both heard stories about people turning on their room lights at night and doing all sorts of things while voyeurs looked on. But the sex was hot and being out of the house made me feel so free. I did things to Darren that afternoon that I hadn’t done in a while. And he to me. And when we’d finally had enough of each other, we went into the shower where it just started all over again. I’m amazed we made it out that night, but we did. We had sex twice more—once after dinner and again when we woke up the next morning—and we returned home happy and refreshed.
It’s times like those that make me realize that although Darren isn’t your standard flower-delivery, heavy-with-the-compliments, let-me-pull-the-chair-out-for-you romantic, I prefer his way a lot more. I imagine the lay-it-on-thick guys just get pretty annoying and predictable, something that Darren certainly is not.
So I chuckle to myself when he brings home another bouquet of flowers for me tonight, something he’s done a few times since he sprung his news on me. It’s as if Darren is pulling out all the tools in his romance toolbox to fix our marriage. It’s sweet, and I do appreciate the efforts. But flowers do not a marriage mend. It’s going to take less-tangible things than that, like time, regaining trust, and my ability to move on. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s something I’m capable of doing.
That night at dinner, we play Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down, a game where everyone has to go around and say his or her best and worst parts of the day.
“My thumbs up is that I scored two goals at recess, and my thumbs down is that Janie sat next to me at lunch and told me I was cute,” Henry says, scrunching up his nose in disgust.
“That’s so sweet,” I say. “She probably likes you.”
“I know,” says Henry with a self-assuredness I envy. “But she’s not one of my girlfriends.”
Suddenly I’m living with Hugh Hefner. “Okay, James, how about you?”
“My thumbs up is I don’t know, and my thumbs down is I don’t know,” James says, returning to his chicken nuggets.
“Come on, buddy. There’s got to be something,” Darren says encouragingly.
“Hmmm. Well, nonebody at school wanted to play tag at recess so that was my thumbs down, and my thumbs up is that we have chicken nuggets for dinner.”
“Excellent,” I say, not wanting to correct his “nonebody” because I think i
t’s so cute. I’ve never been one to correct my boys when they say words wrong, like how James says “inficial” for “official” and how Henry still says “the Eastern bunny.” I know they’ll grow out of it sooner or later, and it’s just my way of holding on to their babyhood. I do correct grammar, however. That I can’t help.
“Your turn, Dad,” says Mr. Hefner.
“Let’s see. My thumbs down is that a mean businessman decided not to do a deal with my company today, and my thumbs up is that I’m so happy I have such a wonderful family with such a pretty mommy and such great boys,” Darren says, smiling at each of us.
“Okay, Mom, your turn,” Henry says, looking at me.
“Well, my thumbs up is that I think my interview went really well today, and I’m very happy about that. And my thumbs down is, hmmm, can’t think of one.” I can think of a big one, but I’m not going to share it.
The phone rings. The caller ID shows Cameron and Jack’s house number. Little do I realize, but I’m about to have my thumbs down.
“Hey, Cam,” I say cheerfully.
She’s barely able to say my name she’s crying so hard.
“Are you okay?” I ask, panicked.
Still more crying.
“I’ll be right there,” I say and hang up the phone. I explain to Darren and rush out of the house. Cameron is not one to make something out of nothing. I can only imagine it’s the baby.
Unfortunately, I’m right. When I get to Cameron’s house, Jack opens the door with a solemn look on his face and tells me she’s in the bedroom. I quickly walk upstairs and find her in bed, tears streaming down her face.
“What happened?” I ask, reaching for her hand.
“I lost the baby,” she manages to get out between sobs.
“Oh, Cameron. I’m so sorry.” I start to cry, too, and then I get into the bed with her, and we sit there for a while.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She takes a deep breath and starts to talk, “I had some dull abdominal pain this morning, but I just wrote it off as a stomach ache because we had Mexican last night. Then the pain got stronger, and I felt wetness in my underwear. I went to the bathroom and—” she starts to cry again.
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“Yes,” she says calmly. “The baby’s gone.” And then she starts crying heavily again.
Jack comes in the room, and I get up to hug him. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” I say.
“Thanks, Grace. I am, too.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Cameron says, angrily. “I really felt differently this time. I really thought this time I was going to be able to do it. What’s wrong with me?” Cameron sinks down under the covers and buries her face in her pillow. Suddenly, she darts up. “All I know is I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. And I can’t go back to that office and take care of all those babies.”
“Take some time off, Cam. Your covering doctor can pick up some of the load for a while.”
“I guess it’s just not meant to be,” Cameron says in a high voice, and she stares at Jack. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He comes over to hug her, and I suddenly feel like I need to leave this very private situation to them. In fact, I realize I rushed over without really asking if she wanted me to. But that’s what Cameron and I do. I stay a little while more, consoling my best friend who just lost the second-most-important thing in her life.
Jack walks me out, and as we stand at the doorway saying our goodbyes, he says, “Grace, about Darren. He told me what’s going on. I’m really so sorry you guys are going through this.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It totally sucks, but we’re trying to make our way through.”
“I know it’s not my place to tell you what to do, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I never shared this with you.” He hesitates and runs his hands through his hair.
“What, Jack?”
