I thought that marriage and work would help me fill the hole, but it hadn’t. My career, if you could call it that, was lackluster and accidental, not at all what I had intended on graduation day 2001. And now, it seemed my marriage was a sham almost from the start. Could the hole get any bigger? How would I ever fill it up? I was exhausted from the details of my life, the wills and contracts and agreements that had been a constant since my father’s death. Starting Monday, there would be more clauses and tedium. I dreaded the next few months and I couldn’t even imagine the next few years.
In the thirty-six hours since Casey’s bombshell, I’d questioned every business trip he ever took, every supportive conversation we’d ever had, and every time he’d touched me in the last six years. A comment made several years earlier by my single friend Nina, a marketing executive who racked up as many frequent-flier miles as Casey, played over and over again in my head: “There’s a lot of bad behavior on business trips. Those hotel lobby bars are the gateway to adultery. It’s like everyone forgets their marital vows after a few glasses of whatever.” Was that how it had started with Marissa? A couple of drinks after a long day of shooting and matrimonial amnesia set in? Or was she just more exciting than me, more exotic in every way with her Miami upbringing and her Cuban Brazilian heritage?
My mental torture led me to purchase and consume a considerable amount of red wine and wasabi-smoked almonds, the evidence of which cluttered the coffee table. It seemed the thing to do when your husband tells you he’s a daddy and his twins are off to kindergarten in the fall. I can’t say that I found the food and drink particularly helpful in crushing the humiliation of the situation, but the drama of stumbling through the grocery store, collecting my basket of heartache, and then curling up on the couch did kill some time: that first awful, awful day after a life-changing event when you realize that going back to yesterday is not an option.
On Saturday night, after the twenty-four-hour window had passed, I called my friend Tai from the museum, and he rushed over enough food for a football team. “It’s my birthright,” Tai explained. “We Japanese always bring food.” That was true. Sometimes he’d show up with a single macaron, a perfect yet humble offering.
Tai handed me a postcard. It was an image of Joan of Arc with her famed quote, “I am not afraid. I was born for this.” The visual was in the style of Keith Haring, and it was charming, perfect for my extensive collection of Joan ephemera, a collection that had started in childhood. My father had a thing for Joan of Arc, and he passed it on to me, along with the name. Postcards, children’s books, prayer cards, any art with her image that I spotted in a bookstore or sidewalk art show. What had started as an inherited hobby became a necessity, a connective tissue to my father. The few friends that knew about my collection were always on the lookout for me. “I found this in the Village on my trip to New York, and I thought of you, of course. Seems like you need some of that patron saint vibe right now.” I hugged him deeply.
Tai Takashita was a trusted confidant, a brilliant curator of contemporary art, with a serious demeanor and impeccable style. I knew of Tai before I met him, as he was recognized as a leading authority on the Light and Space movement and had actually written his PhD dissertation on my father’s work. We were friends from the second we met in person at the WAM.
Tai lived his public life for his traditional and wealthy Japanese family, who expected him to marry and have children someday, and he lived his private life in private, sharing very little of his day after he left the museum. But I knew it included a handsome “roommate” named Anders and elegant dinners at home for the two of them, as revealed to me late one night while we were in the final throes of getting a show up. Occasionally I was invited to their downtown apartment for drinks, and it was all very sophisticated, but we all knew that the Takashita family clock was ticking, and soon Tai would have to marry a woman and live a different life. There would be an agreement and a wedding and some sort of life after that for Tai. Until then, we never mentioned the inevitable.
As such, Tai had no use for indiscretion, and I needed his opinion to back up my gut feeling.
“I know I should be heartbroken, but all I feel is stupid. Like I am the biggest idiot, a total pushover. I want to punish him forever.”
“You’re too young to become this bitter. End it quickly and get out ahead of the gossip,” Tai said. “For lots of reasons, but mainly because he doesn’t deserve you. And, honestly, he never has.”
It was exactly what I was thinking: I could never be a real family with Casey and his love children. Never. I would resent every moment of the next fifty years, having this ready-made family forced on me. I’d be an awful stepmother because I could never forgive Casey. I’d take that anger out on the kids, and they didn’t deserve that. Not that I felt the slightest bit mushy about his sons, a fact which made me feel awful about myself, but I knew that I never wanted to meet them or spend one more minute in Casey’s company. It was an extraordinary feeling of finality, a relief and a rush. I was done and it was over.
Moving on, to use a phrase I’d heard Casey say many times on set.
Now, in the light of my Sam Francis morning, I needed to pull myself together. It was my universe, all brightness. I’d start by cleaning the house. Then I’d call my lawyer. Maybe by Monday morning, I’d be ready to call my mother.
The doorbell rang around ten, as I had guessed it might. Another reason for pulling myself together. It was Amy.
Just two days ago, I might have found Amy’s thrift shop boho ensemble to be a breath of fresh air in a world of cookie-cutter mommies. She had the excuse of being an animator; a gifted creative being whose whole world was a Technicolor dream, but my generosity of spirit had withered. Grow up. You’re somebody’s mother. Enough with the overalls. The thought made me smile to myself as I opened the door to the woman who had been my husband’s friend, then mine, for the last decade. Maybe the New Joan would be Mean Joan instead of Cool & Lovely Joan. I decided to test the persona out a bit. “Amy, what a surprise. I thought you’d be bringing your bagels to Marissa’s house from now on.”
“Joan, please let me in so I can explain.” She actually had a bag of bagels in her hand, but no kids and no Dave. Did she think we were going to break bread, shed some tears, and then have a laugh and a schmear?
I opened the door wider and let her into the front hall, as I’d done dozens of times before. But this would be the last time. “You can come in for a minute, but you can’t possibly explain why you failed to tell me about the twins.”
“I begged Casey . . .”
I cut her off. “Let’s be clear: I do blame Casey, first and foremost. I have no words to describe my anger. But you, you’ve disappointed me more.” It was harsh, but it was true. Because I’d married and settled down so young, I had lost touch with many of my high school friends in my early twenties. The girls I knew from Pasadena were young, unattached, and spending most nights at downtown happy hours or Hollywood screenings. They vacationed in Cabo and skied in Park City on the weekends. They lived uncomplicated lives, and my father’s complicated death had made things very awkward between me and my hometown peers. Between me and most people, really. I went to a few parties and drinks occasionally, showed up at reunions and promised to keep in touch. I exchanged emails with a few old friends, but I didn’t run with a crowd anymore. Possibly, the result of years and years of pauses after the words “I’m so sorry” made it too hard to connect to the past.