On Grace (3 page)

“Okay, Grace, but I can’t really see that happening. ‘Oh, Dr. Stevens,’” Cameron says in her best posh New York City lady voice, “‘Tommy was up all night crying and complaining that his ears hurt. By the way, do you happen to know any talented writers? My law firm sure could use one.’”

“Point taken, Dr. Stevens,” I laugh.

Then Cameron asks me what’s going on with Darren. It’s almost as upsetting to her as it is to me that there could be tension brewing in my marriage. Considering Jack and Darren have been friends since they were little and Cameron and I have been friends since college, the four of us are incredibly compatible and formed a tight bond soon after Darren and I began dating. We’ve spent holidays, vacations, and weekends together for years, and we all have strong relationships with each other. Cameron and Jack even moved up to Westchester shortly after we did, an unusual move for a couple with no kids and jobs in the city. I like to think they just missed us too much, but in reality, they had just had enough of city life and were ready to become homeowners. And parents.

“The good news is how bad can my marriage be if I still want to sleep in the same bed as him?” I ask, trying to add a little humor into a topic that has been making me anxious for weeks.

“I guess it depends on what you mean by
sleep
,” she replies. “The kind punctuated by snores or by moans?”

“Snores,” I say guiltily.

“Well, I guess there’s some hope left if the thought of him in your bed doesn’t repulse you. But it sure would help things along if you actually had sex once in a while, Grace.”

“I do. We do. So I can’t blame our state of blahness only on sex, because it’s not like we never have it. Although we should have it more. But that’s all part of the plan.”

“Your plan stipulates sex?”

“Yes, but let me explain more before I get to that. So, I don’t blame it on sex, or lack thereof, and I don’t blame it on communication. If there’s something we’re good at, it’s communicating. We don’t have huge knockout fights. We still talk. It just seems like there’s this foggy cloud between us, and the sun just can’t break through. I know it’s nothing we can’t get over, but it’s still upsetting,” I explain as the waitress clears our plates and hands us dessert menus.

“We’ll share a Nutella and banana crepe,” we say at the same time, laughing.

“The first part of the marriage portion of the plan is all based on my sex-for-intimacy theory.”

“Go on,” Cameron says, tilting her head suspiciously.

“Men feel connected to women through sex. Women feel connected to men through talking. Cuddling and sex, too, yes. But for most women, the emotional connection is more important. Now, if I want Darren to give me the connection I want, it’s only fair that I give him the connection he wants, right? Hence, my plan is to give it up more.”

“Sounds simple, to the point, and, Grace, you might actually like it.”

“I just might.”

As we eat our dessert, Cameron and I discuss her job and the baby and how tragically ironic it is that she’s been caring for so many children for so many years, yet has been unable to have a child of her own.

“The pangs I feel every time a new mother brings her baby in for his or her first visit are different now. I used to feel wistful and maybe a bit resentful, however horrible that sounds, but now I just feel excited,” Cameron says as she snags the last bite of crepe.

“Speaking of pangs,” I say in a seductive voice, jutting my left shoulder forward, “I have to go home and put the plan into action, if you know what I mean.”

“Check, please!” we both say, erupting into laughter once again.

When I get home from Méli-Mélo, Darren is in bed watching a Yankees game. I give him a kiss hello, and he asks me how dinner was.

“Great,” I tell him as I go into the bathroom to wash up and change into a little something-something that has been collecting dust in my underwear drawer. When I saunter back into the bedroom, with my best hitherto look and sexy strut, I find Darren sitting up, crying.

“What is it?” I ask, alarmed. I get into bed and take hold of his hands. “Are the boys okay?”

“Yes, sorry, the boys are fine. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just need to talk to you about something.”

I have seen Darren cry just two times. The first was at our wedding. We wrote our own vows, and after he read his, beautiful words from a man who creates spreadsheets for a living, he started to cry, the emotion and love hitting him, he would tell me later, like a tidal wave. The second time was a week after our oldest son Henry was born when we found ourselves back in the hospital for three days while Henry received phototherapy treatment for jaundice. He was so tiny, and we were so scared. The enormity of that situation reduced Darren into a state I had never seen before. It moved me tremendously.

