A Beautiful, Terrible Thing

by Jen Waite

  Lisa continues. “And honestly, do you really think that a mature woman who had an ounce of self-respect would want to be involved with a married man whose wife is nine months pregnant? There are probably a few different things going on that created the perfect storm.”

  Finally, I ask Nat, and she is the first person who laughs. “Oh, you’re so cute. There are literally hundreds of girls like her in New York. I guarantee you it took absolutely zero convincing. She just didn’t care. I know you grew up in a place where you didn’t run into these kinds of people, but I’m telling you there are many, many people with extremely loose morals and absolutely zero boundaries. You want to psychoanalyze it, but the answer is pretty straightforward: She didn’t give a fuck.”

  “Really? You really think there are other people who would do what she did?”

  She laughs again. “Hundreds. Thousands. Do you know how many people, especially in New York, have the attitude ‘fuck everyone else’? Have you seen Croella’s Instagram? She’s constantly posting either selfies or quotes that say things like, ‘If you don’t like my attitude, fuck off.’ I mean, it might be hard to accept, but there are a lot of bad people in the world. Or at least people who do bad things.”

  I try to absorb this perspective. I know I am fixated on understanding Croella’s motivations and frame of mind because I can’t face trying to dissect the poisonous tangles inside Marco’s head. What he did is a dark, gaping black hole. I know that if I jump in, I will not find meaning, a light bulb will not go off and illuminate the cavernous walls; rather, I will get sucked into the darkness and never be able to find my way out. And then a voice in my head says very clearly, “She could have been anyone.” The obviousness and the truth of this statement jolts me. If it wasn’t her, it would have been someone else. Marco hunted for someone willing to feed his ego, but it didn’t actually matter to him who it was. I fall asleep not thinking, How did you do it, Marco? but How did you trick me for five years?

  BEFORE

  “OH my God, today is January twentieth, Seb’s birthday!” I said to Marco, placing Louisa into the cloth newborn carrier and wrapping it securely around my waist.

  “I know, I know, things have been so crazy with work and the baby that I completely dropped the ball on his birthday.” Marco rubbed his eyes and took a gulp of coffee. We’d been up off and on all night with Lulu. It was 6:45 A.M., but the hours blurred together now and it felt like the middle of the day. Marco poured coffee into a second mug and set it down on the coffee table. “Do you think you can pick him up a present today, and I’ll try to plan a party with Nat for some time next week?”

  “Of course. I’ll go with my parents. I know how much you’ve been working. You’re pushing yourself too hard, babe.” I took a swig of coffee and then set it back down and began power walking up and down the hallway. “She’s gotta be tired, right? I mean, she didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  “I don’t know.” Marco plopped down on the couch. “I guess we have a nocturnal baby.”

  “Actually, that’s true of all newborns,” I called from the end of the hallway. “The sleep book says that babies can’t distinguish between day and night until they’re a few weeks old.”

  “Great,” Marco said.

  “Hey, do you know what would be nice?” I said excitedly. “If we all surprised Seb when he gets off the bus this afternoon—with some cupcakes and balloons? What do you think?”

  “I can’t today,” Marco moaned as he stretched his legs onto the coffee table. “I have to go into work early.”

  “Oh, really? Shoot. OK, well, I’ll go with Lulu and my parents. His birthday needs to be celebrated in some way today, don’t you think?”

  “It would be great if you and your parents could do something for him. I wish I could go with you guys. I hate my job.”

  “It’s not really right for your boss to be making you work all these extra hours. Especially right now. Having you around is the only thing that is keeping me sane. Can you talk to him about cutting you some slack?” I asked, bobbing up and down in front of the couch. “I think she’s asleep, thank Jesus.”

  “He’s crazy, babe,” Marco said with a groan. “He doesn’t care that we just had a baby. And he doesn’t care that I haven’t seen Seb in two months. The restaurant didn’t do as well as he projected during the holidays and he’s freaking out now. He wants me there every day at one P.M. instead of three P.M. so we can go over numbers and talk strategy going forward. And he wants me to be the last one out every night now, too. So I won’t be getting home til four A.M. at the earliest for the next few weeks.”

