Crystal Lies (8 page)

“Oh, I know it’s not perfect. But whose marriage is?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, honey.”

“I know
this
, Mom. I know Dad doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment. He has worked hard for his family. He’s a great provider, respected in the community, and he doesn’t deserve this kind of crap from you.”

Her words slapped me despite the distance between us.

“And if you weren’t so blind, you’d see it too,” she continued. “Dad’s exactly right about Jacob. He’s made his own stupid choices, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. As much as I hate to admit that my little brother’s a junkie, it’s the truth, and the sooner we all accept it, the better it will be for everyone.”

“Are you suggesting I simply turn my back on your brother?”

“I’m not saying you have to quit loving him, Mom.” Her voice softened. “I mean as much as I hate him sometimes for all this crud, I do still love him. But I’m saying you have to let him do his thing and hope he doesn’t kill himself doing it. In the meantime, I think you should focus your attention on saving your marriage.”

“Saving my marriage?” I echoed.

“Yes. You and Dad are both Christians, and as I recall, you made a vow to God
and to
each other—you know the spiel, Mom—till death do us part. And you’re not keeping it.”

I swallowed hard. “A big part of me is already dead, Sarah.” She didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I continued. “I know this is hard for you to hear. But like I told your dad, I just needed a break, a chance to regain myself and to think about everything that’s going on right now. It’s not as if I’m looking for a divorce. I’m certainly not. I just needed to catch my breath. Can you understand that?”

“Not really.” She paused. “Oh, I think Leslie’s here, and we were going to look at apartments this afternoon.”

“Right.”

“Think about what I said, Mom,” she told me.

“Yes, of course I will.”

“Good.”

“I love you, honey.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

And that was it. I shook my head and looked around the interior of the Range Rover, trying to remember where I was and where I’d been going. Then, spying the short grocery list by my purse, I remembered. Oh yes, Jacob was coming home.

I headed the Range Rover back to More-4-Less, not even sure why I was going there again, except that it was in the neighborhood, and perhaps I wanted to prove something to myself. I tried to push Sarah’s words and accusations away from me as I walked across the blacktop parking lot. After all, my opinionated daughter was only twenty-one and still had a lot to learn about life and relationships. And, although I hated feeling like I was hurting her, I knew it was best for her to hear the truth, at least from me. Still, it seemed there was far too much hurt going around these days, and I wished there was some other way…something I could do to stop all the pain.

As I searched for a grocery cart without wobbly wheels or too much sticky grime, I wondered if Sylvia would be there at this time of day. For some reason, I wanted to see that woman again. I wanted to assure her I was doing much better now. Okay, perhaps “much better” was a huge overstatement, especially after that conversation with Sarah. But I was alive and moving—even if it was only two steps forward before I took one and a half back. At least those half steps were something.

Thinking of Jacob, I got a gallon of milk, some “no pulp” orange juice, a large carton of eggs, two loaves of bread (one white, one whole wheat), some sliced roast beef and smoked turkey, some leaf lettuce and tomatoes, a nice selection of fresh fruit. I even picked up some of the junk foods—cheese curls and powdered-sugar doughnuts—that I normally avoided but knew my son liked. Then, feeling like the prodigals mother who was ready
to slaughter the fatted calf, I even got a case of Dr Pepper, my son’s beverage of choice. Well, at least in childhood. Who knows what he imbibes now? I also picked up a box of maple bars (another Jacob favorite) and a package of chocolate chips in case we felt like making cookies. Who knew? Then, feeling even more celebratory at my son’s homecoming, I picked out one of those bunches of prearranged flowers, mostly carnations and chrysanthemums and only $5.99, before I headed to the checkout.

To my pleased surprise, Sylvia was there, and even though her line was slightly longer than the other two, I decided to get in it anyway. I absently flipped through a
Good Housekeeping
magazine as I waited my turn. After shopping at the discount furniture warehouses, I couldn’t bear to look at magazines like
House Beautiful
or
Architectural Digest
, my usual preferences. I kept telling myself it was best not to look back. Just move forward.

When Sylvia began ringing up my purchases, I was ready for her. I expertly snapped open the brown paper bags and loaded my groceries almost as quickly as the moving belt funneled them at me. Sylvia didn’t really look up at me until she announced the total, but I noticed a faint glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

“So you got it all figured out this time,” she said as I handed her my debit card.

I nodded. “I’m figuring out a lot of things.”

