Other People's Houses, page 23
“Sensei is the teacher, you loser.”
Theo paused, his arm back. “You’re right, whatever. Watch and learn, wormbrain.”
He threw the piece of gravel, which arced over the garden and landed somewhere unseeably distant. Then he threw the stick, which landed closer.
“No! You didn’t throw it as hard. Watch.”
Milo picked up a rock and a stick and demonstrated. He had slightly better physical coordination than Theo, and managed to get the two things closer together.
“No way! You did that on purpose. This won’t work unless you throw them the same.” Theo looked pissed, suddenly. “I don’t want to play this anymore.” He turned back to the swings, but hesitated. “You’re not supposed to throw stones anyway.”
“I think,” responded Milo, judiciously, “you’re not supposed to throw stones AT things or people or dogs or something. You can throw them into space.”
“How can you throw them into space? You’d have to be Iron Man or something.” Theo sat on his swing. “Do you know what time it is?”
Milo shook his head. “I don’t have a phone. Do you have a phone?”
Theo made a face. “As if.”
Milo’s face brightened. “Maybe now that your mom and dad aren’t in the same place you could get a phone? Like, what if you were here and you needed to ask your mom something you could call her. Or FaceTime or something.” He tried to look modest. “My big sister might be getting a phone.” He looked rueful. “But she won’t let me use it. She’s a teenager. She doesn’t like me anymore.”
“Why?”
Milo shrugged a bit. “No idea. One day she just stopped liking me.”
Theo started swinging. “Maybe she’ll start again.”
“Maybe.”
Theo swung higher. “My dad doesn’t like my mom anymore. One day he did, then one day he didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I think she cheated on him.”
Milo looked at his friend, puzzled. “What’s that?”
“I think she kissed someone else. That’s what Eloise said at school. She said sometimes dads kiss other women and then they have to go live somewhere else. That’s what happened to her dad, and she thought maybe that was what happened to my mom.”
“Another dad kissed her? But then isn’t that the dad’s fault?”
Theo swung really high, and his answers dopplered in and out to Milo. “I don’t know. I don’t know why it matters. I kiss Grandma all the time, no one says I have to go live somewhere else.”
Milo started swinging. Lally suddenly appeared at the kitchen door. “Theo! Your dad says it’s time to go.”
Theo stopped pumping and drooped on his swing, reaching out with his toes for the gravel.
“Are you seeing your mom today?”
Theo had slowed the swing, and now jumped when it was still going pretty high. He landed well, then bent down and picked up a handful of gravel. He pulled back his arm and let it rip, sending the gravel all the way across the garden, into the hedge on the far side.
“No,” he said shortly. “Not today.”
Thirty-one.
Tuesday morning Ava watched her mom talking to Iris as Wyatt climbed into the back of the car, their bare early morning faces equally familiar to her. Iris was cooler, though, Ava thought. Her mom was nice, she loved her mom, but she was overweight and dressed like a scruffy teenage boy. Iris was tall and slim and more stylish, and Ava felt bad inside for even thinking it. When she’d been younger her mom was the most beautiful woman in the world. The eight-year-old Ava had gazed up at her mom’s warm brown eyes and soft hair and marveled at her good fortune in having a mom so lovely. Then she’d heard a friend of hers describe Ava’s mom as fat, and even though the friend had suddenly noticed Ava and added quickly, Not very fat, you know, just a little bit fat . . . it was too late. Ava had watched her mom walk into the playground that afternoon and noticed for the first time that she was bigger than the other moms. After a while she decided it didn’t matter, that she liked her mom’s soft lap, her hugs and warm skin, everything about her gentle, not a hard edge anywhere. But as she got older, and started paying attention to the opinions of other kids, to pictures in magazines, to shows on TV, she realized it was OK to be a bit ashamed. Everyone was a bit ashamed of fat people, even fat people.