  “Marco, that’s really insane,” I said. “The nights are really hard and I need—”

  “Babe, trust me, the one thing in the world I want to do is stay home with you and the baby. I’ve barely even spent any time with her since she was born. It’s driving me crazy. I promise I’ll talk to my boss in a few weeks. I’m going to ask for a week off so I can be home full-time with you guys.”

  “OK, that would be so great.” I took another deep breath and rubbed my eyes. “I’m so exhausted. I honestly don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “Let’s go get some breakfast while the baby is sleeping,” Marco said, getting up from the couch. He looked at me closely. “Do you want me to take her while you brush your hair?”

  “Oh.” I looked in the mirror on the opposite wall. My hair was sticking out in ten different directions. “I guess I haven’t really brushed my hair in a couple days.”

  “Here.” He held out his arms. I undid the baby carrier straps from my waist and carefully handed Louisa to Marco. I started to walk toward the bedroom and then paused. “I really love you, Marco. I just didn’t expect this to be so hard—”

  “Baby.” He cut me off. “I promise things will get a lot easier soon. We just have to ride this out.”

  “Right, OK,” I said, too tired to argue. “Things have to get easier soon, right? They have to.”

  AFTER

  I LISTEN to the words that I’m hearing on the other end of the phone, but my mind is a blank. How do I process this information that I’m receiving? How is it possible that I can hear something at this point that shocks me, that turns my stomach, that turns my mind into mush? Let’s back up. A friend who used to frequent the Thirsty Owl popped up today in a Facebook message, saying she’d been thinking about me and asked how I was doing. I told her to call me and now I am on the phone with her, telling her the story that I have now filed down to a few key details: found e-mail, emotional affair, suicide attempt, broker call, broken bed. She oohs and aahs and gasps in all the right places. When I think the conversation is over, her tone changes. “Jen,” she says, “I have to tell you something. I’ve been going over and over in my head whether or not to tell you, but I feel you have a right to know and you seem to be in an OK place to hear this now.” I am thinking, Hear what?! What more could there possibly be to hear? “Look, the reason Steve and Michelle always hated Marco so much? They caught him having sex in the Thirsty Owl when you guys first opened . . . on three separate occasions with three different women. And I guess his friend Tomas was involved one of the times too . . .”

  The only word I can manage to get out is, “What?” I sound calm.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says.

  “I don’t understand. But when we first opened . . . we went to Jamaica. . . . That was our mini honeymoon. . . . We were literally in the honeymoon phase.” My mind spins quickly, trying to figure out the right questions to ask. Shouldn’t I be a pro at this by now? Sorting through which pertinent questions to ask about my husband’s betrayals?

  We were so blissfully in love when the Thirsty Owl first opened. We had been married only a few months. Marco was still plastering Facebook with our pictures.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says again.

  We hang up. I lay down and stare at the ceiling. I w
ait. I wait for the meltdown, for the sobbing. Nothing comes. I know what my friend told me is true. This was the missing piece that I had been searching for. I remember reading that sociopaths cannot and will not, under any circumstances, remain faithful for longer than a few months, that even while idealizing one target, they are still constantly on the lookout for more supply. I had thought that I was the exception to this rule. I was even clinging to the thought: He was faithful for more than five years so he can’t be a true sociopath. Now I know with certainty. He did not lose his mind. He conned me from the very start. He is a predator. And I am his biggest catch yet.