“Cameron knows this, so it’s no secret, but I was in a similar situation myself at a medical conference once. A woman was coming on to me pretty strongly. Luckily, I was just sober enough to stay away. But I see how it could happen, Grace. And I see it happen with colleagues all the time, guys who are crazy about their wives. So, I’m not trying to excuse what Darren did, I’m just trying to give you a different perspective from a guy. It never means anything, Grace. Just a weakness men have.”
“But you held back, Jack. You weren’t weak. Darren was.”
“I was just lucky, and as I said, just sober enough.”
I laugh bitterly and turn to leave.
“He’s a mess, Grace. I spoke to him today. Please just give him the chance to show you how sorry he is.”
“Thanks, Jack. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I feel like I’m standing on a stool in quicksand, and I’m petrified that someone’s going to take my stool away.”
“Hang in there, Grace.”
“Thanks, Jack. You, too,” I say and give him a hug.
When I get home, the boys are asleep and Darren is in bed, reading the newspaper and watching TV. I tell him what happened, and he is crushed. After I wash up, I walk down the upstairs hallway, which is lined with framed family photos, to make my nightly rounds. I go into Henry’s room first and find him asleep with a Harry Potter book open on his chest, his reading light still on. I close the book and turn off the light. He makes a sound and rolls over, and I cover him with his blanket and give him a kiss. Then I go into James’s room across the hall. My “baby” is asleep, covers completely off, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. I lie next to him and start to cry. Tears for the fierce love I have for these two boys, tears for the fear I have that my marriage might not make it, and tears for the intense pain I feel for my best friend.
The next day after I’ve gotten the boys off to school, bellies full with French toast and a strawberry-banana smoothie, I call Cameron to see if she wants to go for a walk.
“How are you feeling?” I ask her.
“Never better,” Cameron says sarcastically.
“Sorry, Cam,” I say, unsure for the first time in our friendship how to handle her. We’ve been through the highest highs, the lowest lows, and past miscarriages, but I sense we’re treading on new ground.
“No, I’m sorry, Grace. I’m just a mess. I couldn’t sleep last night. I had Marjorie cancel all my appointments today, which you know I’ve never done before. I think I’m going to have a hard time with this one.”
“You’re entitled to,” I say. “Do you want to go for a walk? Maybe the fresh air will feel good.”
“No, but thanks. I’m just going to hang out with my remote and Oprah all day. Jack went into the office, but he’s going to come home after lunch so he’ll be with me.”
“Can I bring you anything? Hamburger soup?” Cameron’s mother invented the recipe for this hearty and delicious soup—a panacea for all illnesses and emotional crises. Cameron introduced me to it in college when she made me a batch after I got a really (really) bad grade on an English exam. Now, we even have a dedicated hamburger soup pot—an orange Le Creuset—that we use. I think it’s at my house from the time this past spring when my dad had his most recent heart attack and Cameron brought me a batch.
“No, I’m not hungry. And I have some stuff in the fridge. But thanks, Grace. Thanks for being a good friend.”
We talk a bit more and then say goodbye. Although I want to suggest she go to the doctor and figure out her options, or maybe look into adoption, I know that Cameron will do that when she’s ready to.
While on a quick power walk around my neighborhood, I decide to approach this Darren cheating situation the way I’ve approached every other difficult or unfamiliar situation in my life. I will research the hell out of it. After a quick shower and a bowl of instant oatmeal, I head to the local bastion of data, Barnes & Noble at the City Center in White Plains. At the last minute, I opt for the Yonkers store, which is farther away, because I’ll be less likely to see anyone I know in the self-help aisle
. All I need is to run into Lorna while I’m balancing an armload of He Cheated, He Lied-type books in the checkout line. There she’ll be with the latest Jodi Picoult, telling me about how erudite the discussions in her book club are while she glances down at the spines of the books I’m holding and later broadcasts it to everyone in carrier-pigeon distance that yes, indeed, Darren May cheated on his wife.
Before I had left the house, I searched Amazon for “infidelity” and got 1,692 results. When I narrowed that down to paperbacks in their health, mind & body section, there were 382 results. I’m hoping Barnes & Noble just shelves the most indispensable of the lot.
I walk into the store and smell the calming aroma of Starbucks. I decide to fortify myself for this uncomfortable mission. A tall, no-foam, extra-hot, vanilla latte in hand, I’m ready to face the music. I find the long self-help aisle—its length a true commentary on our society—and then the subsection of relationships. I’m a little surprised that there’s even a sub-subsection called infidelity. I feel like they should have a special back room for shameful subjects, like porn at the video store. They should issue special Barnes & Noble paper bags that you wear over your head with two holes cut out for eyes so no one can see your face as you scan titles on a subject that you are hesitant to even discuss with your mother, let alone advertise to anyone who just happens to walk into the store.
But no such luck at this Barnes & Noble. My dirty laundry is hanging out to dry in full view of anyone who feels like coming into the self-help aisle, where the petite blonde woman is about to burst into tears as she fingers book spines with names like Infidelity: A Survival Guide and The Myth of Monogamy. I’ve spent hours of my life in Barnes & Noble stores, but never in aisles like this. Sure, they know me in literature & fiction, I have loads of buddies in children’s & parenting, and I’ve even been spotted a few times in diet & health and home & garden. But the self-help aisle is a bit foreign to me, and if it weren’t for The Bandit, I would still be a self-help virgin to this day.
On Grace Page 10