As Darren turns to me, holding my hands tightly, and my stomach begins to tighten, thoughts stream through my head.
Oh my God, this must be serious. Why is he being so serious? Is someone sick? Is it one of our parents? Did my dad have another heart attack? Are we moving to London? That’s been a possibility. Maybe Darren found out today that we are.

“Gracie,” Darren whispers, snapping me out of my thoughts by calling me a name he saves only for really, really good things or really, really bad things. Using the tears as a clue, I deduce it’s the latter. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“What?” I mouth, the word getting caught in my throat.

He takes a deep breath and looks down at my hands, which are still holding his. “In July, when I was in Chicago for that telecom conference—”

And then I know. He cheated on me.

“I—”

“No,” I say. “You did not.” I drop his hands and forget to breathe.

“Gracie, I’m so sorry.” He grabs my hands and looks at me pleadingly, his blue eyes glowing as the light from the television screen reflects off his tears. “I don’t even know what to say. It’s such a cliché. It didn’t mean anything. I had too much to drink. I’m so sorry.”

I loosen my hands from his grip and sit back on my pillows. I suddenly remember that I’m wearing lingerie, and I get under the covers self-consciously. I feel every emotion at once: anger, sadness, fear, humiliation, and shock. But instead of feeling them all distinctly, I just feel calm, like the colors of the rainbow mixing together to make white.

“Is she someone you work with?” I ask without emotion, ever the information-gatherer.

“No. She—” he turns his face and exhales loudly, and I know this is killing him. But I ask him to go on, because I don’t really care how he feels. “She was a waitress at the hotel bar.”

“A cocktail waitress?” I say, disgust in my voice. “And?”

“It meant nothing. I’m so sorry I did this to you. I wish more than anything I could take it back. I fucked up. I can’t believe that I’m actually sitting here telling you I had an affair because it’s not something I ever,
ever
thought I would be capable of doing.”

Neither did I
. “Go on. I need to know what happened.”

He takes a deep breath and stares blankly at the television. He speaks quickly, as if the words are painful as they exit his mouth. “I was with John and Craig, and we had been at presentations all day, and we were drinking, and John kept ordering tequila shots and flirting with the waitress, so she was spending a lot of time talking with us.” He stops and looks at me with an expression that means he’s trying to figure out if I’m going to make him tell the whole story.

“And?”

“I kept doing the shots because it was the last day of the conference, and I just wanted to let off steam with my friends. Next thing I knew, she was coming up in the elevator with John and me. John had invited her to his room.”

“What happened to Craig?”

“He’d gone upstairs already.”

“I’m sure Elisabeth will be happy to hear that story one day,” I say, thinking of Craig’s pregnant wife. Darren has worked with John and Craig for years. They were all in each other’s weddings. John and Amy got divorced last year. “And?” I say, allowing the torture to continue for both of us.

“John started to get all sweaty and said he was going to be sick and ran to his room. The woman—”

“What was her name?”

“Gracie.” He looks at me, his eyes begging.

“What was her name?” I repeat, staring at him and trying to remember to breathe.

“Tina.”

“Continue.”

“We were laughing at John, and I put my key card in the slot and told her it was nice to meet her and good night. She pulled me toward her and kissed me, and then one thing led to another, and we were in my room.” His voice is laced with shame. As it should be. He stares out the window in the blackness. The same blackness I feel in my heart, pounding. Pounding.

“Did you wear a condom?”

“Yes.”

“You had a condom?”

“No, she did.”

“Did she sleep in your room?”

“No. She left right after.”

“Did you tell John and Craig?”

“No. I haven’t told anyone.”

I sit quietly for a few minutes, trying to think of anything else I need to know right now. My brain feels like a traffic jam—I hear lots of loud noises, but nothing is moving forward. I realize that I need to be alone; I need to think. The thought of him anywhere near me is repulsive. “I think you should sleep in the guest room.” I mean to say that with conviction. It sounds more like resignation.

