***
Thirty minutes later, I am seated with both my parents at Blue Ginger, a sleek, bamboo-paneled Asian restaurant, sharing the lobster roll appetizer. My father is intermittently humming a tune I can’t quite identify while my mother taps her nails on her wineglass and chatters about the bonsai trees ornamenting the bar. In short, they are both nervous, if not downright tense, and the fact that the three of us have not been in the same room together since the night I married Nick is not lost on any of us. Yet another layer of irony in our family infidelity files.
Then, after a glib discussion of Ruby and Frank and other neutral topics, I cry to muster the courage to break my news. It occurs to me that it is unfair to do it this way, at least to my mother, but part of me thinks that it will help me maintain a degree of dignity and pride that I feel I’ve lost. Because no matter how many times I tell myself otherwise, how many times Cate and Dex reinforce the notion that Nick’s affair is no reflection on me, it still feels like my humiliation. I am deeply ashamed of my husband, my marriage, myself.
“So. I have something to tell you,” I say during the next lull. I feel stoic, if not strong.
I look at my mother, then my father, their expressions so worried, nearly fearful, that my eyes begin to water. Upon realizing what they might be thinking, I reassure them that the kids are fine and that nobody’s sick.
It is a thought that puts all of this in perspective, although in some ways I’d rather be ill. Then I could have a diagnosis, a treatment plan, and faith—or at least hope—that things could somehow work out. I take a deep breath, searching for the right words, as my father puts down his fork, reaches for my hand, and says, “Honey. It’s okay. We know. We know”
I stare at him, slowly processing what he’s telling me.
“Dex told you?” I say, too relieved that I don’t have to actually say the words aloud to be angry at my brother. Besides, in the context of broken promises, his is not so egregious.
My mother nods, reaching for my other hand, her grip as tight as my father’s.
“Should we sing ‘Kumbaya’?” I ask, laughing so I won’t cry. And then, “Dex sure has a big mouth.”
“Don’t be upset with Dexter,” my mom says. “He told us out of love and concern for you . . . He and Rachel are so worried about you.”
“I know,” I say, thinking of how many times they’ve both called me in the past few days, calls I’ve been too upset to return.
“How are the kids?” my mom asks. “Have they figured it out?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Which tells you something, right? That’s how much he works . . . He’s only seen them four or five times since Christmas and they don’t seem to notice that anything is different.”
“Have you . . . seen him yet?” my mother continues, now in her information-gathering mode.
I shake my head.
My father clears his throat, starts to speak, then stops and starts again. “I’m sorry . . . Contessa, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Contessa” has been his special nickname for me since I was a little girl, one that he only breaks out at emotional moments, and I know, even without looking at him, that he is apologizing in more ways than one.
I bite my lip, pull my hands free, resting them on my lap. “I’m going to be fine,” I say, sounding far more convincing than I feel.
“Yes,” my mother says, lifting her chin, looking more regal than she usually does. “You will be fine.”
“No matter what you decide to do,” my father says.
“Dex told us his advice,” my mother says.
“And I’m sure you’re on the same page,” I say to her, no longer caring about any possible innuendo. The parallels are obvious and I feel too defeated and exhausted to pretend they’re not.
My mother shakes her head and says, “Every marriage is different. Every situation is different.”
It occurs to me that that’s what I’ve been telling her for years, and yet here she is finally agreeing with me now that her theory has been proven correct. I quit my job, prioritized my husband and family, and ended up in her shoes, just as she predicted.
“Tessa, honey,” my dad says after the waiter refills our wineglasses and scurries discreetly away, likely sensing that something is amiss at our table. “I’m not proud of what I did . . .”
“Well, that’s comforting,” my mother scoffs under her breath.
He exhales, appropriately shamed, and tries again. “Okay. That’s an understatement . . . I’ll always regret behaving the way I did . . . Behaving so ... dishonorably . . .”