by Emily Giffin
“No, thanks,” I say, frowning as I adjust the temperature of the bathwater. I add more liquid soap, and a hill of bubbles appear as Ruby climbs in and I heave a squirming, giggling Frank over the edge. I sit on a stepstool, watching my children play, admiring their perfect pink bodies—their potbellies, their round, little bottoms, their stick-figure limbs. As Nick turns to leave the bathroom, I keep my eyes fixed on my children, telling myself that he would never do anything to hurt them or jeopardize our family.
Yet, the second I hear the garage door open, I race to our bedroom and, with a heavy heart, confirm what I already knew: Nick’s phone is gone from the dresser. I tell myself that it’s natural to take your phone, even on a short errand, yet I can’t shake the image of my husband, in his car, speed-dialing another woman’s number.
“I think Nick might be having an affair,” I tell Cate the next day, when I finally get a hold of her after four tries. I am sitting on the floor amid three piles of dirty laundry—although it should be more like five if I weren’t prepared to overstuff the washing machine. “Or at least contemplating one.”
The second the words are out, I feel intense relief, almost as if confronting my fears and saying them aloud makes them less likely to be true.
“No way,” Cate says, as I knew she would. Which is, subconsciously, why I probably called her in the first place, choosing her over the other candidates: Rachel, my brother, April, or my mother, somehow knowing that Rachel and Dex would be too worried, April too likely to break my confidence, my mother too cynical. “Why do you think that?”
I share with her all my evidence—the late nights at the office, the text message, and the cherry Coke excursion that lasted close to thirty-eight minutes.
“Come on, Tess. That’s a crazy conclusion to draw,” she says. “He might have wanted to get out of the house for a few minutes. Shirk his bedtime duties with a little alone time. But that doesn’t add up to an affair.”
“What about the text?” I ask. “The ‘thinking of you’ . . . ?”
“So what? So he’s thinking of someone . . . That doesn’t mean he’s thinking of undressing someone.”
“Well, who could it be from?” I say, realizing that the very thing that gives me greatest pause—that Nick has so few friends, so seldom makes new connections—is the thing that simultaneously reassures me.
“It could be from anyone. It could be a coworker who is getting a divorce and alone for Thanksgiving. It could be from an old friend . . . a cousin. It could be from a patient’s mother or father. A former patient . . . Bottom line, Nick is not the affair type.”
“My mother says all men are the affair type.”
“I don’t believe that. You don’t believe that.”
“I’m not sure what to believe these days,” I say.
“Tess. You’re just going through a little depression. A downturn. I’ll tell you what. How ’bout you come here next weekend? I’ll cheer you up, send you home happy. This is nothing that a little girl time won’t cure . . .”
“Time to let Nick have an affair?” I say, now joking. Mostly joking.
“Time to let him miss you. Time to remind yourself that you have the best husband. The best marriage. The best life.”
“Okay,” I say, unconvinced but hopeful. “I’ll come Friday—late afternoon.”
“Good,” she says. “We’ll go out. You can watch me hit on some guys in bars . . . I’ll show you exactly what you’re not missing. I’ll show you how good you have it there with your loyal husband.”
“Until then, what’s my strategy?”
“Your strategy?” she says excitedly; strategies are her specialty. “Well, for starters, no more snooping. I’ve been down that road . . . Nothing good comes from it.”
“Okay,” I say, cradling the phone under my ear, and stuffing a load of darks into the washer. A pair of Nick’s red plaid boxers fall onto the laundry room floor, and as I pick them up, I tell myself that nobody has seen his underwear but me. “What else?”
“Exercise. Meditate. Eat healthy foods. Get lots of sleep. Brighten up your highlights. Buy some new shoes,” she says, as if reading from a list of commandments about how to be happy. “And above all else, don’t give Nick a hard time. No nagging. No guilt trips. Just . . . be nice to him.”
“To give him an incentive not to cheat?” I say.
