“What are you all having for breakfast?” Valerie asks. It is a nervous question, one designed to acknowledge his children without directly asking about them.
“Waffles. I’m the waffle king. Right, Rubes?”
She hears the little girl giggle and say, “Yes, Daddy. And I’m the waffle princess.”
“Yes, you are,” he says. “You’re the waffle princess, for sure.”
She then hears the little boy, talking exactly as Nick joked—like a cross between the Terminator and a European gay man, a staccato trill. “Da-ddeeeee. I. Want. More. But-tah. Tooo.”
“No! That one’s mine!” she hears the little girl say, remembering Nick’s joke that Ruby is so overbearing that his son’s first words were help me.
Valerie closes her eyes again, as if to shut out the sounds of his children, and all that she knows about them. Yet she still can’t help herself from whispering, “Do you feel. . . guilty?”
He hesitates—an answer in itself—then says, “Yeah. Of course I do ... But I wouldn’t take it back.”
“You wouldn’t?” she asks, wanting to be certain.
“Hell, no ... I want to do it again,” he says, more quietly.
A chill runs down Valerie’s spine, just as she hears Ruby ask, “Do what again? Who are you talking to, Daddy?”
“A friend,” he tells her.
“What friend?” the little girl presses, as Valerie wonders if it is mere curiosity—or some sort of freakish intuition.
“Uhh . . . you don’t know this friend, honey,” he tells his daughter, carefully keeping the gender neutral. And then, to Valerie, in a hushed voice, “I better go. But can I see you later?”
“Yes,” she says as quickly as she can. Before she can change her mind—or her heart.
33
Tessa
A short time later, after I’ve avoided two follow-up calls from April and exchanged somewhat tearful good-byes with Cate, I am on my flight back to Boston, eating a standard-issue bag of miniature pretzels and unwittingly eavesdropping on two loud-talking men in the row behind me. From a quick glimpse over my seat, I glean that they fall into the beefy, guywalks-into-a-bar category, both sporting goatees, gold chains, and baseball caps. As I stare at the map in the back of my in-flight magazine, examining the myriad of domestic flight possibilities, I do my best to tune out the discussion of the “sweet Porsche” one wants to buy, and the other’s “douche of a boss,” before the conversation really revs up with the question: “So you gonna call that chick from the club or what?”
“Which club? Which chick?”
(Hearty laughter accompanied by either a knee slap or high five.)
“The double-jointed chick. What’s her name? Lindsay? Lori?”
“Oh yeah, Lindsay. Hell, yeah, I’m gonna call her. She was sexy. Sexy as shit!’
I cringe, comparing them to my intelligent, respectful husband who would never, under any circumstances, think of putting sexy and shit in the same sentence. Then I close my eyes, preparing for our descent, imagining the likely scene upon my return: my family breaking all the usual rules, perhaps still in their pajamas, eating junk food, the house an utter wreck around them. I take strange solace in the thought of such chaos, the idea of Nick’s domestic incompetence, the belief that he would be lost without me—in more ways than one.
Yet when I burst through my front door less than an hour later, I am dismayed to find my family gone, the house clean and orderly. The kitchen is sparkling; the beds are made; there is even a load of laundry, freshly washed and folded, in a wicker basket on the stairs. I wander aimlessly around the house, finding myself in the living room, the most formal and least used space in the house, eyeing the high-backed, rolled-arm couch that I don’t think I’ve sampled since the day my mother and I chose it from a decorator’s showroom. I remember the afternoon well, the hours we spent considering various styles, discussing fabrics and wood finishes for its graceful feet, debating whether to pay extra for stain guard. A project that now seems trivial.
As I carefully sit on it now, doing my best to enjoy the rare moment of peace, I can’t make myself feel anything other than lonesome, disturbed by the loud silence, grimly imagining what it would be like if Nick and I ever split up—all the blank space and empty moments to fill. I remember once joking to him, after a particularly trying day, that I would make a superb mother if I were only on duty on Mondays, Tuesdays, and every other weekend. He laughed, telling me not to be ridiculous, that being a single parent would be miserable, that he would be miserable without me. I hold on to this thought as I dial his cell.
“Hey there!” he shouts into the phone. I feel instant relief just hearing his voice, although I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in detective mode as I try to discern his background noise. It sounds like a mall, but the chances of Nick voluntarily going shopping are more unlikely than an affair.
“Hi,” I say. “Where are you?”
“The Children’s Museum,” he says.