“Right. The last thing I wanted to do was get pregnant.”
“Smart girl.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Try not to worry until you have something to worry about, okay? Everything is treatable.”
“Except herpes. Herpes is forever.”
“But still treatable.” My phone dinged with a text from Carol. HIV test negative. “No HIV,” I said.
“Thank God!” She closed her eyes with relief.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed. If you need to talk, call us, okay? The service will put you through if it’s after hours.”
“Thanks, Lillie,” she said.
“You’ll be okay, sweetheart.”
“My name is Emily, by the way,” she said with a little duck of her head.
“Nice meeting you, Emily.”
It was only after she left and I was getting ready to go home that I realized . . . shit . . . oh, God. I needed one of these panels, too. I could have herpes. Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. HIV!
My knees buckled, and I collapsed into a chair.
“Wanda?” I called, my voice weak.
She heard me anyway. “What’s up, babe? I’m just about to . . . Jesus, what happened? You’re white as a ghost! Are you okay?”
“Close the door,” I whispered, and she did. Carol wouldn’t break HIPAA, but she’d interrogate me if she knew. She was already obsessed with me hitting menopause.
“What’s going on, Lils?” she asked, taking my hand. “You’re shaking.”
“Brad cheated on me, and I need . . . I need . . .” I started crying.
“No. No!” Wanda loved Brad. Many were the times we’d go out, Wanda and Addo, Brad and me, laughing over dinner, sharing stories. They’d even gone to one of Brad’s book signings, two of three people to show up, me being the other one. “I will murder him, Lillie! How? Why? Why? You guys are so good together!” She started to cry. “God, I’m sorry! But I can’t believe this! Addo and I try to be like you two, hand to God! Oh, Lillie!”
She hugged me, and I told her what I knew, my head swimming. I barely knew anything, after all. And then, after a second long hug, my own tears now soaked into the paper of the exam table as Wanda did for me what I’d just done for Emily.
It was utterly humiliating. But at least my HIV test was negative, and I’d know the rest in a few days.
Back at home, I poured myself a huge glass of Portuguese vinho verde from my dad’s third cousin back in the old country, chugged it, and poured another. Checked on dinner and put the proofed bread in the oven.
Dylan and Brad got home at the same time about a half hour later; I heard their tires crunching on the shells of our driveway. Brad said something to him and Dylan laughed easily. They came down into the kitchen.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “How are you?” Guess what Mommy did today, Dylan? She got an STD panel because Daddy’s penis was in someone else!
Dylan came over and gave me the lean-in hug of a teenaged male. “Smells good in here, Mom.”
“Thanks, honey.” I forced myself to look at Brad. “Wine?” I asked.
“Thank you, Lillie,” he said smoothly. “I’d love a glass.”
“I’ll take a beer, Mom,” Dylan said.
“Hilarious,” I said. Did I sound normal? Maybe I did.
The guys went onto the porch, and I poured Brad a glass of wine and topped mine off, needing a buzz tonight. Another thing I should’ve noted—Brad’s wine vocabulary. He was suddenly using words like harmonious and balanced and lingering. Before that, we’d separated wine into two classes: red and white, usually from Portugal, because of Silverio, the aforementioned third cousin.
I looked at our glasses of golden wine and spit in Brad’s. Swirled the wine around, then joined them on the porch. Dylan was sprawled on the couch, looking at his phone. Brad was in one of the cushioned chairs. I sat in the other, glancing at him to see when he sipped. Enjoy the saliva, asshat.
“Nice lingering on the palate, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Yes, actually.” He took another sip, holding it in his mouth. Some wine connoisseur.
Our son put his phone away. “So what’s new with you guys, other than your kid is done with high school?”
I looked at Brad.
“I’ve got some great marketing plans for my book,” he said. “I hired a new publicist, and she has some really innovative ideas.”
Was that the other woman? A publicist?
“Cool,” Dylan said, carefully not looking at me. We held the same opinion of Brad’s book . . . lame, but since we loved the author, we pretended.
Had loved the author.
“Mom? Any slimy, blood-soaked birthing stories you want to share?”
I smiled, feeling a flare of love for my boy in the tundra of my heart. “No . . . I just saw some patients for checkups. Sorry to disappoint.” I paused, staring at Brad. “Ran a couple STD panels. Gonorrhea, herpes, syphilis, chlamydia. You know. Sores on the labia, in the vagina, that sort of thing.”
His face twitched, then flushed an unappealing shade of brick.
“Thanks for sharing,” Dylan said. “I feel so much closer to you now.”
I looked back at my son. “You are the son of a midwife, Dyllie. You know more about the female anatomy than most women.”
“Such a gift,” he said, grinning.
And so we sat there, Brad’s betrayal swimming beneath us like a great white shark. When the timer dinged for the bread, I went into the kitchen, pulled out the round loaf and inhaled the rosemary I’d topped it with, then served up the stew in the big, heavy multicolored bowls we had. Once again, I added a little bodily fluid to Brad’s portion.
Then we ate together. It seemed so normal. Brad asked about the football coach at the University of Montana, and Dylan answered. I asked Dylan when he wanted to drive to Hyannis to get his college stuff. Brad said he’d like to take Dylan to Martha’s Vineyard for a day (was that where she lived?). I said I’d like a day of ocean kayaking, going from Boat Meadow in Eastham all the way to Coast Guard Beach through the tidal rivers.
Dylan amiably agreed to everything, blissfully unaware that these family meals were numbered. Brad had me over a barrel, didn’t he? He knew I didn’t want to ruin what time we had left. Knew I wanted to give my son this last beautiful summer before college.
The bastard.
CHAPTER 3
Lillie
We need to talk,” Brad said a week or so after graduation.
Fortunately, since that first dinner together after graduation, I’d been asked to cover a couple of overnight shifts at the hospital. It was so hard to feign normalcy when Dylan was around, and when he wasn’t, I was tight with rage. Brad and I hadn’t been alone in the house since the morning after graduation.
But tonight, Dylan was out, and Brad cornered me on the porch. “Let’s part ways amicably,” he continued. “If we go to a mediator, things will move faster.”
Part ways? These fucking euphemisms. “I think we should try counseling,” I said.
“It’s too late for that.”
“I meant counseling for how to ‘part ways amicably.’?” I made air quotes. “I’m sure Jorge can help us.” It was a knife between his ribs, and he took the bait.
“We don’t need Jorge. We have me. I’m much more experienced than he is.”
“I wonder why Netflix didn’t call you, then.”
His fair skin flushed. Bull’s-eye. “Can we be adults about this?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one pretending to be a hipster twentysomething. You’re the one who broke our vows. Who’s breaking our family without regard for anyone else.”
“There were many beautiful things about our marriage,” he said. “And I thank you for them. But I’m just not happy anymore, and I deserve to be happy.”
“What about my happiness?”
“That’s up to you. I can’t give that to you.”
“But your mistress can give it to you?”
“Life is a journey,” he said. “Cliché, but true. And our journeys are simply taking different paths now. I feel so much joy at the idea of a fresh start, and I’m sorry you don’t, but you will, Lillie. You’ll have joy again, too.”