“No. Because you believe he’s not cheating.”
I smile my first real smile in days, glad that I confided in Cate, glad that I’m going to see her soon, glad that I married someone who has earned my best friend’s benefit of the doubt.
26
Valerie
On the night before Charlie’s first day back to school, Nick stops over to wish him good luck, but ends up staying to make dinner, declaring himself a burger connoisseur as he prepares the patties, then hovers over the George Foreman grill. Although Valerie has exchanged dozens of calls and text messages with him, it is the first she has seen him since Thanksgiving and she feels giddy to be standing next to him, the only thing that could assuage her nervousness over Charlie’s return to school.
She watches her son now, playing with his Star Wars action figures at the kitchen table, as he asks Nick about his mask—which is resting on the table beside him. “Do I have to wear it?” he says. “To school?”
“Yeah, buddy,” he says. “Especially for gym and recess . . . You can take it off now and then if it’s bothering you or making you sweaty or itchy, but it’s a good idea to keep it on.”
Charlie furrows his brow, as if considering this, and then says, “Do you think I look better with it or without it?”
Valerie and Nick exchange a worried glance.
“You look great both ways,” Valerie says.
“Yeah,” Nick agrees. “Your skin is healing great . . . but the mask is way cool.”
Charlie smiles as Nick transfers their burgers onto three open buns, the sight of which gives Valerie a jolt of joy. “Yeah. You can tell your friends that you’re a stormtrooper.”
Nick nods. “And that you know Darth Vader.”
“Can I?” Charlie says, looking expectantly at Valerie.
“Yes,” she replies emphatically, thinking she’d say yes to just about anything tonight, that they have earned the right to do whatever they want. She knows in her heart that it doesn’t work like this. That misfortune doesn’t give you the right to disregard others, ignore the rules, tell lies and half-truths.
Still considering this, she carries two of the three plates to the table, Nick with the third, Charlie trailing behind. The three of them sit together at the small, round kitchen table, covered with deep grooves and scratches and permanent marker from Charlie’s art projects, a contrast to the fine, blue and yellow linen napkins and place mats that Jason brought back to her from his trip to Provence last summer, the one he had taken with his boyfriend before Hank.
“We’re glad you’re here,” Valerie murmurs to Nick, her version of grace. She looks down at the napkin on her lap while Charlie offers a more formal blessing, giving himself the sign of the cross before and after, just as his grandmother taught him.
Nick joins in the ritual, saying, “I feel like I’m at my mother’s house.”
“Is that a good thing?” Valerie asks.
“Yeah,” he says. “Only you look nothing like my mother . . .”
They grin at one another, launching into lighthearted topics while they eat their burgers, fries, and string beans. They talk about the big snowfall expected midweek. Christmas right around the corner. Charlie’s desire for a puppy, to which Valerie can feel herself succumbing. All the while, she does her very best to ignore the thought of two other children, having supper at home with their mother.
After they finish eating, they clear the table together, rinsing, loading the dishwasher, laughing, until Nick abruptly tells them he has to go. As Valerie watches him kneel down to give Charlie a gift, a gold coin for good luck, she thinks that this is almost better th
an continuing what they had started three nights before. She loves spending time alone with him, but loves watching him with Charlie more.
“This was mine—when I was little,” Nick says. “I want you to have it.”
Charlie nods reverently, then takes the gift in his hands, his face lighting up, looking as whole and beautiful as she has ever seen him. She almost instructs him to say thank you, her instinctive response whenever Charlie is given a gift, but this time, she says nothing, not wanting to interrupt their moment, sure that Charlie’s smile says it all.
“Reach in your pocket and touch this if you start to worry about anything,” Nick says. Then he slips a piece of paper into her son’s other hand. “And memorize this number. If you need to call me, for any reason, at any time, you call me.”
Charlie nods earnestly, looking down at the paper, whispering the numbers aloud as she walks Nick to the door.
