If You Only Knew Page 13

  Every once in a while, I thought about Dorothy...wondering if she knew about Dad. If she was sad.

  And then one night, I bolted awake and decided something.

  I had seen wrong.

  They hadn't been kissing. Hugging, yeah, maybe, but not kissing. Dad would never cheat on Mom. It was me. I was wrong. My romantic fantasies about Dr. Dan had infused my little brain with all sorts of tawdry soap-opera images. That was all.

  I needed to mourn my father, that wonderful, sweet, gentle man. He couldn't be a cheater anymore. I mean, he never was, anyway! Right? With my mother an abject wreck, I had to love my father again, think of him as that nearly perfect guy. It was too hard to fight, even silently, against Rachel and Mom and their unadulterated grief.

  During my freshman year of high school, I took an elective called Design Basics, and suddenly, finally, I had something to do at home to distract me from our house of mourning. I asked for sewing lessons for my birthday, and a tiny Italian woman taught me how to make French seams and rolled hems, gussets and buttonholes. Rachel went to college for graphic design; she was also artsy, and she stayed close by, going to college in New Paltz.

  When it was my turn, I headed for the city, to Parsons. To anyone in the Empire State, Manhattan is the shining star, shimmering at the mouth of the Hudson like Oz. Within a week, I knew the subway systems, the best place for Thai food and had already introduced myself to every one of my professors. I became a cliched New York City college student, wearing black clothes and ugly, heavy shoes, carrying my sketch pad with me wherever I went, proudly living in a refrigerator-sized apartment with three other students. I went home often but briefly, grateful to slip back to the city, the city, where already I was distinguishing myself. Every guy I dated, I imagined marrying, but nothing stuck, and I had my heart broken more than a couple times.

  Then, between my undergraduate and master's degrees, I headed for Sydney for a six-month internship at Chanel Australia. There was a huge snowstorm, and my flight was delayed by nineteen hours, give or take. Rather than crash on a friend's floor or go home to Cambry-on-Hudson, I decided to tough it out at JFK, wandering with the throngs of fellow strandees and airport staff as the leaden skies pelted us with fist-sized snowflakes. I sketched four dresses and a suit, entertained a little Korean boy by drawing him anime characters, then got up, my ass numb from sitting on the floor for so long.

  I wandered through the vast terminals, watching people, checking in with my mom and sister to assure them that I was fine and didn't want to come home, that I'd be on my way soon enough. The sun-drenched glory and good cheer of Sydney seemed as far as Pluto, and my eyes grew gritty with fatigue and filtered air.

  And then I saw him.

  Dr. Dan Wallace, DDS, my father's old partner, sitting at one of the many crowded bars. Still looked like Patrick Swayze, too. When I tapped him on the shoulder and told him who I was, a smile sliced his face, and he hugged me tight, smelling of whiskey and Irish Spring. When he pulled back, he was little teary-eyed. "Join me for a drink," he said, and I realized with some degree of affection that he was half in the bag.

  "Have you been stuck here long?" I asked.

  "Twenty..." He looked at his watch. "Twenty-seven hours, more or less. Bartender, a drink for my friend here. Hang on, Jenny, are you old enough to drink?"

  "I am," I said, ordering a glass of merlot. "I'm twenty-two now."

  "No!" Dr. Dan exclaimed. "That doesn't seem possible. Oh, Jenny! You've gotten so pretty! Well, you always were a beautiful girl."

  He had an impressive memory, given that he'd worked for my dad for such a short time. I told him about Rachel, her graduate degree in graphic design, her work for an online start-up. Mom was happy, I lied. Doing well. And how about himself?

  "Oh, I'm married, very happily," he said. "Got two kids, a girl and a boy." He pulled out his wallet to show me pictures, and they were awfully cute. His wife was lovely. It dawned on me that Dr. Dan wasn't even forty. Not really that old at all, now that he and I were both adults. He lived in Macon, Georgia, though he remained a Yankee at heart.

  "Your father was the greatest guy," Dr. Dan said, slurring the slightest bit. "He really took me under his wing. Gave me a chance."

  "I know he liked you so much," I said.

