“You think he’d do it again, don’t you?” I ask, thinking of our father, certain that Dex is, too.
“I don’t know. But I don’t think you should stick around and find out,” Dex says.
I swallow hard, wondering how I could feel so conflicted by his sure advice. Although I am comforted by his black-and-white stance, I also feel the urge to soften it, force him to acknowledge that this is murky terrain.
“You would never do this to Rachel,” I say. “Would you?”
“Never,” he says with all the certainty in the world. “Absolutely never.
“But. . . you—”
“I know,” he says, cutting me off. “I know I cheated before. But not on Rachel.” He stops suddenly, likely realizing his painful implication. That he wouldn’t cheat on his wife, the love of his life. That people don’t cheat on their true love.
“Right,” I say.
“Look,” Dex says, trying to backtrack. “I’m not saying Nick doesn’t love you. I’m sure he does . . . But this . . . This is just. . .”
“What?” I say, bracing myself.
“This is just unforgivable,” Dex says.
I nod, my eyes filling with tears as I replay the word in all of its forms—unforgivable, forgive, forgiven, forgiveness. It is the word that echoes in my head as my brother and I exchange I love yous and good-byes and I drive back to Wellesley, past April’s house, its windows trimmed with scarlet-bowed wreaths, then into my own driveway where I see Carolyn’s white Saab parked in Nick’s usual spot. I can still hear it as the kids and I put sugar cookies and eggnog out for Santa and while I sit in the basement, wrapping presents, reading leaflets of small-print instructions, and assembling plastic parts. Can I forgive Nick? I think with every ribbon curled, every turn of the screwdriver. Can I ever forgive him?
There are other questions, too—more than I can possibly keep track of, some that seem to matter, others that don’t at all but still can’t be silenced. What would my friends do? What will my mother say? Do I still love my husband? Does he love me, or another woman, or both of us? Does she love him? Is he truly sorry? Was it really only once? Would he ever do it again? Does he want to do it again? What does she have that I don’t? Did he confess out of guilt or loyalty? Did he really end things—or did she? Does he truly want to come home or does he simply wish to keep his family together? What is best for the kids? What is best for me? How would my life change? Would I be okay? Will I ever be okay again?
40
Valerie
Valerie can never decide whether New Year’s Eve is more about looking backward or ahead, but this year, both make her think of Nick, both make her equally miserable. She misses him terribly, and is certain she still loves him. But she is angry, too, especially tonight. She feels sure he never confessed a thing to his wife, and can’t shake the romantic, cozy images of the two of them, ushering in the new year with champagne toasts and lingering kisses and grand plans for their future—perhaps a new baby so that Nick can really wipe last year’s slate clean.
At one point, she becomes so convinced that he has forgotten her altogether, that she nearly breaks down and sends him a text, an innocuous one-line happy-new-year greeting, if only to spoil his evening and remind him of what he did.
But she decides against it, both because she is too proud and because she doesn’t really mean it. She doesn’t want his new year to be happy. She wants him to suffer as much as she does. She is ashamed of this, and ponders whether you can truly love someone you wish misery upon. She is not sure of the answer, but decides it doesn’t much matter, because the answer won’t change anything. There is nothing she can do to change anything, she thinks, as she sits down at the kitchen table with Charlie and suggests that they write down resolutions for the coming year.
“What’s a resolution?” Charlie asks, as she slides a sheet of lined yellow notebook paper toward him.
“It’s like a goal... A promise to yourself,” she says.
“Like promising to practice the piano?” he asks, something he hasn’t done much since the accident.
“Sure,” she says. “Or resolving to keep your room clean. Or make new friends. Or work really hard in therapy.”
He nods, gripping his pencil and asking her how to spell therapy. She helps him sound out the word, then writes on her own paper: Eat fewer processed foods, more fruits and vegetables.