“Thank you,” she says when they get there, her hand on the door-knob. She is thanking him for the burgers, the coin, the number in her son’s hand. But most of all, for getting them to this night.
He shakes his head, as if to tell her that this, all of this, is something he wanted to do, something that requires no gratitude on her part. He glances in Charlie’s direction, and upon realizing they are not being watched, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her once, softly, on the lips. It is not the first kiss she has imagined so many times, more sweet than passionate, but a chill still runs along her spine and her knees go weak.
“Good luck tomorrow,” he whispers.
She smiles, feeling luckier than she has in a long time.
The next morning, she is up before dawn. She showers, then heads for the kitchen where she sets about making French toast for Charlie’s first day back to school, her first official day back to work. She arranges all the ingredients on the counter—four slices of challah bread, eggs, milk, cinnamon, powdered sugar, and syrup. Even freshly cut strawberries. She takes out a small bowl, a whisk, and a can of nonstick spray. She is nervous and calm at once, the way she feels before a big case when she knows she’s done everything she can to prepare but still feels worried about things out of her control. She tightens the belt of her fleecy white robe and shuffles over to the thermostat, turning it up to seventy-four, wanting Charlie to be warm when he comes down for breakfast, wanting everything to go right for him on this critical morning. Then she returns to the stove, where she whisks together the ingredients and sprays the bottom of her skillet as worrisome images flash in her head: Charlie falling off the monkey bars, tearing his new skin. Getting teased about his mask—or worse, teased if he chooses to take it off.
She shuts her eyes, tells herself what Nick has been telling her for days—that nothing is going to go wrong. That she has done everything she can to prepare for this day, including phoning the headmaster and school nurse and guidance counselor and Charlie’s lead teacher to let them all know that Charlie will be back, that she will walk him in rather than dropping him off in the usual car-pool line, that she wants to be contacted at the first hint of a problem—whether emotional or physical.
“French toast!” she hears Charlie say behind her. Surprised that he woke up on his own when she usually has to drag him out of bed, she turns around to see him in his pajamas, barefoot, holding his mask in one hand, the gold coin in the other. He is smiling. She smiles back at him, praying that he stays in this mood all day.
And he does, at least that whole morning, showing no signs of worry or fear as they go through their morning ritual—eating, dressing, brushing teeth and hair—then driving to school, listening to the disc of soothing music Nick burned for him last week.
When they arrive in the parking lot, Charlie puts on his mask, quickly and quietly, as Valerie debates whether to say something to him. Something momentous or at least comforting. Instead, she follows his lead, pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary on this day, coming around to the backseat, opening the door for him, resisting the urge to help him unbuckle his seat belt or take his hand.
As they walk in the main entrance, a cluster of older kids—Valerie guesses fourth or fifth graders—look up and stare at Charlie. A pretty girl with long, blond pigtails clears her throat and says, “Hi, Charlie,” as if she not only knows who he is, but knows every detail of his story.
Charlie whispers a barely audible hello, nestling closer to Valerie, taking her hand. Valerie feels herself tense, but when she looks down at him, she can see her son smiling. He is okay. He is happy to be back. He is braver than she is.
A few moments and hellos later, they arrive in his classroom, his two teachers and a dozen classmates gathering affectionately, enthusiastically, around him. Everyone but Grayson, that is, who is in the corner by the hamster cage with an expression she can’t quite place, the expression of a child who has overheard one too many adult conversations.
She lingers for as long as she can, casting occasional glances Grayson’s way, until Charlie’s lead teacher, Martha, a kindly grandmother type, flicks off the light, the signal for the children to go to the rug. At this point, Valerie hesitates, then leans down to kiss Charlie good-bye, whispering in his ear, “Be nice to Grayson today.”
“Why?” he says. His eyes flicker with confusion.
“Because he’s your friend,” she says simply.
“Are you still mad at his mommy?”
