I wanted to try to ease the tension between us, and I knew Richard loved Indian food. So after I left Dr. Hoffman’s office, I looked up a recipe for lamb vindaloo, searching for the one that seemed the least complicated.
It’s funny how certain details stick in the memory, such as how the wheel of my shopping cart needed to be adjusted, causing it to squeak every time I turned down a new aisle. I wandered through the market, searching for cumin and coriander, trying to forget how Richard’s face had looked when he learned I’d gotten pregnant by another man.
I’d called Richard to tell him I loved him, but he hadn’t replied. His disappointment—worse, the thought of his disillusionment—upset me more than any argument could. Richard didn’t yell. When angry, he seemed to coil into himself until he regained control over his emotions. It didn’t usually take him long, but I worried I’d pushed him too far this time.
I remember driving home on the quiet streets, the new Mercedes sedan Richard had purchased for me purring past the stately colonials constructed by the same builder who’d sold Richard our house. Occasionally I saw a nanny out with a young child, but I’d yet to make a friend in our neighborhood.
I was hopeful when I began to cook dinner. I cut the lamb into even chunks, following the recipe carefully. I remember how sunlight glowed through the large bay windows in our living room, as it did toward the end of every day. I’d found my iPod and scrolled down to the Beatles. “Back in the U.S.S.R.” twanged through the speakers. The Beatles always lifted my spirits because my father used to blast John, Paul, George, and Ringo in our old sedan when he took me out for ice cream or to the movies during my mom’s lighter episodes, the ones that only lasted a day or two and didn’t require Aunt Charlotte’s assistance.
I’d allowed myself to imagine that after I served Richard his favorite meal, we would cuddle in bed and talk. I wouldn’t tell him everything, but I could admit a few of the details. Maybe my revelation would even bring us closer. I’d let him know how terribly sorry I was, how I wished I could erase what had happened and start again.
So there I was, in my exquisite kitchen, stocked with Wüsthof knives and Calphalon pots and pans, cooking dinner for my new husband. I was happy, I think, but I wonder now if my memory is playing tricks on me. If it is giving me the gift of an illusion. We all layer them over our remembrances; the filters through which we want to see our lives.
I’d tried to follow the recipe exactly, but I’d neglected to buy the fenugreek because I had no idea what it was. And when it came time to add the fennel, I couldn’t find it, even though I swore I’d put it in the cart. The fragile emotional peace I’d tried to build began to crumble. I, who had been given everything, couldn’t even manage to make a proper meal.
When I opened the refrigerator door to put back the coconut milk and saw a half-full bottle of Chablis, I hesitated, staring at it.
Richard and I had agreed that I’d stopped drinking, but surely a few sips wouldn’t hurt. I poured myself a half glass. I’d forgotten how good the crisp minerality tasted on my tongue.
I retrieved our pressed blue linen place mats and matching napkins from the big oak armoire in the dining room. I laid out the nice china Hillary and George had given us as a wedding gift. When we first got married, I’d had to consult an online etiquette site to learn how to set a formal table. Despite my mother’s extravagant meals, she was uninterested in the dining ambience; sometimes when all the dishes were dirty, we’d eat off paper plates.
I set candlesticks in the middle of the table and switched the music to classical, selecting Wagner, one of Richard’s favorite composers. Then I retreated to the couch, wineglass by my side. By now our house had more furniture—sofas in the living room, splashes of artwork on the walls, including the portrait Aunt Charlotte had done of me as a child, and an Oriental rug in vivid blues and reds in front of the fireplace—but the rooms still felt a bit characterless to me. If only we’d had a high chair in the dining room, a few soft toys scattered on the rug . . . I stilled my hand when I realized I was tapping my fingernails against my glass and making little chiming sounds.
Richard usually arrived home around eight-thirty, but it wasn’t until after nine that I finally heard his key turn in the lock and the thunk of his briefcase on the floor.
“Honey,” I called. No answer. “Sweetie?”
“Give me a second.”
I listened to his footsteps climbing the stairs. I didn’t know if I should follow him, so I stayed on the couch. When I heard him begin to descend, I caught sight of my wineglass. I ran to the sink, rinsing it out quickly and putting it back in the cabinet still wet, before he could see.
It was impossible to decipher his mood. He could have been upset with me, or he could have just had a tough day at work. Richard had seemed tense all week; I knew he was dealing with a difficult client. During dinner I tried to make conversation, my lighthearted tone masking the worry underneath.
“This is good.”
“I remembered you told me once lamb vindaloo was your favorite dish.”
“I said that?” Richard bent his head to take a forkful of rice.
I’d felt puzzled. Hadn’t he?
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my . . .” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t say the word.
Richard nodded. “It’s forgotten,” he said quietly.
I’d steeled myself for questions. His words came almost as a letdown. Maybe I’d wanted to share that part of my life with him, after all.
“Okay” was all I said.
As I cleared the table, I noticed half his plate was still full. By the time I’d finished cleaning, Richard was already asleep. I curled up next to him, listening to his steady breaths, until I drifted off, too.
The next morning, Richard left early for the office. Midway through the day, as I was at the hair salon getting highlights, my phone pinged with an incoming email from the local French culinary institute.
The note read, Ma cherie. Je t’aime. Richard. When I opened the attachment, I saw a gift certificate for ten cooking lessons.
“Honey?” Aunt Charlotte’s voice is concerned.
I wipe my eyes and gesture to the cutting board. “Just the onion.” I can’t tell if she believes me.
After dinner, Aunt Charlotte goes to bed early and I clean the kitchen. Then I retreat to my room and listen to the sounds of the old apartment settling in for the night—the sudden hum of the refrigerator, a door slamming in the unit below. Sleep is elusive now, as if I’ve stockpiled enough of it over my lost months to suppress my natural circadian rhythm.
My mind wanders to the topic of a recent podcast: obsession.
“Our genes are not our destiny,” insisted the speaker. But he acknowledged that addiction is hereditary.
I think of the way my mother left a trail of destruction.
I think of the way my mother dug her nails into her palms when she was agitated.
And I think, as always, of her.
A plan begins to form in my mind. Or maybe it has been there all along, waiting for me to catch up to it. To become strong enough to carry it out.
I see her again, bending down to stroke the head of the little dog in her path. I see her crossing her shapely legs and leaning close to Richard at the bar—our bar. And I see her on the day I came to his office to surprise him for lunch, back when we were still married. The two of them were walking out of the building. She wore a blush-colored dress. His hand gently touched the small of her back as he allowed her to exit the door first. She’s mine, the gesture seemed to say.
He used to touch me that way. I told him once I loved the subtle, sexy feel of his fingers there.
I get up, moving quietly in the darkness, and retrieve my burner phone and my laptop from the bottom dresser drawer.
Richard cannot marry again.
I begin to make preparations. The next time I see her, I will be ready.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN