Dinner proceeded as smoothly as it could have with a toddler at the table. Henri insisted on sitting next to Winnie and expressed his contentment by enthusiastically defacing his paper menu with green and purple crayons and then bestowing his masterpiece upon her. We scarfed down the pizza, scalding the roofs of our mouths with bubbling mozzarella. When Henri grew restless, I whipped out the iPad and headphones.
It was only after the plates had been cleared, the water glasses refilled one last time, and the check deposited beside Oli’s elbow that he dabbed his napkin to his lips, cleared his throat, and delivered a piece of information so reprehensible, I’d wonder if he’d in fact plotted to invite Winnie to dinner, knowing I’d be forced to temper my reaction.
Our conversation up to this point had been innocuous, veering from rising housing prices to worsening traffic, which had naturally led Oli to bemoan his terrible commute.
You know, he said. I may have found a solution.
Oh? said Winnie.
Oh? I said.
Apparently, one of Oli’s colleagues had offered to rent him a small apartment on California Ave., ten minutes from the hospital. The place had been empty for months, so they’d given him a deal.
My smile strained the corners of my mouth. You’re going to live in Palo Alto?
California Ave., that’s a nice street, said Winnie.
Oli avoided my eyes. I thought we could give this a try. Only during the week. And when I have to work weekends.
Makes sense, Winnie said. What’s that great brunch place with the very long queue?
Joanie’s, said Oli, though I’ve heard the quality has deteriorated.
Does it make sense? I asked, still grinning like a buffoon. To leave your wife all alone with your active and fussy two-year-old?
Oli spoke slowly and calmly, like he did when he reprimanded said two-year-old. Come now, Ava. We discussed this before I took the job.
We discussed eventually moving as a family.
Yes, and what am I supposed to do in the meantime?
In the meantime, you make sacrifices because that’s what’s best for the family.
His expression grew plaintive. Why did you push me to say yes?
I swiveled to face him squarely so he could absorb my look of incredulity. Because it’s your dream job. Because that’s what good spouses do—support each other, help each other excel.
I said I was perfectly happy where I was.
I jerked my napkin from my lap and slammed it on the table. Winnie sucked in a breath. Even Henri glanced up from the iPad. The too-large headphones hung down to his jaw like Snoopy ears.
All right, I said. We can talk about this at home. I pushed back my chair, intentionally dragging its legs across the floor, savoring the deafening screech.
Oli tossed a bunch of twenties on the table, deftly pushing Winnie’s hand away when she tried to add to the pile. Without warning he yanked Henri out of his high chair, and he promptly began to cry.
Outside the restaurant, Winnie stroked Henri’s cheek, eliciting a despondent moan. She flagged down a cab idling nearby, and when she hugged me, she squeezed my shoulders and whispered, right in my ear, Call me.
Heat blazed across my face. I couldn’t believe I’d let her witness this entire scene. Once she’d vanished, I raged at Oli. Why did he have to get into this in front of my friend? How could he humiliate me like that?
He sputtered, I really didn’t think you’d get so mad.
I whirled around and marched back to the house, leaving him to corral Henri and the stroller and the tote bag of toys.
I know what you’re about to say, Detective. What was keeping me from packing up and moving down to the Peninsula with my husband? After all, I’m so eager to do so now.
One big reason was Maria. We’d gone through three other nannies before we’d found her, and I know it’s cliché, but she really was part of the family. In the entire time she was with us, she only called in sick once—a vicious case of food poisoning—and I will never forget how Henri broke down when I told him she wasn’t coming. He cried so hard, he started hyperventilating, his little chest pumping like the bellows of an accordion. I couldn’t calm him down. I screamed into the phone at Oli that our son wouldn’t stop, his lips were turning blue, he’d passed out. Infuriatingly composed, Oli told me not to panic and to call 911 if he didn’t come to in another minute. Henri woke up right after that, but the terror’s still fresh enough to send my pulse skyrocketing.
I thought of Maria as a true coparent. She was with me the afternoon my dad called to tell me about my mom. I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying through the sobs. He repeated that she was dead and then abruptly hung up the phone to call my brother. When Maria entered the kitchen, she found me standing at the sink, the tap still running at full blast, bruising the sieve of strawberries. I asked her if it was possible that I’d misheard my dad. She bundled me in her strong sinewy arms and put me to bed and told me firmly that the only thing I had to do right then was grieve; she’d take care of everything else. Hours later, I gazed out the window into the backyard to see her kneeling beside Henri, their heads touching, and together they released a yellow balloon into the sky.
There was one other reason that prevented me from making the move: my foolish pride. Here, in San Francisco, surrounded by professional contacts and former colleagues, I was a lawyer on extended maternity leave, on sabbatical even—a concept that had, as of late, transcended the walls of academia and infiltrated corporate life. In the last couple of years, acquaintances had taken monthslong paid leaves to travel the world, volunteer at wildlife preserves, meditate in ashrams. Here in San Francisco, I could tell myself I wasn’t so different from them.
Since my mom’s passing, however, I’d grown increasingly certain I could never return to tax law and the tyranny of billable hours, a thought that so frightened me, I’d mentioned it to no one. You see, in my family there were only a few acceptable paths—law, medicine, engineering. Law was the one I’d disliked least. From the very beginning, I’d known my lot in life: to be good enough at my job, and to tolerate it until retirement.
This must sound so silly to you, Detective. Did you want to be in law enforcement ever since you were a little girl? Ah, your dad was a detective. I bet he told you that you could be anything you wanted, regardless of your gender.
I’m afraid I cannot fathom that level of freedom. Even at age thirty-seven, I was still obsessing over what my poor mother would have said if she’d lived to learn that I was becoming a yoga teacher or an interior designer or a baker—not that any of those things was my true passion, which only underscored the absurdity of my crisis. There wasn’t anything else I wanted to do more!
So, what did I tell Oli? Absolutely nothing. I dreaded his disapproval most of all.
Here’s a story that’ll explain what I mean: Straight out of Berkeley Law, I joined a big firm and spent the year working almost exclusively with one awful partner. His name was Vince Garibaldi. Loud, sweaty, ruthless, a petty tyrant who chucked his blasted glass pyramid paperweight on the floor and called us motherfuckers when we messed up. I constantly feared getting fired.