  I put on my running sneakers and tug my sports bra over my heavy boobs. I throw on an old T-shirt and shorts and head out the front door as I call to my parents, “Going for a run. Lulu will be asleep for another hour.” I jog out of Haven, taking a right on Shore Road, pumping my legs faster and faster. I wasn’t sure where I was going when I first set out, but now I know. I start to pick up the pace, my lungs burn, and I gulp in cold Maine air. I focus on my breathing and my jumbled thoughts slowly untangle until the only thought in my head is keep going. I turn left into Fort Williams, taking a back entrance, and turn sideways to shimmy through a small opening in a fence. My eyes narrow against the sparkling water and the sun skimming the ocean. As my legs bring me closer to my destination, I want to turn back. I force myself to keep going, faster and faster. Get there, Jenny. The last part is uphill and for a second I think, I can’t do it; my eyes water, sweat streams down my face, and my lungs burn, and then the thought fills my head, Yes. You can. You can do anything now. I climb the hill, lengthening my stride, pumping my arms, grunting the last few feet, and there it is. The stairs that I climbed on my wedding day lay before me. I don’t stop to catch my breath; I have to keep moving or I will turn around. I climb them, remembering each step I took with my father a year ago, toward Marco. This time I am alone, and when I reach the spot where my father kissed my cheek and gave me to Marco, I finally stop. I remember how filled with love I was on that day. I remember looking at the man across from me and knowing that he would make me happy forever. And now it is time to let go of that man. Because that man never existed. There is no “old Marco” and “new Marco.” Marco was always an illusion; the best magic trick I’ve ever seen.

  SMOKE

  I RUN now. Every day. Something I never thought I would say. I run, not away from the past but toward the future. Every morning I breathe in Lulu’s sweet baby smell as I put her down for her morning nap, the one I can always count on for at least an hour around 9:00 A.M., and I throw on my running clothes, lace up my bright-orange sneakers, and fly out the front door. I still don’t know exactly what I am running toward, but it feels good to move, to sweat, to feel my muscles straining and working. A few months ago, in the depths of the chaos and depression, my skinniest pair of pre-pregnancy jeans hung from my frame. But now I have gained back some weight, my skin glows with the summer sun, and although my stomach is soft and saggy where it used to be hard and taut, I look in the mirror and see that I look the best I have ever looked. My lips turn up in a small smile at the irony of this. I turn from the mirror and run down the stairs, wave to my mom, and head out the front door and then stop. I run back inside, grab my car keys, and yell, “Going to run some errands, be back in an hour.”

  Forty-five minutes later, I stare at the woman across from me. Her blonde hair hangs in a full bob just past her chin, and her eyes are clear and wise.

  “What do you think?” the sleek red-headed stylist asks from behind the chair.

  “I love it,” I say, touching the smoothness of my hair. Suddenly, I am transported back to the bar, that first night with Marco, and I think of that girl twirling her hair nervously around her finger.

  “Are you sure? You look a little sad,” the stylist says with a concerned laugh.

  “No, I do. I love it. Thank you.” My hand goes to my hair again, and I give it a soft pat. “I was just thinking about how much there used to be.”

  “You needed a change, my dear.”

  “You have no idea.”

  —

  TONIGHT I nurse my daughter to sleep. I poke the corner of her mouth gently with my finger to loosen her grip on my nipple, and she pulls away with a start. Her eyes open for a second, and one arm flails out to the side. Suddenly, for the first time, I see her. It is like I have taken off smudgy glasses that I didn’t even know I was wearing. “You’re so beautiful,” I say in awe. “I see you.” She has sandy, light-brown hair and the most beautiful blue, almond-shaped eyes I have ever seen. She smiles at me, and I say again, “Oh my God, I see you.” The haze of grief that has enveloped me for six months lifts for a moment. I touch her cheek with my finger. I make a soothing, shushing sound and kiss the top of her head. Her hair smells like honey and baby, and for a moment she is the whole world and there is nothing else. I kiss her again and lay her in her crib and tiptoe out of the room, holding my breath as the door creaks in the same spot that it always creaks.

