Leaving Sophie Dean

by Alexandra Whitaker

  “Hey, does that imp in the supermarket ever taunt you?” she asked on impulse.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Anyway, look. Here are some pictures Matthew drew. Look at this one especially.” She passed over the stack, the double-faced one on top.

  She watched as he fished for his glasses, put them on, and inspected the pictures carefully. When he got to the end, he began again, his eyes moving all over the page, taking in the details. In the old days, how happy she would have been to see him pay such attention to the boys’ artwork. “Very nice,” he used to say, without looking, when they held up their drawings for his approval.

  “It seems you were right that they are upset,” she said.

  “Well, it’s good they’re expressing it, anyway,” he said at last. Then he set the drawings aside and drew some papers of his own out of a folder. “Take a look at these,” he said, passing them over in turn. It was what he had been working on for days at home, the surprise he had mentioned to Milagros.

  They were the floor plans of a house. “But what does this… ?”

  “Just take a look,” he said. “Please.”

  After living with an architect for nearly ten years, she was adept at reading floor plans. It was a house with three entrances: a central one to a large open-plan eating/cooking/living area and one to each of two discrete apartments on either end of the house. Each apartment was divided into a front and a back room, with a bathroom between them. The one on the east end had a second floor, also divided into two rooms. The west apartment had only the ground floor, its upstairs being part of the main house, comprising three bedrooms with two bathrooms between them. The attic was a big playroom lit by skylights with storage space all the way around under the eaves, built-in bookshelves and cupboards. “So it’s sort of a triplex?” Sophie asked, pointing to the end wings. “And these are to rent out? Or granny apartments?”

  “No, I’d thought of those as independent work spaces. Offices, if you like. Each with a reception area in front and a work area in back. This is a family house designed for a professional couple who both work at home.”

  “Oh, I see.” She nodded, then pointed to the east office. “Why is this one larger than the other one? With two floors?”

  “Well, that’s in case one person would like more privacy. The upper floor could serve as a bedroom and separate living space, even, away from the main house.”

  She passed the plans back to him. “Nice. And expensive.”

  “Not so expensive, really. It would cost more than a traditional family house, certainly, but much less than three distinct spaces, a residence and two offices. I… I’ve decided to put our house on the market after all.”

  “Fine.”

  “Yes. I’ve come to agree with you that it’s haunted.”

  “By Valerie, then, I take it,” she couldn’t resist saying. “You felt no need to sell it after I left.”

  “No. No, not by… Valerie.” It was still hard for him to say the name in his wife’s presence. “That’s all over, and I think it’s a relief to both of us that it is. No, I suppose I feel that the house has been a witness to too much foolishness on my part.” She said nothing, and to fill the silence he added, “And I’d just as soon get out from under that mortgage.”

  “Oh, yes. I heard you lost your job.”

  “You did?”

  He looked annoyed, and to stop him from asking how she knew, she asked quickly, “What happened?”

  “Oh, the usual sort of thing. They needed to cut the executive budget, and it suited the boss—and maybe Valerie, too, I don’t know—that I should be the one to go. It’s not serious. My severance pay will last awhile, and I’m not sorry to be out of there, to tell the truth. I never really wanted that job in the first place. But it was flattering to be headhunted by such a big firm.… It seemed too good to pass up. Isn’t that funny—that a job can be so ‘good’ you’re forced to take it, like it or not? I suppose I didn’t dare not take it—that was really it. It was cowardice, the kind of cowardice that society approves of, the kind that comes labeled as ‘ambition’ or ‘being a good provider.’” He waved dismissively. “Anyway, it’s over.”

  “Is it true the boys were part of the reason you were fired?”

  “Let’s just say that management wasn’t very tolerant of my situation—but then, since when is management understanding of the demands of parenting?” He gave a bitter laugh that struck Sophie as completely new.

  “So are you job hunting now?”