She went through a phase of encouraging her mom to buy new clothes, suggesting they go on walks together, but then her own hormones had arrived and she’d stopped worrying about anyone’s appearance but her own. Now, at fourteen, she knew her discomfort about her mother’s appearance was a cultural norm, and called bullshit, while at the same time wishing her mom would drop her a little farther from the school gates. Then she hated herself for that feeling, and resolved to hug her mom more and spend more time with her, but then she would come home from school and her mom would ask about homework and Ava would hate her again. She was so irritating; her little habits of singing as she cleaned the kitchen, of talking to the dogs as if they were people, her endless supply of hooded sweatshirts and unfashionable jeans. Lots of moms at Ava’s school were super hip; it was that kind of school. Sharing clothes with their kids, going shopping together, getting manicures and whatever the fuck it was you did at nail places. Ava didn’t want to be one of those girls, she really didn’t, but sometimes it was hard not to want to fit in. It was easier to let the current carry you along.
Then, of course, there was the other Ava, the one who got overwhelmed at school and needed her mom so badly it was all she could do not to cry. She ached for her mom’s voice, her calm demeanor, her air of unflappability. If she saw her mom unexpectedly, as she had at school the other day, she was filled with love and surprise and joy. My mother! Her heart would sing, There she is! Their eyes would meet and her mom would smile that smile . . . the one that made her feel hugged across any distance, and then some hand inside would reach up to her heart and poke hard and remind her she was a teenager now and Ava would dampen her smile and her mom would raise her eyebrows in question, and the moment would pass and they would be squabbling again.
Ava felt lately that she was on a moving sidewalk, like those things in airports, slowly gaining speed and carrying her in one direction while she walked faster and faster just to stay in one place. She re-read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and somehow it was a whole different book than it had been at nine. Then it had been a book about smiling cats and fairyland; now it was a book about the world where everyone is mad and you’re likely to lose your head for the most capricious of reasons.
Still, books remained her favorite place to go. Orwell confirmed her nihilism, Steinbeck made her cry, Saroyan made her homesick for a time she’d never known. She would disappear into these novels and emerge blinking into a life she wasn’t entirely certain of. Every day was like leaving a movie in the middle of the afternoon, strange and heightened, the light alien, the voices loud. Then her mother would appear with a cup of tea and remind her of being a child and she would feel such a storm of confusion it made her giddy. She’d read somewhere that hurricanes had winds so powerful that a piece of straw could pierce an oak, thrown so hard it became deadly beyond its weight. She was the straw, pushed by forces she only barely understood.
As her mom dropped her off at school then headed off with the little ones to preschool Ava turned and watched her go, wishing for a mad moment she could run after her, throw herself against the fence and go back to preschool with the others.
* * *
• • •
Frances watched her daughter in the driver’s mirror, standing irresolutely outside the school. She wished she could read her as well as she’d used to. Ava used to be an open book to her, but now she was not only closed, but written in a language Frances wasn’t familiar with. It was so difficult. Frances wished she could help her, but she also knew the whole point of being fourteen was learning how to do it without help. What a fucking disaster. Thank God she still had little kids whose needs were more binary.
Thirty-two.
Tuesday night is traditionally adultery night, but on this particular evening Anne was determined to save her marriage. She’d chosen clothes she hadn’t worn in years, clothes from when she and Charlie were first married. Now that everything fit her again she had yards of clothes to choose from, although if she kept not eating they would all be too big. She waited for Charlie at the restaurant, fiddling with the cutlery and sipping her wine a little too fast. She’d been early. He was late. Eventually he arrived, bringing the scent of the almost-frosty air in with him. He’d clearly been in court; his suit was impeccable. Anne felt anxious around him, as if they’d only recently met. She knew every inch of his skin, but the expression on his face was of very recent vintage. He’d never looked at her like that before.
Anne tried to make conversation. “Who’s got the kids?”
“Shirley.”
“The wonderful Shirley.”
