“Of course not. Why would you think I’d have a problem with it?”
“Because you’re angry and hurt, and you might want to try to hurt me back. I mean, you didn’t even call to talk to me about canceling the credit cards. You just up and did it. You do know you should have called first, right? So we could discuss it?”
I blinked, thinking about the secret bank account she’d set up.
“Seriously?”
“I’m just saying you could have handled it better.”
Her chutzpah was staggering and all I could do was stare at her. The waiter arrived with her iced tea, and as he set it on the table, her phone rang. Checking the screen, she stood from the table.
“I’ve got to take this.”
I watched her walk from the table and head outside; from my seat, I could see her, though I forced myself to look away. I munched a couple of ice cubes until the waiter came by with a basket of bread and some butter. I nibbled on that, absently listening to the drone of conversations around me. In time, Vivian returned to the table.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was work.”
Whatever, I thought. I didn’t bother responding.
The waiter brought our food, and she dressed her salad before dicing it into bite-sized portions. The aroma of the soup was tantalizing, but my stomach had locked down. The small amount of bread had taken up all the room. I nonetheless forced myself to take a bite.
“There’s something else I think we need to discuss,” she said finally.
“What’s that?”
“What we’re going to say to London. I was thinking that we should probably sit down with her on Sunday, before I leave.”
“Why?”
“Because she needs to know what’s going on, but in a way that she can understand. We need to keep it as simple as possible.”
“I don’t know what that even means.”
She sighed. “We tell her that because of my job, I’ll have to live in Atlanta and that she’s going to stay with you for a while. We explain that no matter what happens, we both love her. It’s not really necessary to go into long explanations, and I don’t think that’s a good idea anyway.”
You mean like explaining that you’re in love with another man?
“I can talk to Liz. She might be able to give me some dos and don’ts.”
“That’s fine, but be careful.”
“Why?”
“She’s not your therapist. She’s your sister’s partner. I assume she’s taken your side in all this, and wants you to believe that I’m the bad guy.”
But you are the bad guy!
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“Just make sure,” she warned. “I also don’t think it’s a good idea to tell her what’s happening between you and me. It would be better if she gets used to the two of us being apart first. Then it won’t come as such a shock when we do tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“That we’re getting divorced.”
I set my spoon aside. Though I suspected she’d say the word eventually, in the here and now, it still shocked me to hear it aloud.
“Before we start talking about divorce, don’t you think it might be a good idea for the two of us to talk to a therapist? To see if there’s any way to salvage what we have?”
“Keep your voice down. This isn’t the time or place to talk about this.”
“I am keeping my voice down,” I said.
“No you’re not. You can’t hear yourself when you get angry. You’re always loud.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. “All right,” I said, forcing myself to speak even more quietly. “Don’t you want to even try to make it work?” I could barely hear myself above the din of the lunch crowd.
“You don’t have to whisper,” she retorted. “I was just asking you to keep your voice down. People could hear you.”
“I got it,” I said. “Stop changing the subject.”
“Russ…”
“I still love you. I’ll always love you.”
“And I just told you that this isn’t the time or place for this! Right now, we’re here to talk about London and why she should probably stay here for the time being and what we are going to say to her on Sunday night. We’re not here to talk about us.”
“Don’t you want to talk about us?”
“I can see that trying to have a normal conversation with you wasn’t a good idea. Why can’t we discuss things like adults?”
“I am trying to talk to you.”
She took a bite of her salad—she’d barely eaten any to that point—and then placed her napkin on the table. “But you never listen! How many times do I have to tell you that this isn’t the time or place to talk about you and me? I said it nicely, I thought I was being clear, but I guess you had other ideas. So for now, I think it’s best if I probably leave before you start yelling at me, okay? I just want to have a pleasant weekend with my daughter.”
“Please,” I said. “You don’t have to leave. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”
“I’m not the one who’s upset,” she said. “You are.”
With that, Vivian rose from the table and strode for the exit. When she was gone, I sat in shock for a couple of minutes before finally signaling for the waiter to bring the check. Rehashing the conversation, I wondered whether I really had been too loud, or whether it had been an easy excuse for Vivian to bring the lunch to an early conclusion.
There was, after all, no reason for her to stay.
Not only was she in love with another man, as far as the weekend went, she’d gotten everything she’d wanted from me.
CHAPTER 16
The Sun Also Rises
I liked Liz as soon as I met her, but I’ll admit that I was amazed that my parents felt the same way. While they accepted the fact that Marge was gay, I often sensed that they weren’t exactly comfortable with the women Marge dated. There was a generational aspect to it—they’d both grown up in an era in which alternative lifestyles were typically kept in the closet—but it also had to do with the kind of women that Marge originally seemed to favor. They struck me as a bit on the rough side and were often prone to profanity in casual conversation, which had a tendency to make both my mom and dad go red in the face.
Marge told me that she’d met Liz at work. Accounting offices, I think most would agree, aren’t your usual pickup joints, but Liz had recently joined a new practice and was in need of an accountant. Marge happened to have an opening in her afternoon schedule, and by the time Liz left the office, they’d made arrangements to meet for a glass of wine before dropping by an art opening in Asheville.
“You’re going to an art gallery?” I remember asking Marge. We’d met at a bar after work, the kind of place with neon beer signs and the slightly rancid smell of too many spilled drinks. At the time, it was one of Marge’s favorite watering holes.
“Why wouldn’t I go to an art gallery?”
“Maybe because you don’t like art?”
“Who says I don’t like art?”
“You did. When I tried to show you some pictures of Emily’s art, you said—and I quote—‘I don’t like art.’”
“Maybe I’ve matured in the past few years.”
“Or maybe Liz just blew your socks off.”
“She’s interesting,” Marge admitted. “Very smart, too.”
“Is she pretty?”
“What does that matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Yes. She’s very pretty.”
“Let me guess. The art opening was her idea?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
“Does she drive a motorcycle? And favor leather jackets?”
“How would I know?”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a marriage and family therapist.”
“You don’t like therapists either.”
“I didn’t like my therapists. Well, the last one was okay, but I didn’t much like the others. Of course, there were a few years there where I was pretty angry, and I’m not sure I would have liked any therapist.”
“Have you told Liz about your anger issues?”
“That’s all in my past. I’m not like that anymore.”
“Good to know. When can I meet her?”
“It’s a little early, don’t you think? We haven’t even gone out yet.”