  Once I’m back in my bedroom, my phone stares at me from my bedside table, beckoning me. I haven’t checked either of their profiles all day. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. But now my fingers are moving independently from my body, typing and swiping and shaking just a tiny bit. He can’t hurt me anymore. He can’t hurt me anymore. I don’t even care. This is what I tell myself. His profile shows nothing new, and my brain barely absorbs this before my fingers are already pressing and swiping toward her profile. Her profile loads, and I see she has posted a new picture. A mixture of fear, adrenaline, anxiety, and nausea mingle in my stomach as I tap once and the new picture fills the screen. And then my eyes focus, and I see . . . she is wearing my husband’s pajamas. Ex-husband. Exexexex, get it straight, Jenny. The pajamas I bought him two Christmases ago and bought matching pairs for my dad and my sister’s husband. Red and green and white stripes. Marco wore them Christmas Day and then they became his day-off pants. We would sit on the couch with Chinese takeout from across the street, him in those pj’s and me in my moccasin slippers. And after we had finished our greasy meal, I would lay my head in his soft, flannel lap. A pit opens up in my heart. So now I know he can still hurt me. As I examine the picture, I feel a lump rising in my throat. I wait. The lump is still there, but I am not crying. It’s OK to cry, I tell myself. Still, no tears. I click to my home screen and bring up my text messages.

  “Croella posted a pic wearing pj’s I bought Marco for Christmas. But I’m not crying.”

  Nat responded, “No way. Is there no limit to their asshole douchiness?? Like, NO LIMIT? But that’s good. But it’s OK to cry.”

  “I know, but now I need to stop looking. I am just digging at the wound. Need to change my behavior.”

  Yes. Progress. Suddenly, not crying when I see my husband’s girlfriend wearing the pajamas I bought him is a step in the right direction. I laugh out loud and close my eyes.

  —

  I AM so exhausted. I am so exhausted that the word exhausted is almost too tiring to think, with its three goddamn syllables. Bone-numbing, eye-sockets-tingling, jaw-clenching exhaustion. It has now been six months since I have slept longer than four hours at a time. Louisa wakes only once during the night, but it segments my sleep into three- or four-hour chunks. I’ve tried to go to bed earlier, but my mind spins and spins until finally around midnight I slip away into a panicked, fitful sleep. My mind spins around different thoughts now that I am six months in . . . or should I say “out”? Instead of going over and over and over the details of my interactions with Marco leading up to January 20, trying to find that one that will finally make the unfathomable fathomable, or imagining him with her in our bed, imagining every detail of what must have been crazy, animalistic fucking (they broke a bed, after all), I now think of Louisa. Louisa growing up without a father. Louisa wondering if there is something fundamentally wrong with her. Louisa seeing pictures of our wedding, of us blissfully in lov
e six months prior to her birth and thinking, no matter how many times I explain it (and how will I explain it?), It was me. I was the reason everything fell apart. I tell myself that Louisa will know she is so loved and she will have strong men in her life and I will tell her the (gentle, very edited) truth about what her father is and how he is flawed. And I also know deep down that there is a good chance that I will find a man who will raise her with me. A man, a good man, who will become her father through singing her to sleep, combing her hair, helping her with homework, teaching her to ride a bike, all the small moments that mean so much more than DNA. But still. My insides ache at the thought of her learning the truth about her biological father. I don’t hurt as much for me anymore; I hurt for her now. And it is so much worse.

  —

  I FEEL as though I’m going backward lately. I am sick to my stomach all the time, and the anxiety is back full-force. A few days ago, I went to the mall with Louisa. She cooed in her stroller, and a group of grandparents converged on her stroller as we zipped through Macy’s.

  “What an absolutely beautiful baby,” a white-haired woman wearing a string of pearls cried.

  “My, isn’t she just lovely. Enjoy!” a ruddy-cheeked, round old man called after us.

  “I will,” I chirped to the group, and Lulu and I, both grinning, made our way to H&M. I placed Lulu in the hallway of the dressing room area and left the door ajar to my tiny room so that I could see her the entire time. I tried on two pair of jeans and a colorful, flowy top, and the two girls in the rooms next door fawned over Lulu. “Oh my gawd, she’s giving me baby fever!” said the brunette. I waltzed out of the store with the jeans and top in a bag tucked underneath the stroller, and when we pulled back into the rocky driveway of my parents’ house, she was ready for a nap. I felt good, really good, and that afternoon I posted a Facebook photo of my new outfit with the caption “good f&ing riddance.”