While I was putting the remains of the pizza into ziplock bags, Vivian called. When I saw her photograph on the screen of my phone, my heart suddenly hammered in my chest. London was in the family room watching television and I stepped out the kitchen door, onto the back patio. I steeled myself before connecting the call.
“Hey there,” I said, trying to sound like everything was normal between us when actually, nothing was normal at all. “How are you?”
She hesitated. “I’m okay. How are you?”
“It’s been a little strange here,” I said. “But I’m holding up. Where are you now?”
She seemed to debate whether or not to answer. “I’m in Tampa,” she finally admitted. “Is London around? Or is she already in the bath?”
“No, not yet. She’s in the family room.”
“Can I talk to her?”
I steadied my breathing. “Before I put her on the phone, don’t you think we should talk?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Russ.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“What I want you to say?” I repeated. “I want you to give us another chance, Vivian.” I ignored the deafening silence on her end. “I still feel like I don’t know what’s really going on. How can we make this work? We can go to counseling.”
Her voice was tight. “Please, Russ. Can I just talk to London? I miss her.”
Don’t you miss me? Or are you with Walter right now?
The thought came unbidden, bringing with it the image of my wife calling from a hotel suite, Walter watching television in an adjoining area, and it was all I could do to step back inside the house and call to my daughter.
“Your mom’s on the phone, London. She wants to say hi.”
I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation, even when London wandered toward the family room. I heard her tell Vivian about her day—she also told Vivian about the turtle—and say I love you; I heard her ask when Vivian was coming home. Though I didn’t hear the answer, I could tell by London’s expression that she didn’t much like the answer. Okay, Mommy, she eventually said. I miss you, too. We can talk tomorrow.
Vivian knew I generally turned my phone to airplane mode when I went to bed, and old habits dying hard, I did so again that night. In the morning, after turning it back on, I saw that Vivian had left two voicemails.
“I know you wanted to talk and we will, but only when we’re both ready. I don’t know what else I can tell you. I want you to know that I didn’t plan for this to happen, and I know how much I’ve hurt you. I wish it wasn’t this way, but I don’t want to lie to you either.
“I’m mainly calling about London. Right now, it’s insanely busy at work with the transition and Walter’s PAC and all the traveling. We still have the DC leg, and we’re flying up to New York this weekend. And since I’m traveling so much, it’s probably best if London stays with you for a while. I want to get settled in here first and get her room set up, but I haven’t had time to start either of those things. Anyway, I think it’s important that you don’t tell London what’s going on yet. She’s already stressed with school and I know she’s got to be exhausted. Besides, I think this is something we should do together. Hold on. Let me call you right back. I don’t want your voicemail to cut me off.”
The second voicemail picked up where she’d left off.
“I spoke with a counselor today about the best way to tell London, and she said we should stress that we think it’s best if we just live apart for a while, without mentioning separation or divorce. And obviously, we should both emphasize that it doesn’t have anything to do with her and that we both love her. Anyway, we can discuss it more in person, but I wanted to let you know that I’m trying to do what’s best for London. We’ll also have to talk about when it might be a good time for her to come to Atlanta.” She paused. “Okay, I think that’s it. Have a good day.”
Have a good day?
Was she kidding? Sitting on the edge of the bed, I replayed the voicemails several times. I think I was searching for something—anything—to suggest that she still cared about me in the slightest, but if it was there, I didn’t hear it. I heard a lot of what she wanted, cloaked in terms that were ostensibly all about London’s well-being, and the subterfuge infuriated me. While I was thinking about it, my cell phone rang.
“Hey there,” Marge said, her tone sympathetic. “Just calling to check in on you.”
“It’s not even seven in the morning.”
“I know, but I was thinking about you.”
“I’m… kind of angry, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Vivian left a couple of messages,” I said. I paraphrased as best I could.
“Oh, boy. That’s what you woke up to? Not exactly a cup of delicious coffee, is it? Speaking of which, I’m on your street and about to pull in your driveway. Unlock your front door.”
I left the bedroom and padded downstairs. By the time I got the door open, Marge was already getting out of the car, holding a pair of Styrofoam cups.
Watching her walk up the drive, I noted she was already dressed for work. “I can make coffee here,” I said.
“I know. But I wanted to lay my eyeballs on you. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Maybe four or five hours.”
“I didn’t sleep much either.”
“Liz keeping you up late?”
“No,” she said. “Just worried about you. Let’s go inside. Is London up yet?”
“Not yet.”
“How about I get her ready while you enjoy your coffee?”
“I’m not incompetent.”
“I know,” she said. “Actually, you’re the opposite. You’re holding up a lot better than I would be in your shoes.”
“I doubt that.”
Surprising me, she reached out to touch my cheek, something I could never remember her doing before. “I haven’t had to talk you down from a water tower, have I?”
Thanks to the coffee and Marge’s early morning help, I felt a bit better than I had the day before when I drove London to school. She chattered away in the backseat about her dream—something about a frog that kept changing colors every time it hopped—and her innocent cheer was exactly what I needed.
Back at home, I forced myself to put on my running gear. I hadn’t run since Vivian’s announcement—the first days I’d missed since I’d started back up—and I hoped that the physical exertion would leave me feeling more like myself. On the run I was fine despite adding a couple extra miles, but by the time I’d finished my shower, I found myself thinking about Vivian again. The fury I’d felt earlier had diminished, replaced by an overwhelming sadness.
It was almost too much to bear, and knowing I couldn’t face yet another day like the two I’d just weathered, I had to do something. Anything. My desire to work was zero, but I forced myself to go to my den. As soon as I took a seat at the desk and saw a photo of Vivian, I knew that staying at home wasn’t going to work. There were too many reminders here; too many reasons for the emotional train to start steaming again.
It was time, I thought, to visit my office.
Packing up my computer, I went to the office I’d rented. The shared receptionist was startled to see me, but reported as usual that I had no messages. For the first time, I honestly didn’t care.