The Affair (11 page)

No doubt some of what I’m feeling is related to pregnancy hormones. But that can’t be the only reason why I’m awake now while
everyone else sleeps. It’s also because my world is in turmoil.

I’ve never been much of an adventurer. When I was in college an astrologer told me that I craved the security of a stable
family and home, that the key to my happiness would be rooted in the everyday routines and simple pleasures of a well-run
household built on a strong foundation. Though she offended my feminist sensibility, I knew she was right. When all is right
with my family, all is right with the world. Now our little trio teeters on the precipice.

Maybe it will help to unload some of what’s gnawing at me now …

1. Petey has been wetting his bed, after almost two years of wearing his “big boy” underwear. He’s so ashamed of himself,
it just breaks my heart. What’s worse, of course, is knowing (and I do know it) that the bed-wetting is a reaction to the
tension in the household. He’s a bright kid. Even if he doesn’t understand what’s happening, I’m sure he knows intuitively
that his parents are headed for disaster. I feel so guilty.

2. I might be carrying another child. But whose child is it—Roger’s or Eddie’s? What will they say when they find out? What
will Roger say if this baby turns out to be dark and Mediterranean-looking? How do I
really
feel about having another baby?

3. After weeks of assembling the evidence against Diana, I plan to share my information with the clinic’s CEO next Tuesday
at 2
P.M.
As much as I revile that
woman, I’m not as excited about turning her in as I thought I’d be. I’m actually scared. After all, I’m about to destroy her
career, her life. She may even wind up in jail! So what am I afraid of? I have this horrible idea that she might show up with
an automatic machine gun and blow my head off. Or hurt Petey.

4. I finally confronted Roger with Alyssa’s diaphragm. I couldn’t muster the kind of self-righteous outrage I’d originally
envisioned when I first suspected he was sleeping with her. Now that I’ve been with Eddie, and in light of Petey’s bed-wetting,
all I could do was pass it across the kitchen table and ask, quietly, “Do you want to talk about this?” Roger stared at the
plastic case for a long time as his face flushed, then drained of all color. In silence, he reached feebly for it, unable
to meet my eyes. All he could manage to say was, “She’s my student. I was holding it for her. She didn’t want her parents
to find it.” Another long pause. I could almost hear his brain riffling for an alibi. Finally: “She has a boyfriend. She uses
it with her boyfriend.”

Did I believe him? Of course not. (What kind of student gives her teacher a diaphragm to hold for her? And what kind of teacher
takes it? Besides, I heard them on the phone. I know what’s going on.) But tonight, in my panic, I thought: what if my impetus
for plunging into bed with Eddie—Roger’s affair—never existed in the first place? And now I’m the only true sinner?

I’m going to try to go back to sleep now.

’Til next time,

I’m beginning to warm to the idea of having a baby. A BABY! I’ve missed the delicious smell of baby skin, the warm, soft,
milky breath, the adoring gaze as she (I’m sure it’s a girl) suckles at the breast. I see young mothers wheeling their babies
to the park and think, I will be among them once more. My childbearing days aren’t over after all. I, too, can be a young
mother again. I can wear maternity clothes again. I will feel the heft of a swelling belly again and I will know the profound
joy of pushing a new human being through my loins and into the world. I, too, will have a sweet new baby to stroll down the
street, to swing at the playground, to nurse and cuddle and kiss. This nostalgia is so powerful that, at least for a moment,
it doesn’t seem to matter who the father is.

’Til next time,

When I got to my desk this morning, I found this quotation, generated by my screen saver, scrolling across the computer screen:
“Revenge is a luscious fruit which you must leave to ripen.”

By the time my appointment with Dick Popavitchi rolled around, I had no misgivings about busting Diana. My PMS had subsided
and, with it, so had my neurotic fear that she would murder me or take Pete hostage.

As I studied the photocopies of her dummy accounts and fabricated AIDS patients one last time before my appointment with Dick,
I remembered everything she’d said and done to torment and humiliate me, going as far as to call Eddie’s house and send Mrs.
DeLuca after me. (Eddie told me later that when Mrs. DeLuca answered the phone, Diana began prattling at once, unaware that
she was talking to the mother, not the daughter. Mrs. DeLuca set her straight, told her she had no intention of sharing Diana’s
suspicions with Patty, but planned to “discuss” the issue with me directly. Later that evening, Mrs. DeLuca confronted Eddie
privately, and he promptly denied everything. To this day, Patty still knows nothing about Diana’s call or her mother’s visit
to my office.)