  “A bit. I’m studying several possibilities. But for the time being, I’m working at home and enjoying it immensely. I’ve been working on these.” He gestured at the house plans. “And I’m finding it very absorbing. It’s designed for an independent couple, both self-employed and home-based, who share equally in the task of child raising—just some ideas I had, you know. Traditional family houses haven’t really responded to changing needs and work habits. More people are working from home, but the kitchen table won’t do, and I’m finding that just an office doesn’t really do the job either. My study at home is just about all right when the children are at school, but it’s far from ideal even then. I need a space to receive clients, and there’s a psychological benefit to separating work from home—that idea of getting up and going to the office, leaving domestic concerns behind.… The professionals in this house share the central living area, but they have private space, too, for their work, obviously, but also for themselves—and that’s important as well. However—and this is what I think is clever—the living and work spaces aren’t completely separate either. Take a look at this. Between the house and the offices on either side are these covered patios. They provide light, of course, and an important sound barrier, but see how I’ve aligned the French windows across from one another? That means I could be working at my desk and by just raising my eyes I could glance through the patio and see what the boys were getting up to in the main room. Isn’t that a nice touch? I haven’t felt so enthusiastic about a project for years. And I have to say, I’m quite pleased with how it’s turned out.” He paused. “Do you like it?”

  She nodded, looking at it again. “Who commissioned it?”

  “Commissioned it? No one. It’s an idea of my own. I’d forgotten what it felt like, developing my own ideas. Creating good, affordable living spaces… This is why I wanted to be an architect in the first place. Domestic architecture doesn’t have the prestige, of course, but so what? What I enjoy is designing places where all types of people can live and thrive. Does that sound sentimental? I suppose it does.” He grew self-conscious and said awkwardly, “I can’t afford to build this house right now, of course, but if we get a good price on the old house and things sort themselves out with my work… maybe…” He looked at her in a mute appeal.

  “What?” she asked in alarm, but she was beginning to understand.

  “I wish you’d take these home with you and look them over. If you have time, that is.” He slid them gently toward her across the table. “I’d like to get your feedback. And please feel free to make any modifications that occur to you.”

  She trapped the papers under her palm. “Why?”

  He lowered his eyes and didn’t reply.

  “Adam, I’m not an architect. Why should I look at these?”

  Still nothing.

  “I see.” She sighed deeply and settled her eyes on him. “Adam, you wooed me by giving me a book of poetry—you left it up to John Donne to tell me you loved me. The way you announced to me that you had a mistress was by hiding photographs of her for me to find. I learned that our marriage was over when you put a water bill in my hand. Now you’re scooting house plans across a table at me and I’m supposed to understand that you want me to move back in with you. Another wordless exchange of paper. Well, it’s not good enough. It’s just not good enough. This isn’t how relationships are conducted. We humans differ from the beasts in that we have a very effective form of communication at our disposal. It’
s called speech, and I suggest, for the good of your future relationships, that you begin to use it.”

  She rose to go, but he caught her hand. “No, stay. Please. I do want to talk. Really.” She sank back into her chair, and for the next twenty minutes or so, Adam spoke.

  “In some ways it was a perceptual problem—or maybe not, maybe that’s just a way to describe it. I confused what’s real and matters with what’s superficial and doesn’t. They got switched in my mind. Like a foolish boy in a fairy tale who gets bamboozled at the marketplace and swaps something simple and valuable for something gaudy and worthless. It was like an enchantment, a blindness, and now that I can see again, really see again, I can’t imagine how it happened. I feel it must have been someone else… but I wake up each morning to the fact that you’re gone, and that means it’s real. I did that. Yet I don’t wish to undo it—not if going back means returning to that blindness. I’ve gained some things as precious to me as the ones I’ve lost, and I try to console myself with that. I used to be nothing. Sham husband, sham father, even sham architect, just a neurotic man unable to face his own mediocrity. Now I’m a true father, but I’m no longer a husband of any sort. And I want to be one, Sophie. I want to be a real husband. I yearn for the chance.”

  He paused. She could feel his eyes on her face, but she didn’t raise hers from the tabletop, where she was twisting her glass to create wet interlocking rings.

