The benefit seems like ages ago. We were the model couple then, what was that—two and a half weeks ago? I remember his hands flitting across my shoulders, fastening the solitaire diamond, and then hovering there, reluctant to let go. Everything has gone downhill since the benefit. Molly McKay and Gunther Rowe. Henry’s erratic behavior, his violence and mood swings. I can’t reconcile this man with the Henry in my memory. But now, removed from Henry and Lydia without the pressure to be one person or the other, the transformation is a bit clearer. The day Henry gently suggested that a nose stud was juvenile. You’re too beautiful for these teenager endeavors. Like you’re thirteen and trying to piss off your mother. I took it out because I was twenty-seven and felt immediately silly. It was impulsive anyway, Lydia’s influence, my newly short hair spiked magenta. Piercings. Attempts to hide, but at the same time discover who I would become, with Lydia’s help whether she knew why or not. That night, I popped it out, tucking it under the sapphire necklace he’d given me as a replacement in my jewelry box.
Or maybe it was how he’d taken my short, spiky lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger: This is such a beautiful color, is it natural? I bet it would be knockout if you let it grow. Subtle comments here and there about my clothing, how they reflected my spirit but not my intelligence.
And then came the waves of gifts, cashmere, silk, Versace, and Donna Karan. Thick, draping fabrics. I’d stand in the closet and hold the softest silk to my cheek, like a child’s security blanket. Fabrics I didn’t even know existed, much less thought I could own, their colors vibrant and buttery rich. Suddenly, my thrift store plaid skirts and lace tops felt pop-bubblegum. Cheap. Evelyn used to say that it takes a lifetime to grow into the person you’ll become. As I stood in the closet, facing all this glorious elegance, she all but whispered in my ear.
Then, gradually, I started wearing Henry’s clothes to the flower shop. Then I wore them all the time. Eventually I bagged up all my old stuff and gave it to Penny to donate to Goodwill until the last of me was gone. At the time, I didn’t feel sad; the parts of me that were old, torn, ratted, and worn were being shucked away in plastic bags. The best parts of my life were yet to come. Hemingway once said that bankruptcy happens “Gradually and then suddenly.” Maybe that’s how I became Henry’s wife.
“You’re not the same person,” Lydia scoffed one day as we processed, sliding the stems through our fingers, slicing the bottoms on a bias with our knives, shearing off leaves.
“No one is ever the same person. Stagnant people are boring.” I was defensive.
“So you’re saying I’m stagnant? I’m boring?” She stopped cutting and stared at me, her nostrils flared, an angry horse about to charge.
“No. I’m saying I was bored. With me.” I plunked a gangly zinnia into the nearest stainless water bucket.
“But what you’re really saying is that you’re bored with us.” Javi stood behind Lydia, his hands resting on his hips. “Will you come to Paula’s show later?” Javi asked the question with a sarcastic sneer. Paula, Javi’s partner, played bass in a punk band in the basement of a bar on Tuesday nights. Except that night, Henry had opera tickets. I raised my eyebrows and opened my mouth, unable to verbalize the rejection. “Yeah. We didn’t think so.” He turned and stomped off.
I shrugged in Lydia’s direction, like What’s his problem?
She twisted her mouth. “I’m with him here, Zo. You’re too . . . something for us.” She clicked the knife closed and tossed it, clattering, on the stainless steel table.
That night, Henry comforted me, assured me that yes, I had changed a bit, but yes, that was okay. “This is what life is about, Zoe. No one stays the same person forever.” At the time, I snorted through tears. Truly, how many people can one person be?
Now as I sit here in Cash’s hot car, the windows down, the warm eighty-degree air rushing my cheeks, I can’t help but wonder, am I yet again destined to become someone else? It seems impossible that I will arrive home tonight the same Zoe that left the apartment this morning.
Cash steers the car off the highway and through an elaborate maze of suburban streets. The sign on the side of the road reads Welcome to Danbury. It seems like a nice place to live: tree-lined cul-de-sacs, backyards with wooden play gyms, winding driveways with glossy SUVs or black BMWs. He makes a sudden left, sliding the Honda behind a navy blue Audi. The clock on the dash reads 10:55. “We’re here.”
? ? ?
I stand just behind a palm fiber doormat printed with a glass of red wine and the words Welcome! I hope you brought wine! in a jaunty sideways script. The porch holds two rocking chairs, but they’re for show, not function, as evidenced by the thick layer of dust and pollen that coat their seats. The house is large and looming, a mix of sunny yellow siding and brick facade. The gardens are sculpted out of arborvitae and impeccably round topiaries.
The door swings open before I ring the bell. Caroline blinks twice at me, as though I were a FedEx man without a package.
“Who’s in the car?” She squints toward the driveway.
“I, um, had a friend bring me, but he thinks maybe we should talk alone.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other and hitch my purse higher on my shoulder. I use the opportunity to study her face: clear, with only the barest hint of crow’s feet at her eyes. It’s possible that we look the same age.
She opens the door a crack and motions me in. The foyer is grand, thirty feet high, with an imposing chandelier. She closes the door quickly and quietly behind me.