She looks at him, feeling shock and shame wash over her, wondering how he has interpreted such a thing, what conversation he overheard, what else Charlie has picked up over the past few weeks, unbeknownst to her.
“No. I’m not mad at his mommy,” she lies. “And I really like Grayson.”
Charlie reaches up to slightly adjust his mask, processing this, nodding.
“Okay, sweetie,” she says, feeling her throat constrict as it did on his first day of kindergarten, but for very different reasons now. “Be care—”
“I’ll be careful, Mommy,” he says, interrupting her. “Don’t worry . . . I’ll be okay.”
Then he turns to walk away from her, going to the edge of the rug where he sits cross-legged, his back straight, his hands folded in his lap, the good one tucked over the bad.
27
Tessa
I’m not sure why I wait until Tuesday night to tell Nick about my trip to New York—or why I feel as anxious as I do, unable to look him in the eye, focusing instead on slicing open our American Express bill that just came in the mail. It’s a sad day when you’d rather look at a credit card statement than your husband’s face, I think, as I say as nonchalantly as possible, “I decided to go to New York this weekend.”
“This weekend?” he asks, perplexed.
“Yes,” I say, skimming the charges, surprised for the umpteenth time at how quickly things add up even when you’re trying not to spend.
“As in this Friday?”
“As in this Friday,” I say, giving him a sideways glance, feeling somehow emboldened by his look of bewilderment. Satisfied that, for once, I am the one catching him off guard; I am the one telling him what my schedule is going to be.
“Gee. Thanks for the notice,” he says with good-natured sarcasm.
I bristle, focusing on the sarcasm, rather than his smile, thinking of the number of times he has failed to give me notice, or suddenly changed our plans, or canceled them, or left in the middle of dinner or the weekend. But following Cate’s advice, I am careful not to start an argument, feigning a considerate, wifely tone. “I know it’s sudden . . . But I really need some time away. You’re not on call, are you?”
He shakes his head no as our eyes meet, a mutual look of skepticism passing between us. I suddenly realize that this will be the first time he’s ever been alone with the kids overnight. Ever.
“So it’s okay?” I say.
“Sure,” he says reluctantly.
“Great,” I return brightly. “Thanks for understanding.”
He nods, then asks, “Are you staying with Cate? . . . Or De
x and Rachel?”
“Cate,” I say, pleased that he asked the question so that I can say, “I’m sure I’ll see my brother and Rachel. But I’m really in more of a go-out-and-get-drunk mode. Blow off some steam as only Cate knows how to do.”
Translation: Revert to my premarried self, the woman you couldn’t keep your hands off, the girl you rushed home from the hospital every night to see.
Nick nods and then picks up the AmEx statement, his eyes widening as they always do when he goes through our bills. “Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “Just don’t go shopping . . .”
“Too late,” I say, pointing at my Saks bag in the hallway, further goading him. “Needed some new shoes to go out in . . .”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, I see. I guess none of the thirty pairs you already own will suffice for a girls’ night out?”
I roll my eyes back at him, feeling my smile stretch and tighten, thinking of Cate’s closet. And April’s. And even Rachel’s—restrained by Manhattan banker wives’ standards but still more indulgent than mine. The contrast between their rows and rows of jeweled and satin and edgy black leather, impossibly high-heeled designer footwear—and my understated, mostly sensible collection.
“You have no idea what a lot of shoes looks like,” I say, a hint of defiance in my voice. “Seriously. I have a paltry wardrobe.”
“Paltry? Really?” he says, raising one judgmental eyebrow.
“Well, not compared to a Somali villager . . . But in this context,” I say, pointing 180 degrees around me, indicating our big-spending neighbors. “I am not a shopper . . . You know, Nick, you really should be glad you married me. You couldn’t handle these other women.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to soften, smile a real smile, touch me, anywhere, and say something to the effect of: Of course I’m glad I married you.