  He continued. “But if it turns out that the price I have to pay for becoming a true father is ceasing to be a husband, then I’ll try to accept the exchange gratefully. I came so close to losing our children, to never understanding the magic of them, or of my role with them. Even now it frightens me to think of it. I’m so thankful I woke up in time, before they were grown and gone and their father was just a scarecrow, a suit stuffed with straw, propped up lifelessly in their memory. This is what life is, what real life is—children, love, satisfying work. This has nothing to do with mediocrity. It’s excellence, the ultimate success, the noblest human goal. The specter of mediocrity, Sophie—what terrors does it hold, after all? I’m a healthy man, thank God, and I’m lucky enough to earn my living doing the work I like best—twice blessed already. And I love my children, and I love my wife—because you are still my wife. I can still say that for a few more days, so I will. If all this is mediocrity, then bring it on, for the love of God! Bring it on! I embrace mediocrity!”

  A short silence followed, which Sophie broke by saying gently, “I don’t think you’re mediocre. I’d say you have a long way to go before you achieve mediocrity.”

  He burst out laughing. “Oh, Sophie! Sophie, you’ve changed! And I’ve changed. How I wish I could show you that. I wish you’d give me the chance, my love.”

  She picked up the floor plans, tapped them into a neat square, and held them in her hands pensively. Then she passed them back to him. “No,” she said.

  “I accept that, of course. I have no choice.”

  She said nothing.

  “You can’t forgive me, is that it? I know I have no right to ask, but I’d like very much to know.”

  “Forgive you? I don’t know. I only know that I’ve lost a lot of respect for you—although I’ve gained some, too, elsewhere. But what I’ve lost completely is trust in you. I don’t mean that I don’t trust you with the children—I do. But I don’t trust you with me. And I don’t think trust can be mended once it’s broken. It isn’t something like metal that you can weld together smoothly so the break is invisible. It’s more like a plate, and no matter how tightly you glue it back together, the crack will always show—and harbor germs. I can’t conceive of a worthwhile relationship where respect and trust are lacking. Can you?”

  “No. Quite. Well… thank you for telling me.”

  It was typical of him to take it like that—in a quiet “manly” way, hurt but polite, the long-suffering hero, Sophie thought angrily. She said, “I would also like to say that I’m stunned by the fact that I seem to play no part in your thinking. Here is the scenario you’re suggesting: Man has midlife crisis, man leaves wife, man sorts out his priorities, snaps his fingers, and wife runs back. As though she’s been on hold all this time, suspended in… in aspic while not in use. You don’t seem to understand that I’ve moved on since I left your house. I have a new life, new friends, a new profession, and a new lover, as I think I recall telling you, and I am very, very happy. Does all this count for nothing in your plan? Do you seriously think I would drop everything and run back to you, simply because you’ve come to terms with your own mediocrity? You are monstrously self-centered, egotistical, and self-referential beyond belief, and yet, as I can see by the hurt expression on your face and the self-pitying things you’ve been saying here, you actually consider yourself a bit of a victim in all this. And a rather attractive one!” She raised her hand to her forehead as if overcome by dizziness. “It’s nauseating. It’s literally making me feel unwell.”

  She was turning to go, but he dared to stop her again. “I’ll think about everything you’ve said, Sophie, but we do need to do something about the boys. I’ll put the house on the market right away and look for something to rent—but where? It would be ideal for them if we could move close to you. But are you going to stay where you are? Milagros told me it was quite small, and you might need somewhere bigger. It would be silly for us to move near you and then for you to move away. That’s why I need to know what you decide to do. Will you keep me in the picture?”

  She nodded curtly, afraid suddenly of bursting into tears, desperate to get away from him, and racked by the feeling that it was all such a terrible pity and a sickening waste.

  “I’m sure, Sophie,” he said gravely, “that we can come up with a solution that will suit everyone.”

  It sounded like a threat. She nodded and fled.

  6.

  It was early April, muddy and still cold, but Florence was celebrating the arrival of spring by wearing her softball cap and glove to the park. Sophie told her that Adam was looking for somewhere to rent, closer to her, and Florence listened, her eyes resting thoughtfully on Bertie, frisking at their feet.

  “We-ell, let’s see. If Bertie’s owner downstairs kicked the bucket, Adam could move in there,” she said practically, popping the gum she was chewing. “Great solution for the kids. They could just run up and down the stairs. It would be like all living together, except you’re not.”

