Our first date was twenty-four hours later. Within six months, I’d moved into his home, located in a comfortable, eclectic neighborhood not far from the National Zoo.
Lana sets down her dad’s book, breaking my reverie. I take a sip of coffee while she looks through old letters she wrote to Paul from sleepaway camp, reading aloud a few funny bits.
I’m about to suggest that we make lunch together when her phone rings. Her face lights up: “Sorry, it’s this guy I’ve been seeing—”
“Take it!” I get up to go into the kitchen to give her privacy. I check the contents of my refrigerator to see what I can cobble together, but the items aren’t inspiring: a half dozen eggs, baby carrots, a bottle of Dom Pérignon, slightly wilted lettuce, and leftover quesadillas from my favorite Tex-Mex place.
“Avery?” Lana pokes her head in as I’m suspiciously sniffing a container of hummus. Her voice is different—higher and airy. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run. Greg got off work early and I need to pick him up.”
“Ooh.” I give her a playful poke in the ribs. “Who’s Greg? Come on, tell me while I help you pack up your car.”
As we load the boxes into the trunk of her Honda, I learn Greg works at the hardware store a few doors down from the pottery shop, and they met on a lunch break last week. “We both ordered the same veggie sandwich!” she exclaims as she hops into her car.
Her eyes are now sheened with excitement instead of tears. At the moment, picking up a guy she’s just met has eclipsed everything else of importance to her.
Lana doesn’t always have the best instincts when it comes to men; before I can share her happiness over her new relationship, I need to meet Greg. I extract a promise from her to bring him by soon, then lean in through the open window and give her a kiss.
She roars away, over the speed limit, as I reenter my house.
With the boxes gone, I have only one more area to clean out. I should be getting some work done—I want to check in on Cameron and research Bishop, Simms & Chapman, the corporate law practice founded by Matthew Bishop and two partners—but I’ve postponed this particular task for far too long already.
I climb the steps to Paul’s study and sink into his big chair. His long wooden desk used to be cluttered with papers and journals and a decorative jar filled with pens and our framed wedding photo; Paul tended to get messy when he lost himself in work. Now it’s bare, as mine is, just one floor below.
I pull out Paul’s deep middle desk drawer. It’s filled with letters and cards. Most handwritten, a few printed out, some in somber cream envelopes and others in pastels. There must be a hundred of them.
Every one of them is addressed to me.
I pick up a handful. They feel heavy with the weight of the written sentiments inside. I let the envelopes slide through my fingers into the trash basket. I glimpse a few familiar names on the return addresses—one of Paul’s favorite colleagues, another from my grad school roommate—as they fall. I grab another handful, then another, sending them tumbling through the air into the trash, until no more remain.
Following Paul’s funeral, I’d intended to write back to every sympathy note that arrived. But I never even opened them.
How could I respond to people who wrote about my terrible loss, my unimaginable pain, and exhorted me to remember that even though it might seem impossible, time would heal all of my wounds?
The complicated truth, which I’ve never revealed to anyone, is that I stopped loving my husband long before he passed away.
Paul was passionate and dynamic—at first. I attributed his occasional withdrawals as being a necessary component of his work. His patients were demanding and he had to remain keenly alert and focused all day. He operated at a high level; he required solitude and quiet to concentrate on his research and writing at night. As the years passed, his need to be alone grew more intense. His absences, both emotional and physical, became harder to excuse.
Naturally we tried therapy. Every week for a solid year we sat side-by-side on a couch in Dr. Friedman’s office, fighting to bridge the chasm between us. I attempted to be more understanding. Paul vowed to make more of an effort to engage emotionally with me. Neither of us succeeded.
We ended therapy, and I turned my focus toward ending my marriage: I’d rent a little place in Georgetown, something near the vibrant intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street. I’d keep the office space I shared with three other therapists; my commute would be a little bit longer, but I’d make it work. Paul and I would remain cordial. Lana and I would remain close. I’d begin dating, a prospect that filled me with excitement.
I’d just begun to look for an apartment when I was jarred awake late one night by the incessant shriek of the teakettle. Turn it off, Paul, I thought irritably. When he didn’t, I groggily made my way downstairs, to the brightly lit kitchen, where Paul lay on the tiled floor, a carton of half-and-half spilled beside him.
A seizure, an impossibly young-looking doctor with blue-framed glasses told me. But that was a symptom; the root cause was an aggressive brain tumor.
Paul lived for another nine months. Visiting nurses handled most of his medical care. At night, Paul and I reclaimed our companionship by watching his beloved old movies as well as comedies such as Schitt’s Creek and The Office.
His life was ending. Mine was on hold.
I didn’t mourn my husband when he died. I’d already come to terms with losing him.
I finally felt free.
CHAPTER SIX
MARISSA
MARISSA LIES NEXT TO BENNETT in his twin race-car bed, her body as jittery as her mind, willing her son to sleep.
He’s been resisting her efforts tonight, first insisting he needed to give fresh water to Sam, his pet gecko, then begging her to read a third Harry Potter chapter—almost as if he intuits how much she needs him tucked away in preparation for Avery’s house call and is lodging a protest.
Finally, Bennett’s breathing evens out, and Marissa hoists herself up, maneuvering over a big plastic wheel. She takes a step toward his door, not daring to exhale. Her hand touches the knob.
“Mama?”
She turns around. “Sweetie, please, you have to go to sleep.”
But she crawls back in next to him, even though this violates one of her primary parenting rules, because she knows it’s the fastest way to ensure he’ll drift off.
Avery will be here in less than thirty minutes. Matthew still isn’t home. Marissa desperately wants the half glass of crisp white wine she left on the kitchen counter, which she intended to sip while she finished tidying up. She also needs to change out of the pants and top she wore all day and set out a pitcher of water and three glasses on the side table in the library, the spot she’s chosen for their session. Most important, she craves a few minutes to mentally prepare, to center herself for whatever this evening’s session will bring.
What will Avery think of their house? They moved in when Bennett was only a few months old, purchasing it after a builder razed two old, smaller homes to expand the property. He’d clear-cut towering oak and old maple trees and brought in a landscape architect to create a backyard oasis that featured multitiered decks, a pool and a hot tub surrounded by intricate stonework, and—Matthew’s favorite touch—a built-in grill and gorgeous gas fireplace with groupings of furniture beneath a pergola. They’d celebrated Bennett’s eighth birthday outside with a Star Wars–themed party. Matthew, wearing a Chewbacca mask, flipped burgers and hot dogs for the kids while Marissa served shrimp and veggie kebabs and negronis to the adults.