My Husband's Girlfriend (5 page)

6

Anya

For the third weekend in a row, Sharvette forces me out the house. We
wind up at Memorial Mall and visit the Fashion Fair counter in Foley’s department store. Vette starts sifting through packets of eye shadow, blushes, lipstick samplers, and begins experimenting on me.

“Could you not do that?” I ask.

“Nooo, I have to do this.” She grabs a foundation stick and starts applying it to my cheeks, forehead, and chin.

“Ugh, you’re wasting your time.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t like getting made up. I prefer going natural.”

“If going natural doesn’t work,” Vette explains, “you need to try something else.”

“Why you trying to get me to enhance my looks? I thought you wanted me and Neil to break up.”

“Who says I’m doing this for Neil?”

“Oh, I see.” I smile and let her do her thing.

Several minutes later, she grins and hands me a mirror. I take a quick peek. Vette hooked me up. My lashes are longer, my eyes seem bigger. I feel like I am glowing, like there’s something to be singing about.

“You look nice, Anya.”

“Ya think?”

“Do I think? I’m telling you I didn’t even have to do this makeover stuff, because you always look nice.”

“Well.” I set down the mirror, feeling annoyed. “Why can’t I see what you see?”

“I think you’re too distracted to appreciate who you are, Anya.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t let what’s happening to you totally define who and what you are. You’re more than what you look like, or more than how you feel.”

“Oh, really? And how do you know all this, young lady?”

“Well, it’s something I read in a book, so…”

“Vette, I swear to God.”

She giggles and we head out of Foley’s and back into the noisy mall filled with babies screeching and waving their arms. A couple with matching T-shirts and jeans pass by. I avert my eyes whenever I see a man and woman walking close together and pushing a newborn in a baby buggy. It hurts too much to look.

“Speaking of God,” Vette finally responds.

“Vette, let’s not go there. Not today.”

“You kill me, Anya. I mean, you don’t feel like doing this, don’t wanna talk about that. Is there anything you want to do?”

I am walking but I can no longer see where I’m going. Blurry vision. Watery path. I wish I had a tissue in my purse. But I don’t. So the big, fat tears have nowhere else to flow except down my cheeks till they reach my chin.

“Hello? I’m talking to you.”

I turn away from her. We’ve stopped outside a Deck the Walls store. A huge Thomas Kinkade print is displayed in the window. I am mesmerized by his artistry: all the rich colors, the emphasis on light, brightness, and images of peacefulness. Looking at his illustrations always gives me the feeling of being transported. But even though looking at the print comforts me, something just doesn’t feel right. I raise my hand to my face and let my skin absorb the wetness.

“You all right?”

“No,” I tell Vette. “But I will be.”

I start walking. I hear her groan at my back. Soon she’s at my side.

“Anya, I heard you and Neil going at it last night. When he came up to your room…”

“Yeah, well, sorry about that. He called me on my cell from down in the library. I refused to come see him, so he walked up those stairs to see me.”

“What happened?”

“He swears that he’s ending his relationship with the woman, that if he goes over to her apartment, it’s only so he can see his son. And every time he gets excited about visiting the baby, I feel a pang from—”

“You wish that Dani’s baby was yours?” Vette says quietly.

“I can’t help but think that could be
us
welcoming our newborn, Vette. If I hadn’t lost our child…our kids.” My voice tapers off and I’m instantly back in the past, reliving the butcher-sharp violence that ripped my womb, the pain that stole away our babies, that robbed our future.

“I’ve never been pregnant, so…” Vette says with a sweet smile.

“You do get attached, is all I can say. Even if the embryo is a few weeks old, or when you’re in the first trimester, you still talk to your womb, notice the fetal movement, think that you’re carrying a human, which brings me to this,” I say with my voice more firm. “I’m assuming that Neil is so grateful to have another chance at fatherhood that he isn’t concerned about the Dani part. He just cares that Brax is here, that her pregnancy was full-term. Maybe Neil is scared something bad will happen again if he isn’t there for the baby.”

“Anya, I–I can kind of understand my brother wanting to care for his son.”