“Gracie, I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I realize that I’ve put our marriage, our family in jeopardy. Please forgive me. It meant nothing. You and the boys are everything to me. You are my entire life.” He stands up, runs his hands through his hair, and wipes his eyes. He looks pathetic.

“I just can’t have you near me right now,” I say, as the tears finally start to flow.

“I know. I’m so sorry. I understand. But please, can we talk about this tomorrow? I’ll stay home from work. I will do anything to make you understand that this was nothing.”

“Don’t stay home. I need to think. We’ll talk tomorrow night. But I think you should leave for work before the boys and I get up.” I turn to my side and bring the covers up to my face. Once Darren collects his clothes and toothbrush for the next day and I hear him shut the door to the guest room, I get out of bed and practically rip off the ridiculous getup I have on. I change into my most comfy pajamas, turn off the TV, grab a box of tissues, and get back into bed. My thoughts are racing, and I wonder if I will sleep at all. I try to remember the different calming breaths I had read about in a magazine once, but I can’t stop the thoughts. They keep me up late into the night, but eventually the exhaustion of sorting out the rest of my life puts me to sleep.

The morning after my dad had his first heart attack, I remember waking up with a weird knot in my stomach. It took me a moment to figure out why I felt so strange, and then I remembered my dad was in the hospital. I have the same experience this morning as I wake up to my alarm, and then I remember. Darren cheated on me.

I drag myself out of bed, feeling absolutely nothing like I’d planned to feel when today was still supposed to be the first day of the rest of my life. This is about as far from momentous as I can imagine. This is like if momentous were the North Pole, I’m hanging out with the emperor penguins in Antarctica.

I wash up, and walk down the hall toward the guest room. I’m relieved to see Darren is not there, and I’m surprised to see that, though it’s not going to win any awards in an army barracks contest, the bed is made. Darren has never made a bed in the twelve years that I’ve known him.

I wake up the boys, trying to be cheerful about the first day of school, and then I make my way downstairs. I realize that I have to push all thoughts of last night aside and deal with getting the boys off to school. I will have plenty of time today to think.

“Please stop telling your brother that his scrambled eggs are dead baby chicks,” I implore Henry, as I quickly spread butter and jelly on two pieces of toast.

“But they
are
dead baby chicks, Mom,” Henry protests. “Last year on the field trip to the nature center, I saw the mother chickens pooping out the eggs in their nests. So the eggs are their babies, and when you cooked them you killed them, so now we’re eating dead baby chicks,” he says with all the authority of a precocious eight-year-old, pushing his gorgeous blond curls out of his eyes.

“They’re not actually dead baby chicks, and they’re not pooped out. They’re laid. And they’re not fertilized, so they were never going to become chickens,” I say, trying to be patient.

“Well, they taste good, so let’s eat them anyway,” Henry says.

And with that, my two boys Henry and James (we just liked those names; it had nothing to do with any affinity toward a certain literary realist) dig into their scrambled eggs and whole-wheat toast with butter and jelly.
A nutritious enough first-day-of-school breakfast
, I think as I gulp my coffee, willing it to work. I cut up an apple and a banana, quickly arrange them on a plate, and slide it between the two vegans-in-training who are propped on the navy and white bistro barstools at our kitchen island.

“Good job with the shoes, James,” I say to my little guy, noticing that he has put on his sneakers all by himself.
Wrong feet, but it’s a start
. “Henry, remember what we talked about last night? That we’re going to try to have better morning routines for school, to make getting out of the house easier this year? And how you’d put your shoes on
before
you sat down to breakfast?”

“I forgot. And you always say no shoes in the kitchen, so James is actually in trouble.”

“He’s not in trouble,” I say, glancing at James who looks scared, his big blue eyes opened wide. I’m relieved that my voice is still calm despite the fact that we only have nine minutes left before we have to rush to the bus. “It’s okay to break that rule in the morning, because I need you guys to be ready to go as soon as you finish breakfast.”

“I’m so happy for school today, Mommy!” James says.