The truth is that when Diana first started teasing me about Eddie, shortly before I’d seriously considered sleeping with him,
I thought divine providence had sent her my way. I stupidly imagined that Diana, like Jiminy Cricket, would give voice to
my higher self, keep me on the straight path, remind me of my moral obligation to remain faithful to my husband.

I soon came to realize that there was nothing divine or moral about Diana. God hadn’t sent her, the devil had. Like a grade
school bully, Diana’s only goal—her mission—was to make my life miserable. But by 2
P.M.
on Tuesday, her reign of terror had finally come to an end. And no
Melrose Place
writer could have scripted it more beautifully.

A half hour before I was scheduled to meet with Dick, Diana strolled by my office and, seeing I had no client, walked right
in. She asked me something like, “How’s your boy?” For a moment I thought she was talking about Petey, but then she said,
“You know,
Garden
Boy.” She plopped down on my desk (actually put her fat ass on the file I compiled against her!) and told me that she was
planning to cancel the Center’s contract with Eddie’s company. She said she was sick of seeing him around the office. “Surely
you can find some other place to meet your loverboy.”

Then, in a moment so perfectly timed it felt like someone else’s life, I looked into Diana’s eyes, straight through to her
rotten core, and said, “It’s over.” I even managed a genuine chuckle, the purest indication that, at last, I had the advantage.

“I know about the grant you’ve been draining, the fake AIDS patients, the dummy account at First Liberty.” Diana suddenly
had the panicked, wild-eyed look of a trapped animal. It was a beautiful sight. She insisted I couldn’t prove a thing. I didn’t
tell her about the photocopied bank statements and fabricated client files—I was afraid she’d disappear before I had the pleasure
of seeing her escorted from the building.

Which is exactly what happened, at 3
P.M.
the following day, in front of the entire staff.

I plucked the fruit of revenge. It was, as promised, luscious.

’Til next time,

I got my period this morning. I stared in disbelief at the dark stain in my underwear. I canceled my first appointment. I’ll
be fine if I can just stop crying.

’Til next time,

A horrible week. Petey has regressed so much that I’m considering putting him in Pull-Ups (the only thing stopping me is knowing
how humiliated he would be to go back to diapers). The preschool teacher, who seemed so patient and understanding only two
weeks ago, is obviously at the end of her rope. When I stopped by to bring yet another set of dry clothes, Linda reminded
me of the school’s policy of admitting only toilet-trained children, and told me that if things didn’t change we might have
to find another preschool for Petey. I cried all the way back to the office.

Eddie sent me an e-mail today that read: “Can’t stop thinking about you. Noticed a beauty mark on your inner thigh. Would
like to see it again sometime soon. Roundtree next week?”

As lousy as I’d felt when I got to the office, the message sent a flare through my body. Eddie’s attention is like a drug.
I am an addict. I know it’s destroying my family but I cannot seem to turn away. I wrote back, “Mmmmmm. Yes.”

I have no idea whether Roger is still seeing Alyssa. Someone called the house on Sunday during dinner and hung up when I answered.
The Caller ID read, “anonymous call,” so whoever it was knew how to circumvent the system. I immediately suspected it was
Alyssa and impulsively said, “Your girlfriend, no doubt.” Petey said, “You have a girlfriend, Daddy?” He knew the word—Roger’s
father is always teasing him about the cute girls in his class—and now looked confused. Somewhere in his four-year-old brain
he knew that a daddy can’t have a girlfriend when he already has a wife. His question made me sick to my stomach.

Roger said something like, “Of course Daddy doesn’t
have a girlfriend, silly boy.” Then he went on babbling about how you can have girls who are friends but that doesn’t make
them girlfriends, and that girlfriends were different. I was hoping Petey would lose interest in the subject but he pressed
on. Next he asked, “Is Mommy your girlfriend?” I started clearing the plates. I was afraid to hear what might come next. “No,
Mommy’s my wife. She used to be my girlfriend, though.”

I looked at Roger across the kitchen and his eyes met mine. His eyebrows were raised and there was the slightest hint of a
smile. Was that a wistful look flickering across his face? Did I detect a trace of love? It was hard to know. But just then
I remembered that yes, I was his girlfriend once. And we were deeply in love.

After getting Roger’s reluctant consent, I called Bonita Loeb and arranged an appointment. Bonita specializes in what she
calls “triage therapy,” counseling couples on the brink of divorce. Her success rate is about 60 percent—although she has
told me that she considers it equally successful when couples realize they cannot remain happily married. I wonder which kind
of “success” is in store for Roger and me.