  "Well, I looked up to him, that's for sure. He was everything I wanted to be. The original family man. Beautiful wife, you girls, that gorgeous house... You know, I was so glad when he gave up that woman. 'Rob,' I told him, 'you have everything. Don't shit where you eat, even if it's not my place to say so. Is she worth ruining your marriage?' And see, even though I wasn't married at the time, I knew. He and your mom, they were the real deal."

  The bartender met my eye, and I stared back. What? What did he want? Oh. He was asking if I needed a refill. I nudged my glass a little closer, and more red wine flowed. He had a tattoo on his wrist. The wine was Yellow Tail. There was a maraschino cherry on the floor, and he was just about to step on it. My legs were shaking.

  Dr. Dan was still talking.

  "Dorothy?" I interrupted. "Was that her name?"

  "Dorothy. Yeah, I think so. Lizzie hated her. Oh, man, Lizzie--remember her?--she and I dated a couple times. She was all right, that Lizzie."

  He kept up in that vein, talking and talking and talking, the subject drifting from his days in COH to his migration south, how he met his wife. I stopped listening. I nodded in the right places, then checked my watch and pretended my flight was boarding in ten minutes. Kissed him on the cheek, thanked him for the wine and left.

  Dorothy.

  I could see her face as if she'd been standing in front of me. Blond hair, black roots, that full-lipped mouth. Blue eyes. Big nose, but it worked.

  So it was true after all. My father had indeed been kissing Dorothy. In fact, he'd had an affair.

  I was so glad when he gave up that woman.

  That didn't even sound like a one-night stand.

  A middle-aged man, confronted with his fading youth in the face of Dr. Dan, a wife who's suddenly in love with her career, two daughters who didn't leap into his arms at night anymore...and a damsel in distress in the form of a single mom who struggled to pay the bills.

  I remembered Mom's flashes of jealousy, her easy dismissal of Dorothy's problems. But I also knew Mom well enough to understand that if she had known Dad was sleeping with someone else, she'd never have been able to hide it.

  Mom didn't know.

  Rachel didn't know.

  Six hours later, my flight really did board, and I fell into a coma-like sleep the second we taxied down the snowy runway. When I woke up somewhere over the Pacific, I was resolved.

  I'd never tell. It was too late.

  The hot chocolate and madeleines hadn't fooled me back then, that rainy day when I was eleven. I had known. I gave him the benefit of the doubt that night when I decided I'd imagined the whole thing, and I was wrong to do it. For the past twelve years, I'd been pretending Dad wasn't the cheater he was.

  I should've told Mom when there was still time. She could've confronted him. Gotten counseling. Could've divorced him. She could've separated, at least, and when he died, she at least might've been on the road to some other form of happiness.

  And maybe...just maybe, if he'd been the guilty man who had to make amends for his affair, he wouldn't have gone for that stupid Green Watermelon Brain Freeze. If he'd been living in some pathetic apartment, wondering how he was going to pay alimony and child support, maybe he wouldn't have stopped to indulge his sweet tooth.

  Maybe, if I'd told, he'd be alive today.

  Rachel

  My STD panel came back clear.

  There have been moments in the past two weeks when I've been able to forget my husband had an affair. During the days when the girls don't have school, for example, when we're elbow-deep in organic clay or paint or dirt, I forget.

  I dug out part of the backyard to make the girls their own garden, and they're so beautiful out there that
I take dozens of pictures... Grace sprinkling the pink impatiens with one of the three tiny watering cans we painted; Rose, laughing and filthy, clutching a seedling in each fist; Charlotte lying in the dirt, singing to her "pupple plant." I'll mat and frame a photo of each girl, and hang the photos in their room. My love for them still fills me with such light and joy my feet almost leave the ground sometimes, and when they snuggle against me, or pick me a flower or leaf, when they draw a picture of me with a big red slash of a smile, I know who I am.

  Everywhere else, though, I'm muddled. Three weeks ago, I was a happy, happy wife in love with her husband. Now, hatred flashes like corrosive acid, spurting out of me at the very thought or sight of Adam. I hate myself as well, that stupid, happy woman who thought that making inventive dinners and wearing pretty clothes would keep this wolf from my door. I never knew I had hate like this in me, and it horrifies me, a consuming monster that leaps and claws at the love I had for him, and for us.