“Yup. She’s awesome. Super reliable.” Unlike some people.
“Yup.” Unlike me.
“Are you hungry?” Charlie picked up the menu, and Anne noticed his fingers curling around the edges of it, the nails bitten for the first time since they’d met. You did that, she thought to herself. You made this man unhappy enough to revert to a childhood soothing behavior.
“A bit,” she replied, picking up her own menu. “Maybe just a salad.”
“You look like shit, maybe you should eat something more substantial.” He lowered his menu and looked at her. “Or are you working off more calories than you’re taking in?”
She paused. “With Richard?”
“Is that his name?”
“You know it is. You spoke to him more recently than I have. I haven’t seen Richard since you threw me out.”
Charlie lifted the menu again. “Poor sod,” he said, from behind it. “You really are coldhearted, Anne.”
“No,” she said, evenly. “I’m brokenhearted. I destroyed my marriage, my family, and I’m doing everything I can to fix it. I won’t ever see him again. I will wait every day of my life for you to forgive me.”
“Well, don’t hold your breath.” The waitress came over, and Charlie smiled at her, his full wattage, judge-persuading smile. The waitress blushed. “Hi there, I’m going to get the steak frites, and the lady across the table will have a small salad and a glass of water.”
The waitress looked over at Anne, who raised her eyebrows. “No, I’ll have the steak frites, too, thanks. No salad. And another glass of Cabernet, please.”
The waitress looked back at Charlie. “Wine for you, sir?”
“No thanks,” he said. “I’m driving.”
The waitress stepped away, wondering what the fuck was going on there. Handsome guy, pretty woman, but tension for days.
They sat in silence for a moment. A busboy brought bread and butter, and Charlie tore into a roll. Taking it out on the baked goods, apparently.
“How are the kids?” Anne tried to keep her voice neutral.
“What the fuck do you care?”
“Charlie . . .”
“They’re shitty. Kate has been wetting the bed. Theo got into a fight at school that he won’t tell me about, but I can imagine it felt pretty good to smack the shit out of someone when you’re so angry with your parents you can barely look them in the eye.”
“He’s still mad?”
“He hasn’t smiled at me in nearly three weeks.”
“What are you doing about Kate?”
“Changing the sheets. I dug out the plastic bed thingies we had when they were toddlers. I double sheet with the plastic thingies, just like we used to. It’s fine. She’ll get over it. We’ll all survive.”
“I miss you all so much.”
He popped bread into his mouth, and spoke around it. “Should have thought about that before you sucked someone else’s dick.”
“I’m so sorry, Charlie. I fucked up so badly, but I really . . .”
“Shut up, Anne. We’re here to talk about how to end our marriage, not rehash it.”
“Can’t we try and work it out? I love you . . .”
“Not enough to stay faithful. Wasn’t I good enough for you, Anne? Not enough fucking, was that the problem? I tried. You never wanted to.”
“It wasn’t that.”
“I’d ask what it was, but I don’t care. I can barely sit across the table from you, Anne, without wanting to punch you. I’ve never felt physically violent in my life, but I would happily beat you to death for what you’ve done to our kids.” The waitress had come back during this speech, and was pretending not to have heard it.
“Your wine,” she said, placing it in front of Anne.
Anne’s hand trembled as she picked up the glass. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”
“Fuck off, Anne.”
He watched her drink, suddenly wanting to cry. He was angry, he was furious, but he was also so lonely and sad it was all he could do not to beg her to come home. He wanted to stay angry, though, so he looked away, not wanting to watch her large gray eyes fill with tears.
“I’ve never stopped loving you, Charlie. I really think I’ve been having a nervous breakdown, some kind of mental illness.”
“I don’t care about this, Anne. Let’s just work out a schedule for the kids.”
“No, Charlie. Please listen. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist. I’ve started medication. I’ve found us a marriage therapist— Will you go with me? Please, please can we try and work this out? I don’t want to divorce you, I want to make it right, I want to come home and be there forever. I made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but I was sick, Charlie.” Her hands were shaking. She put down her wineglass before she spilled it.