  For a moment Sophie’s heart leaped up. Sleeping under the same roof as the children again, with them free to see her whenever they liked and in perfect safety—but… “And Adam and I bumping into each other’s lovers on the stairs? Too close for comfort, I think. And it might be the thin edge of the wedge, in and out of each other’s apartments. I’d end up cooking the boys dinner down at his place some evening, and then what—washing his dishes? No, I don’t think so. Definitely not.” She stooped to pat the dog’s nose. “Anyway, we don’t want Dorina to die, do we, Bertie? No plan for happiness can succeed if it’s built on someone else’s heartbreak. Even a dog’s.”

  “It was just an idea. You know, I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to move back in with him.” Florence chucked her softball into her glove a couple of times and smiled. “I’d sure want you back if you were mine.”

  Sophie didn’t tell her he had actually suggested it, in his roundabout way. It made her uncomfortable to think about that. “Forgiveness” was a word that passed uneasily through her thoughts. It was a fat word, a rancid word that smelled of sickly sanctity, a word used for scolding and manipulating people who have been mistreated. A con man’s word. First someone offends us, and then, as if that weren’t enough of an outrage, we’re asked to reach deep into our depleted emotional reserves and dredge up forgiveness. Of course it’s unwise to harbor hatred and anger after we’re wronged—that’s common sense. Resentment festers inside us and produces harmful poisons, so it’s in our own best interest to let it go, and we can accomplish that through a philosophical process. But why take
this outlandish second step and also forgive? Why must we reassure the transgressor that it’s “all right,” when it’s not? Wiping the offender’s conscience clean is not the duty of the offended. It wasn’t difficult to guess which of the two sides, sinner or sinned against, had invented the concept of forgiveness.

  * * *

  Doubtful about what to do next, disillusioned with Henry and feeling under mounting pressure to give Adam another chance, Sophie discovered the next day that the very last person she wanted to see had left a message on her answering machine saying she would be downtown on errands and could she stop in for a cup of tea? It seemed not only intrusive but impertinent of Marion to call, when Sophie had decided weeks ago that she’d outgrown her and her my-size-fits-all advice. But, of course, when a person decides to weed her social garden of friends and acquaintances, the unwanted plants don’t know it, and for some time they continue to reseed themselves. Sophie picked up the telephone reluctantly and braced herself for the sound of Marion’s voice, dreading having to field all the alternative suggestions Marion would bombard her with when Sophie begged off. No, not Thursday, not Friday either, Saturday’s no good because… until Sophie would run out of excuses and finally cave in under Marion’s insistence. Sophie had braced herself to call back when it struck her, quite simply, that she didn’t have to do it. There was no need to explain anything. And certainly no obligation to expose herself to Marion’s heavy artillery, then dance around dodging bullets as best she could until finally one lodged in her chest. So instead of returning the call, she erased the message. Magic. One touch and Marion was gone.

  Two days later another message came: “Human relationships are not expendable, and that goes for our friendship. I miss you, Sophie! If something’s wrong between us, let’s talk about it. I’m your friend, not a piece of Kleenex! Not something you can just—” She erased that as well. But Marion was not a piece of Kleenex, it was true, so Sophie opened her cell phone and tapped out a message: MARION, I NEED TO TAKE A STEP BACK AND LOOSEN THE TIES A LITTLE. THANKS FOR UNDERSTANDING. The reply came straight back: I UNDERSTAND COMPLETELY. TAKE ALL THE TIME YOU NEED. But later in the week came a loud, frantic message that Sophie had to listen to twice before figuring out it was from Lydia, the former play-group collaborator, inviting her, between shrieks of strained laughter, to a garden party (“Bring your um-brel-la!”). Sophie suspected that Marion had put Lydia up to it, and Marion would be there, too, ready to waylay her. Zip, she erased that message as well, feeling decidedly lighthearted. The gardening metaphor was good, she thought, because it’s also by thinning out invasive plants that we provide the light, space, and nutrients for new plants to thrive. Time now to cultivate a welcome bloom. After dashing off an e-mail to Lydia, thanking her and declining, claiming that she was too busy studying for her shiatsu exam to accept any social engagements, Sophie invited L to dinner.