  And then sometimes he'll just call to see if I need anything before he comes home, and I forget that he had sex with someone else, and I love him again. Until I remember.

  I've called the Tribeca Grand four times this week. The poor woman at the reservations desk is starting to smell a fake, I'm pretty sure, but she's been so kind, as if she knows exactly who I am and how I'll never stay in a hotel like that, certainly not on my own. I've noticed they've updated the pictures. There's a bar in the suite, and in the lobby, for that matter. A long curving couch with pink pillows. That ocean-size white bed. What would I do there? Sit? Cry? Drink pinot grigio and watch Say Yes to the Dress?

  I bet Emmanuelle would be right at home in that suite.

  In the past seventeen days, I've read dozens of articles about infidelity, and we all have the same question, we stupid wives: What does she have that I don't?

  In Emmanuelle's case, the answer is pretty clear. Confidence. Style. Amorality. A Brazilian.

  I can't think of her. Just can't go there without the rage monster clawing its way right through my rib cage.

  My phone dings with a text. Jenny.

  She's been collateral damage in this mess. For the first time in my life, it's been hard to talk to my sister. She came over the other afternoon to play with the girls and visit, though we can't talk about It with the kids around. I know she wants to help, but what can she do? I can barely look her in the eye, because then I'll see all the love she has for me there, and I'll lose it.

  Tonight, however, she's babysitting, because Adam and I are going to a marriage counselor.

  It was one of my ultimatums. That, and me sleeping in the guest room. The girls wanted to know why, so I told them that I had a little cold, which was why my eyes have been wet. They've already adapted, running into my room in the morning and climbing in bed with me, smelling of sweat and, in Charlotte's case, faintly of pee, since she still has to wear a diaper at night. Adam appears in the doorway, looking rested (how dare he sleep so damn well?) and hopeful and slightly sad, making me wonder if he practices that look in the mirror. The girls leap and bounce and beg to be held by their daddy. Whose tongue has been in places I don't want to think about.

  And so, my list of ultimatums, trying to prove to myself that Rachel Is a Strong Woman.

  Once, I thought I knew exactly what I'd do in the ugly face of infidelity. It was so clear back then. If I couldn't have what my parents had, then I'd rather be single. Divorced. I knew what I deserved, and I wouldn't be one of those pathetic women who settled, who ate or drank or starved herself in her misery, who carries anger like a switchblade, always ready to slice into someone else's happiness.

  But I guess I don't know anything anymore.

  *

  Jenny comes over at 6:30 p.m. "Hello, my little giraffe babies!" she calls, and the girls wriggle and squeal in delight, wrapping themselves around her.

  "Auntie, I'm not a giraffe," Grace says.

  "Are you sure?" Jenny asks.

  "I am! I'm a giraffe!" Charlotte says, detaching from Jenny's leg and running around the house, whinnying. Rose follows, and Jenny picks Grace up and snuggles her.

  Then Adam comes downstairs. "Hey, Jen," he says, and my sister's face hardens.

  He ignores that. "Babe, you ready to go?"

  As if it's a date. As if we're going to dinner and a movie. As if he's done nothing wrong.

  "See you later," I say to my sister. "Bye, girls! I love you!"

  I used to say we love you, but Adam's on his own tonight. He doesn't get included.

  "Love you, princesses!" he says, then holds the door for me.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, we're in the office of Laney Shields, who has a bunch of letters after her name. I found her by Googling "marriage counselors." She was covered by our insurance, and on her website, certain reassuring words leaped out: brief, focused, solutions. And, God, I want a solution.

  Laney's office is a building in the backyard of her house--a tiny little playhouse, almost, with three couches and a chair, bookcases and end tables. Lots of boxes of tissues, the good kind with lotion. That strikes me as ominous.

  "Come in, come in," she says warmly. I sit on the flowered couch, and to my annoyance, Adam sits next to me, like he's already trying to show what a loving husband he is.

  Laney takes the chair across from us. She's in her fifties with flyaway graying hair and a pleasant face. Wonderful crow's-feet.