“Then why didn’t you ask me for help, Anne? Why didn’t you go see a psychiatrist months ago? Why did you sleep with another man instead? Why did you creep around for months behind my back, behind the kids’ backs, cheating on all of us instead of doing something about your supposed misery? I don’t think you’re sick at all. I think you’re a selfish, narcissistic bitch who wanted to fuck a younger, good-looking guy who thought you were special. I hate you, Anne, I really fucking hate you.” For all the fury in his words, his tone of voice was cool and detached. Anne felt herself eviscerated.
He held up his hand, and the waitress came over. “I lost my appetite. Can I get the check, please?”
Anne protested. “But we haven’t worked out . . .”
Charlie shook his head. “Look, Anne, I’m not ready to do this, clearly. Did you drive here?” The waitress brought the check, and he threw his credit card down.
“No, I took an Uber.”
“I’ll drive you home, we’ll talk in the car, and then that’s it. I can’t sit with you for an hour and make small talk.” His voice was tight and she could hear the tears in it. Suddenly she remembered that same tone one night years before, when baby Kate had run a sudden fever of 104, and Charlie had rushed her to the ER. He’d called Anne to let her know—as she sat at home with toddler Theo—that they’d had to do a lumbar puncture, that they wouldn’t let him stay in the room, that he could hear his little girl crying. She knew this man so well, had loved him so long, and now she had ruined it all.
They walked silently to the valet, waited silently for the car, sat silently as they drove back to the apartment building where she was living. Anne tried several times to speak, but Charlie said nothing. She turned to him in the car as they sat outside her building.
“What about the kids?”
“Did you sign that release thing?”
“Yes, it’s inside. I’m sorry, I forgot . . .”
“Go get it. I need it to change my name to primary parent, otherwise the school will call you first for everything, and you’re just not reliable, Anne. Who knows where you’ll be if the kids need you?”
“Charlie.” For the first time Anne felt a little flare of anger. “Charlie, I know you’re angry with me, but for God’s sake I made a mistake that thousands of married people make all the time. I’m incredibly sorry, but I never let anything get in the way of taking care of the kids. You’re pissed, but even you have to admit that.”
Charlie shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. “Whatever, Anne, let’s just get this piece of fucking paper and sort out a schedule.”
They went inside to Anne’s apartment. There was a pile of paper on the desk, and she sorted through it. “It’s here somewhere. I signed it earlier.” She looked at him. “They’ll still notify me about everything, right? They’ll just call you first if there’s an emergency?”
He was right behind her, impatient. “Yes, it’s just a legal thing, I guess.”
She handed it to him, and impulsively touched his arm. “Charlie . . .”
He looked at his wife, the angles and planes of her face as beautiful at that moment as they had been at the altar so many years earlier. He felt himself get hard and hated himself for his weakness. It was such a physical habit to want this woman, his brain apparently had very little say. Look at her now, tipping her beautiful face up to his, wanting him to give in.
Suddenly he pulled her closer, kissed her roughly, twisting her long hair in his hands as he had done hundreds of times before. Anne lost her mind for a moment, swooning with relief as the familiar edges of his mouth roamed over her throat, her arms going around him, pulling him tightly against her, making it clear that she wanted this, wanted him, wanted to make it better if she could. He turned, still holding her, and they stumbled to the bed, half falling onto it. His hands were at her waist, tugging her shirt off, her hands were at his waist, tugging his belt off, and then suddenly he pulled back.
“Anne . . .”
“Please, Charlie . . . I miss you so much.” Her words were mixed with kisses as she tried to pull him back down to her, her hands undoing the buttons on his shirt. “I’m your wife, please be with me . . .” She touched him where he liked it, she knew him so well. Come on, baby, her body said, I know you want me because I know what you feel like when you want me.