She nodded as she ran my card through the scanner on her register, but after a moment she frowned. “It’s been rejected.” She handed back my card.

I’m sure my face looked alarmed. “Rejected?” I asked in a mousy voice. “Really? Are you sure?”

“You want me to run it again?”

I glanced at the impatient customers waiting behind me, then fumbled through my billfold for cash. “No, no,” I told her. “I’ve got it.”

I felt a gnawing deep inside me as I handed her several twenties. It was already beginning.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes looked surprisingly kind as she handed me my change. “They usually stop the cards right away.”

I sighed. “I guess I should’ve known it was coming.”

She nodded to my bouquet still lying on the counter. “Don’t forget those.”

“Thanks.” I picked it up and set it on top of a bag. She smiled. “Well, hang in there.”

Despite my sinking heart over the cancelled debit card, I felt like I’d accomplished something as I walked across the parking lot toward the Range Rover. Oh, I knew all I’d really done was bag my own groceries, but it was a start. Besides, I knew I still had my savings account, in my name only. I wasn’t broke yet. And I didn’t want to live off of Geoffrey anyway. Not if he wanted to be stingy. Somehow I would get through this. And, I told myself, Jacob was coming home!

Jacob’s car was nowhere to be seen when I parked in space number thirty-six at the apartment. When I got upstairs, I noticed my note was exactly where I’d left it. So I began putting the groceries away, taking my time and rearranging a few things along the way. I felt pleased at how my little apartment was beginning to function like an actual, albeit rather tiny, home. In some ways it seemed like I was a little girl again, playing house. Not a bad feeling really. I even considered baking something, since I always thought the smell of baking made a place feel homier. But it was turning into another sweltering end-of-summer day, and without air conditioning I figured I’d better not add any heat to my second-floor dwelling.

After the food was put away and I’d snipped the bottoms of the flowers and temporarily stuck them into a juice pitcher, I fixed myself a late lunch and sat down at the narrow breakfast bar on a new pine barstool. (I’d purchased a pair of them for only $19.99 each.) There I quietly ate and watched out the window as cars zipped past on the busy street down below. I suspected that most of the minivans contained moms and kids
doing their back-to-school shopping. I’d always loved doing that with Sarah and Jacob. Especially when the kids were smaller and we’d stock up on things like Crayola crayons, number-two pencils, bright plastic lunch-boxes, and rain parkas. The older they got, the less fun and more expensive it became. But I still got a thrill seeing them with a new backpack or the latest thing in shoes. And whether they would admit it or not, I think they enjoyed it too. Well, except for Jacob in his last year at high school—I don’t think he wanted anything last year. Another sign that he was becoming someone else.

I glanced at the kitchen clock—only $6.99, who knew?—and if my inexpensive clock was correct it was after four o’clock. My new bed had finally been delivered yesterday afternoon, and although I’d moved up from the floor to the futon in Jacobs room during the previous nights, I was still feeling sleep deprived and exhausted. So I decided to take a short nap, just until Jacob got here, which I felt would be any minute. I left my front door unlocked just in case I didn’t hear him knocking, knowing that would be nearly impossible in such a small apartment. But I was taking no chances.

When I woke up, it was nearly eight thirty, and as far as I could tell, Jacob hadn’t been there yet. Instead of turning on the lights, I decided to light some of the candles I’d confiscated from my previous home. Geoffrey had told me we shouldn’t be lighting candles after he read an article on how the candle smoke can leave a thin coating of soot on the walls and furnishings, although I’d never seen that happen myself. Still, I continued to light candles when Geoffrey was working late or gone for a weekend conference. I guess it was my little rebellion. And tonight I was pleased by the effect of the candles in the apartment. It seemed to soften the edges, and somehow it made the spaces seem cozier and yet more spacious too.

Noticing my grocery store flowers still sitting in the juice pitcher in the sink, I remembered that I’d wanted to hunt down something to put
them in. I knew I’d brought my crystal vase from home. It had been a gift from Geoffrey, something I’d almost left behind, but then, feeling sentimental, I’d decided to bring it along. Geoffrey had given this to me for our twenty-fifth anniversary last June. It was a lovely Waterford piece and had been filled with twenty-five perfect red roses—one for each year of our “perfect” marriage. One thing about Geoffrey: he always knew how to give perfect gifts, and he was never cheap about it, either.

