I SLEPT ON it. I resigned.
AFTER I PACKED up my desk, I drove across town to a dumpy pink apartment building on Camino Real. I rang the bell for M. Choi. The woman’s voice asked who it was, and I said it was a delivery, and the woman said she wasn’t expecting a delivery, and I said it’s flowers, and the woman said who are the flowers from? And I said they’re from Dr. Grossman. The woman buzzed me in.
I climbed the stairs, and M. Choi had the door open. She was still wearing her nurse’s uniform, not a sexy costume one—blue scrubs with a neon geometric pattern.
My husband’s mistress said, “Hello, Rachel. I guess Mike didn’t send me flowers.”
I said, “Mike’s not a flower guy.”
“No,” she said.
I said, “I got fired today.”
She said, “I’m sorry.”
I said, “It’s been a rotten year.”
She said, “I’m sorry for everything. For Aviva. And for everything.”
“I don’t want an apology,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?” she said.
“No,” I said.
“I’m making one for myself. The water’s already on. It won’t be a moment. Have a seat,” she said. She went into the kitchen, and I poked around her living room. She had pictures of her family, pictures of a cat and then a different cat. She had one picture of Mike, but it was a group photo with her and the other people who worked in Mike’s practice. Mike wasn’t even standing next to her. I was still looking at the photo when she returned with the tea. I set the frame back on the mantel, though I know she saw me looking at it.
“Do you take sugar?” she asked. “Milk?”
“No,” I said. “Plain.”
“I like a touch of sweetness,” she said.
“I like my sugar in dessert,” I said, “but I try to avoid it everywhere else.”
“You’re so trim,” she said.
“I work for it,” I said. “Inside me, there is an angry fat woman.”
“How do you fit her in there?” the mistress asked me.
“You’re funny,” I said. “I hadn’t expected you to be funny.”
“Why?” she said.
“Because I’m funny,” I said. “If he wanted funny, he could have stayed home.”
“I don’t think I was always funny,” she said. “I was too in awe of him to be funny.”
“In awe of Mike? That is funny,” I said.
“When it started, I was only twenty-five, and he seemed so powerful and accomplished. I was amazed that he could take an interest in me.”
“How old are you now?” I said.
“Forty in March,” she said. “Take out the bag. The tea gets bitter if it oversteeps.”
I did as I was told. “Fifteen years,” I said.
“A tea bag left to steep for fifteen years will definitely make bitter tea,” she said.
“I meant, that’s how long you’ve been with Mike.”
“I knew what you meant. I feel terrible half the time and the other half of the time, I wonder where my life has gone,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “But you’re still young.”
“I am,” she said. “Relatively. Or at least I’m in the middle.” She took a long look at me. “You are, too.”
“Don’t be condescending,” I said.
“I’m not meaning to be. My point is, it may not seem like it but Aviva is lucky this came out now and not fifteen years from now. She still has choices.”
I sneezed.
“Bless you,” she said. “Are you getting a cold?”
“I’m never sick,” I said. “Never.”
I sneezed again.
“But I’m so tired,” I said.
She said she had some chicken matzo ball soup in the fridge. “I made it myself,” she said. “Lie down on my couch.”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted my husband’s mistress to give me chicken soup, but I felt so run-down all at once. Her apartment was small but comfortable and clean. I wondered how long she had lived there. I imagined her getting ready to go on dates with my husband. Putting on lipstick for him. Tarting herself up. I imagined her young, waiting for Aviva to grow up so that Mike would divorce me. I felt sad for all of us.
She brought the soup in a pretty blue imitation delft bowl.
I ate the soup, and I immediately began to feel better. My sinuses cleared and my throat felt less raw.
“See,” she said, “it’s not just an old wives’ tale about chicken soup.”
“I hate that phrase,” I said. “Old wives’ tale.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, it’s not you. But it’s so hateful and sexist and ageist when you think about it. ‘Old wives’ tale’ means something that’s untrue or not scientifically proven? ‘Old wives’ tale’ is basically a way of saying ignore everything that dumb old woman says.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way either. Not until I became an old wife myself.”
THREE MONTHS LATER, terrorists crashed two planes into the World Trade Center, and just like that, Avivagate was over. People stopped talking about the scandal. The news cycle moved on.
That winter, Aviva finished college. She received her diploma in a windowless office at the university.
That spring, she applied for jobs. She wanted to continue working in government or politics, but in South Florida, everyone had heard of her and not in a way that was helpful. Anyone who hadn’t heard of her googled her, and that was that. She switched her focus to finding work in PR or marketing, thinking that these employers would be less—I suppose the word is moralistic—than public sector employers. They were not. I will admit, I have more sympathy for her situation now than I did then. At the time, what I wanted was for her to move out, move on, get her life together.
By the end of the summer, she’d given up. I’d always find her floating in our pool, letting her skin bake to a deep brown.
“Aviva,” I said. “Are you even wearing SPF?”
“No, Mom. It’s fine.”
“Aviva, you’ll damage your skin.”
“I don’t care,” she said.
“You should care!” I said. “You only get one skin.”
“I don’t care,” she said.
She was working her way through the Harry Potter books. I think there were four out at the time, but I don’t remember. I know that adults read Harry Potter, but I took it as a bad sign. They looked so childish to me, with the drawing of the cartoon boy wizard on the front.
“Aviva,” I said, “you like to read so much. Maybe you should apply to grad school?”
“Oh yeah?” she said. “Who’s going to write me recommendation letters? What school isn’t going to web search me?”
“Well, you could apply to law school. Plenty of people from dubious backgrounds go to law school. I saw a show where a convicted murderer did law school by correspondence so that he could try to get himself acquitted.”
“I’m not a murderer,” she said. “I’m a slut, and you can’t be acquitted of that.”
“You can’t stay in this pool forever.”
“I’m not going to stay in this pool forever. I’m going to float on top of it, and I’m going to finish reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets for the fourth time, and then I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the fourth time.”