  "A few things before we start," she says. "You can only come here for scheduled appointments--if you need to reach me urgently, you must call. If I see you on the property without an appointment, the police will be called."

  "Jesus," Adam says.

  "Well, I had one client appear with a gun several years ago," she says calmly. "There are surveillance cameras all over the property, as well as a state-of-the-art alarm system. I'm sure you're not the types, but it's my policy to inform clients up front."

  "Understandable," I murmur.

  "Also," she says, "this building is soundproof, because emotions can run high. You don't have to worry about crying or yelling--no one will hear you outside of these walls. However, I have a panic button right here--" she points to the underside of the arm of her chair "--in case things turn physical, and the police will be here in under two minutes."

  I love her. She's prepared. And clearly, we're not the worst couple she's ever had. We're not going to need the police! We're probably pretty run-of-the-mill for her. Just a cheating husband and his weepy wife. I bet she can fix us in two sessions.

  I feel oddly cheered. Adam, on the other hand, is already uncomfortable, shifting next to me. I inch away. He should've gotten his own couch. He's not wanted here.

  "Things tend to move faster if you're both honest," she continues. "It can be very painful, but think of it as lancing a boil. Unless you get to the heart of the infection, it won't clear up. It may be hard to hear what the other says, but that's what you're here for."

  I liked her more when she was talking about the panic button. Painful boils aren't nearly as fun.

  "So tell me what brings you here," Laney says.

  Adam and I look at each other. He says nothing. Ass-hat. That's one of Jenny's favorite words, and it's becoming one of mine, too. I wait him out, staring steadily, wondering if he can feel the poison seeping out of my heart.

  "Rachel thought we should see someone," he says finally. "We've had some difficulties lately."

  "And what do you mean by that?"

  He doesn't answer.

  "He had an affair," I say. "With a coworker."

  "And is this affair still ongoing?" Laney asks.

  "No," Adam says.

  She nods. "As of right now, do you both feel like you want to stay married? Your answer may change later, but right now, what would you say?"

  "Why do you think we're here?" he snaps.

  She's unaffected. "Adam, let me state up front that I'm here for both of you. I'm not going to side with Rachel just because you had the affair. It's not
my job to make you feel bad about yourself."

  That's a shame. Adam's been adored for too long.

  "I also think it's important to understand why you had the affair. And Rachel, I don't want you to think of yourself as a victim. You have all the right in the world to be upset and hurt, and you have a vast array of choices to make. The affair has happened, and our goal is to move past that initial hurt and see what kind of solutions will work best for you both. This is focused counseling with an end goal in mind. It's up to both of you to decide what that goal is."

  "Right," Adam says.

  Laney sits back in her chair. "Adam, why don't you tell me how this affair got started. Rachel? Can you handle hearing about that?"

  "Sure," I chirp. But my legs buzz and twitch, like they want to carry me out of this little playhouse, and fast.

  Adam sighs. "Well, Rachel's perfect. Everyone knows that. Perfect housewife, perfect mother."

  "How old are your children?"

  "Three and a half," he says. "Girls. Triplets."

  "Go on."

  "And I guess things got a little boring," he says, and I actually jump. God, I didn't expect that at all! Boring? That word sledgehammers me in the chest, and tears flood my eyes. "I'm sorry!" he says. "Look, it's just... All we talk about is the girls."

  "That's not true. I always ask about work, and you--"

  "Let him talk, Rachel. Your turn is coming." Laney smiles kindly, pushes the tissue toward me and nods at Adam.

  "Yeah, so, you know. We've been married for ten years--" it's nine years "--and she became Holly Hausfrau, and I just kind of felt myself...losing interest."

  Fucking fuckety fuckster. How dare he. I wear matching underwear! Lace, even if it itches! Last month, I read a Cosmo article on new techniques in the world of blow jobs, and I put those techniques to good use! Me! A mother! And yes, the whole time I worried the girls would wander in. We don't have locks on our doors.

  "Emmanuelle is a woman I work with. Razor-sharp, incredibly smart, takes no shit from anyone, and she was blatant about wanting it."

  "And by it, what do you mean?" Laney asks.

  "Sex. Fucking. Me." The words are like punches. "At first, I told her I was happily married."