He had also presented me with a brochure filled with glossy photos of sunny beaches and palm trees, promising me a trip to the Caribbean to commemorate our milestone. “Sorry, sweetheart. We’ll have to wait until this case is over,” he had explained over a lovely anniversary dinner at Sindalli’s. “But we can have a belated celebration this fall. Maybe by late September.” Naturally, I had agreed with him. When had I not agreed with him? Well, other than this thing with Jacob.

I rummaged around in the tiny linen closet right next to the bathroom and found the beautiful crystal vase. Looking out of place wedged between a package of toilet paper and some tile cleaner, the vase with all its cut-glass intricacies shimmered in the candlelight as I pulled it out and carried it into the living room. Although it was much too grand for this little apartment, still I put my grocery store flowers in it, then set the arrangement on the small secondhand coffee table in front of the couch. Such a lovely gift, a souvenir of a past that now seemed out of reach.

Had I been stupid to leave Geoffrey like that, to walk away from twenty-five years of marriage? Not that I’d meant to leave permanently. That had never been my actual goal. I think I had considered it to be more of a break, like a mental-health day, or week or month. I needed a time away from everything, a time for me to figure things out and to hopefully help Jacob. But what had I figured out, really? And how had I helped Jacob? The light from the candles grew blurry as my eyes suddenly filled with tears, and I questioned everything about myself. What had I done?

Did I think my absence would get Geoffrey’s attention? Had I subconsciously thought that he’d miss me so much he’d jump into his Porsche and come flying over here, that he’d fall on his knees and beg me to forgive him? That he’d promise to be the father Jacob needed, and he’d take me into his arms and swear to me that everything would be different from here on out? My shining knight on a perfect white horse? Wasn’t that how the fairy tales ended? Or at least those bachelor reality shows on TV?

I got a tissue and blew my nose. But I am forty-eight years old, I reminded myself, and old enough to know that the characters in fairy tales don’t necessarily live happily ever after. Right? But maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe I was the one who should’ve gone running back. Maybe I should’ve gotten down on my knees and apologized to him. After all, I was the one who had left. My own daughter had even told me as much. I paced back and forth in my now somewhat livable apartment. Had I been wrong?

Suddenly I felt a real sense of urgency. I imagined Geoffrey sitting alone in that big house, weary from a hard week at work—it was almost time for the city’s case to go to court, and he’d probably been working long, hard hours to get everything perfectly prepared. I envisioned him sitting by himself in the kitchen, which by now would be quite messy, eating a lukewarm microwave dinner and wearing a wrinkled shirt with a coffee stain on the front. Oh, I knew I was being overly dramatic, but I also knew better than anyone that Geoffrey was not the kind of man who could take care of himself. He didn’t even know how to run the washing machine. And what about Winnie and Rufus? Did I really think that Geoffrey was going to take care of them? I would feel terrible if my absence had hurt those two innocent animals in any way.

I quickly blew out the candles and dashed off a note for Jacob, just in case he showed, then I jumped into the Range Rover and drove toward the house. Oh, what had I been thinking? I chastised myself. Had I even
been thinking at all? Surely Sarah had been right. Surely the most important thing for me to do right now was to save my marriage. Why was I such a fool?

“God help me,” I prayed aloud as I drove. “Help me not to blow this.”

I must admit that the idea of being back in that spacious home and sleeping on those four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets (which I could no longer afford) and taking scented bubble baths in my big whirlpool tub and looking out the front windows onto the city lights below—well, it did have a certain appeal. Especially after being absent from all that luxury for one long and exhausting week. Maybe I was the one who needed to learn a lesson, I thought, as I drove up the winding street that led to our house.

But when I got there, I noticed a car in the driveway. So instead of pulling right in and bursting into the house with my now somewhat-rehearsed apology, I drove on past and parked in front of the house next door. I didn’t recognize the car in the driveway, but that wasn’t such a big deal since I’d always been bad at recognizing cars. It was small and red and sporty, and I suspected it belonged to one of his legal friends. Maybe John Howard, since I’d heard he’d gone through a midlife crisis, and this looked like a midlife crisis sort of vehicle to me.

Since the lights were on in the house, I knew I could easily slip up and peer in without being noticed. I wasn’t quite ready to interrupt what might be an important business meeting, and I knew I could wait for John or whomever to leave or even come back in the morning. But curious as to the condition of my poor, abandoned husband, I decided to take a peek inside. I crept up behind the laurel hedge that lines the driveway and then over to the window that looks into the dining room. I crouched in the rhododendron bushes by the house for a couple of minutes. I think I was even holding my breath until I got up the nerve to poke my nose over the window sill and look inside.