“But it still feels weird, Vette. I mean, our family has been totally redefined.”

Vette leers at me like even so, I ought to let it go, that a father’s love is more powerful than what I can comprehend.

I ache inside, feeling happy for Neil yet selfish.

“Mentally, you convince yourself you can do this, but psychologically…” My voice tapers off.

“At least you’re being true to your feelings, Anya. Shoot, I’m just the auntie—I’m not in your shoes.”

I nod at Vette, appreciating her understanding more than she knows.

“And the Reesy factor is another thing,” I pipe up. “She notices the bags of little toys that Neil leaves in his car. She’s not dumb. She knows she’s too big for those rattles and those soft blocks with A, B, C on them. So she starts asking questions, and right now we haven’t really told her anything. I don’t want her to be confused.”

“So what are you going to do?” Vette says.

“I don’t plan on doing anything. Let Neil handle it. I don’t feel it’s right to lie to our daughter, or drag her into this situation.”

“Hmmm, well, I’ll tell her, then.”

I actually crack a smile.

“What will you tell her, Vette?”

“I’ll tell her that her daddy’s been a bad, bad man.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” she insists.

“Listen up. One thing that would be wrong is to hurt two little kids in the process. So whether I agree or understand it, I know Neil is going to go over there and bond with his baby. As much as I dislike it, how can I interfere with that relationship?”

“Well, all righty, then.” Vette sounds done with the subject. But I hope she never gets tired of talking me through things even if it hurts to discuss them.

I pause.

“Did I ever tell you the story about Reesy? Have you noticed that I call her Reesy and Neil calls her Reese?”

“Yeah, I have noticed but didn’t think much about it.”

“Neil named her Reese—he wanted a boy.”

Vette stares at me and we exchange a knowing look for a long time.

We’re in the car on our way to pick up Reesy. The day before, she asked to spend the night at my mother’s. My heart was heavy with guilt. In times past, I let her go over to my mother’s frequently, but shortly after what happened with Neil, when she’d beg to go see Grammy, the answer would be a red-faced no. Although both my mother and mother-in-law know about Neil’s child and don’t agree with what he’s done, they try not to constantly nag about it, figuring it’s mainly my job to stay on his case since I’m married to him and they aren’t, but still I’m embarrassed to be around them.

Out of the blue, while we’re in the car Sharvette scowls and asks, “Why’d you marry my brother? He’s sooo freaky looking.”

I giggle and respond, “I get what you’re saying. He’s freaky looking to
you
because he’s your brother—he’s supposed to be freaky looking.”

Vette snickers, then I explain how, when we were engaged, Neil and I attended marriage counseling sessions along with three other couples. In the beginning, all the men and women openly proclaimed how jazzed they were about getting married, and how they were all in love.

“One couple had been dating since middle school. She was two months pregnant and knew she’d be with Tony for the rest of her life, but she still wanted counseling so she could ‘make my mama happy.’

“Another couple were staunch Christians, virgins, and there’s no way they’d make that move without clearing marital counseling. The third couple were the children of two prominent Houston families. Harvard Law School, prosecuting attorneys, folks rolling in dough, and everyone expected these two families to merge.

“Then there was Neil and me. Neither of us wanted to be there, but as you know, Neil is a by-the-book type. He likes acing tests, is a finishing-an-entire-crossword-puzzle kind of guy, so we went.

“Do you know that by the time the counseling sessions ended six weeks later, Neil and I were the only couple still engaged? The first five weeks were a breeze. We took little quizzes, did role reversals, fun stuff. But the last week, the marriage counselor told all the couples to ‘look closely at the person you’re about to marry. If he got into a car wreck and had twenty pieces of glass lodged in his cheeks, forehead, and lips, would you still want to be married to him? If your husband lost his job and could never regain employment, had to foreclose on your lovely home, and the car got repossessed, could you still love this broken man enough to stay with him? And guys, if your loving wife all of a sudden becomes depressed, stops eating, stops taking showers, refuses to comb her hair, and starts wandering the streets at two
A.M.
talking to herself, would you love her enough to stick with her through this crisis, or would you pack your bags and leave because you’re unwilling to be with someone who’s no longer the same person you married?”

