I suppose it would make a better story to say Phillip’s and my reunion was like a movie, that tear-jerking music swelled in the background and we rushed into each other’s arms (politely stepping around the table so we didn’t knock over the flower arrangement), and all was forgiven, even the parts we would never talk about.
But it didn’t feel like a romantic moment. It felt weighted with guilt and confusion and surprise and distance. So basically I stood there in the hallway, looking at my husband curiously, as though I were an anthropologist and he were a previously undiscovered tribe, until he asked, “Aren’t you going to say hello?” and I pulled myself out of my twitching mind and walked over to him (bumping into the table on the way, though it turned out the flower arrangement was way too heavy to knock over) and gave him an awkward hug, and he bent to kiss me except I was already pulling away, thinking he wasn’t the last person I had kissed, so he got the edge of my mouth, and if we had been actors in a romantic movie, we would have been fired.
In retrospect, “What are you doing here?” was probably not the most welcoming thing I could have said. It wasn’t meant to be accusatory. I just honestly couldn’t think of why he was there, and if there was any edge to my voice, it was because it had been sharpened on my shame.
“I thought I’d come see how things are going here,” he said. And then, pointedly, “You haven’t been returning my calls.”
I winced, thinking guiltily of the cell phone, which, as far as I knew, was still marinating in the water at the bottom of the vase, about two feet from us. “Sorry.”
“And of course I wanted to check on Simone,” he said, turning toward my mother and shooting her one of his patented dazzling smiles.
“Oh. Nice,” I said. And oddly, the thought that floated through my mind was one of relief. Well, went the logic somewhere deep in my lizard-brain, at least he’s not here to see you. That takes some of the pressure off.
But of course he was there to see me. I was the one who had married him, and here he was, charging in on his white horse to rescue me. Or, more likely, to rescue himself. That was more Phillip’s style. He would never let me go, no matter how unhappy he was. It would make him look weak, or wrong, or out of control. No, he would rather maintain his image and keep me in check, even if it meant he would be stuck with me for the rest of his life.
“You’re a mess. What have you been doing, cleaning the gutters?” he asked, his gaze skimming over my clothes. I looked down at my outfit, which was pretty much the same one I had been wearing when Henry had come to pick me up for First Friday, and brushed off my shirt a little.
“Moving boxes. It’s dirty work,” I said, and my shoulders slumped as I felt myself moving back onto the familiar battlefield that was my relationship with Phillip. This was real life. I’d been on vacation, that’s what it was. That’s why everything had felt so easy and free. But you don’t get to stay on vacation forever. At some point, you have to go back to work.
My mother cleared her throat, surprisingly awkwardly for her. “Shall we go into the parlor?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she led us regally into the front room. She and Phillip ended up sitting together on the sofa while I took the chair opposite. It looked as though we were conducting an awkward job interview rather than having a family reunion. “The house looks lovely, Mother,” Phillip said.
“Thank you,” she preened, and I had to admit it did look good, especially without all the things we had sold, packed, or otherwise disposed of. Remembering the things I had packed away for myself, with the full knowledge there was no room in my home for them, made me feel guilty, and I rearranged my face so it wouldn’t show.
“How are the preparations going for the move?” he asked, leaning slightly toward my mother and placing his hand on hers, as though she might need moral support through the difficulties of the conversation.
“It’s going well. There’s just so much to do,” my mother said. She made it sound as if she were organizing an invasion of Russia instead of moving house, which, frankly, people do literally every day, but my mother had always had a tendency for the dramatic, especially around men. Just call her Scarlett. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she had leaned back and laid her hand over her forehead in a swoon.
Phillip looked over at my mother with kind sympathy and patted her hand. He could be so charming when he wanted to be. When we had been dating, he was one of those men who always knew when to send flowers, who told you how nice you looked when he picked you up, whose dates were elaborate as scenes from a romantic movie. It had been nice, being treated that way.