“Anya, those are some tough questions. I wouldn’t even know how to respond.”

“Vette, this counselor scared every one of us. I couldn’t even look Neil in his eyes. But I didn’t want to back out of a relationship with him based on fear. I was willing to give our relationship a try, go through the fire with him no matter how hot the fire was. He told me he wanted it, too. And because we both wanted the same thing, at the same time, on the same day, we felt ready to get married. And I’ve never forgotten that day, and that’s why I’m married to Neil even now.

“I keep thinking this is why I suggested the arrangement to Neil. Maybe the arrangement would give us a guideline, or serve as a reminder of what we want and how we aim to get what we want. If we stick to the arrangement no matter what, we’d prove our commitment to each other.”

“That sounds all fine and dandy,” Vette says, “but is marriage really worth it?”

“Marriage has its problems, but as long as it’s under the proper conditions, I’d much rather be married than single.”

“Why?” Vette says.

“Why what?”

“Answer the question, Anya.”

I hook a left onto the freeway.

“Sure,” I say. “When you’re single you don’t have to answer to anybody. You don’t have to merge finances, but…”

“But what?”

I can’t think of anything else to say except, “When you get to my age you’ll understand.”

“I understand without having to be your age, Anya.”

“Oh, Vette, you’ve been married before?”

“Nooo, I know what I know. I know what I want and what I don’t want.”

Sharvette has a fiery look in her eyes, almost like a bull—strong, determined, not feeling sorry for anything foolish enough to get in her way.

“When it comes to relationships,” she continues, “I refuse to be taken for granted. I can’t stand it when someone loves me, loves me, loves me in front of my face, but hates me, hates me, hates me behind my back.”

“Sounds like a story behind those words.”

“There’s always a story, Anya.”

“I’m listening,” I tell her.

“See,” she continues, “a lot of guys think they’re slick. They know they have the upper hand in relationships. They know that if things go down badly, they can look two feet over, and there’s another prospect. That’s what trips me out.”

“True, there are more available women than men, but I don’t think it’s that easy for guys, either, Vette. We’re conditioned that men can get anyone they want, and maybe that’s why they act so indifferent in relationships, but I’m starting to believe otherwise.”

“Didn’t my brother go out and find this other lady right away?”

“No.” I wince. “It’s not just about the numbers game. It’s about the fact that when things don’t work out, men are disappointed and hurt just like women. They get tired of going through the relationship wringer just like we do. And depression? You haven’t seen depression until you see some tall, rugged, masculine man lying in bed in the dark for days, not eating, he won’t talk, won’t come out the house.
That’s
depression.”

“What? Where? When has a man ever been depressed?” She looks at me like I don’t know what I’m talking about.

“It happens, Vette. You got to recognize the signs.”

“Ain’t no signs.”

“Okay, check this out. What about when a man realizes his girl doesn’t want him anymore? She’s found someone else and has kicked him to the curb. What’s the first thing he does?”

“Get a replacement.”

“Vette, some get a gun. Load it with bullets. They find the woman, confront her, and start shooting. They shoot to remove their pain, the hurt of rejection. And by the time it’s over, she’s on her way to the morgue, and he may blast a bullet in his own head. And two lives are lost over something that’s hardly ever worth it.
That’s
depression. That’s scary.”

Vette gives me a concerned look.

“So, Anya. You’d never go that route with Neil? I mean, he’s my brother and all but…”

“You don’t even have to ask. I have a mouth that I don’t mind using. And that’s about the most violent I can see myself getting. No man is worth going to prison over. Not a one.”

“Not Brian McKnight?” She grins.

“Not even super-fine Brian McKnight.”

Vette and I pick up Reesy from my mom’s, jump back in the car, and head home.

“Did anybody call me?” my daughter yells to anyone who’ll listen.

“I don’t know, silly,” Vette tells her. “We were at the mall, not at home, so how would we know?”

“I’m talkin’ ’bout on the cell phone.”

Vette just stares at me. I shake my head and wonder if it was my genes or Neil’s that make my daughter act this way.