On Grace (6 page)

I know I’m being kind, but it’s just not me to be any other way. Even in a situation like this.

I doze off somewhere in the middle of the third rerun of
Real Housewives of wherever.
I awake to Darren coming quietly into our room. He gathers his stuff for work and turns off the TV. I pretend to sleep.

The next day, I take the 10:33 train from Rye, which gets to Grand Central at 11:12, leaving me enough time to walk the thirty blocks north to Cameron’s office on East 74th Street, between Madison and Park. I don’t miss living in the city, but being back always gives me a rush of energy. I love walking up Park, seeing whatever new sculptures have been installed in the medians, dodging tourists whose unmistakable pace is slower than a true New Yorker’s, smelling the exotic scents emanating from the food carts. Yes, technically, I’m bridge-and-tunnel now (a condescending term used for those who don’t actually live in Manhattan and have to enter the island via a bridge or a tunnel), but since I was a rent- and tax-paying citizen of Gotham for so many years, I feel I have an exemption. Plus, I walk fast.

I get to Cameron’s office a few minutes early and wait outside. She rents space from a reputable art and antiques gallery, and the building reflects its dignified image: it’s a beautiful old townhouse with distinctive iron handrails adorning the elegant front steps, window boxes displaying a colorful mix of blooms, and two potted topiaries guarding the handsome front door. As the door opens, Cameron walks out, a smile on her face and strappy crocodile sandals on her feet. She tells me she’s starving and craving pancakes, so we make our way to EJ’s Luncheonette on Third Avenue.

Though not the place I would have chosen for the moment I tell my best friend I’ve been cheated on, I’m not about to deny a pregnant woman her carbs. EJ’s is packed when we walk in; it’s mostly filled with moms and little kids, but there are pockets of businessmen and older people eating Reubens. On our way to a table in the back, Cameron is stopped by no fewer than five women who greet her with reverence. Turns out they’re all parents of her patients. If they only knew how many times I’ve held the esteemed Dr. Stevens’s hair while she’s puked!

“This is a nice surprise,” Cameron says, after we’ve placed our order for pancakes, buttermilk for her, multigrain for me. (I’m trying.) Her smile fades as she registers my expression.

“So,” I start to cry, deciding to just blurt it out. “Darren cheated on me.”

“What?” she reaches out and grabs my hand. “Oh, Grace. What happened?”

I manage to get the whole story out in between sobs while Cameron listens intently.

“Wow, I never would have suspected that Darren would ever do that to you,” she says warmly, digging for more tissues in her purse since I’ve exhausted our table’s napkin supply and there are no empty tables nearby to steal from.

I explain all the different thoughts that have been going through my head and tell her I’m just so confused, and I don’t know what to do. Whenever I hear of women who had good marriages and then were cheated on once and proceed to get divorced, I always think that it’s such a shame the couple couldn’t work it out. That they’ve thrown away their entire family and history over one worthless night. But now, it has happened to me. And I understand. Rationally, it’s easy to say that Darren’s affair didn’t mean anything, and the meaningful minutes, days, and years of our relationship that led up to that regrettable moment should stand for more than a quick orgasm. But the fact that that orgasm was in a vagina that isn’t attached to my body clouds every rational thought. And that’s where I’m stuck.

“I’m not trying to defend him, Grace, but you know Darren and you know that this is so uncharacteristic of him, and that has to stand for something. I abhor what he did. But I really hope you two can work it out,” she says, putting her hand over mine.

I nod, crying, as the waitress sets down our pancakes. I wish I had ordered the chocolate-chip ones. With whipped cream.

Cameron continues carefully, “Would you consider counseling?”

“Yes. But not yet. I just want to sort through my feelings first before I let someone else pathologize them.”

We spend the next hour talking through all of my feelings and coming to no conclusions. Outside the restaurant, Cameron tells me she’ll support me no matter what I decide.

“Do you want me to tell Jack?” she asks.

“Not yet,” I say, knowing how hard it will be for Cameron to keep a secret from Jack, but also knowing that she will.

“Thanks for your support, Cam. I just want to make sure you’ll support me in whatever I decide. I don’t really know what I’m going to do.”

“You’ll do what you have to do. Don’t try to figure it all out right now. Don’t worry about what you think you should do or what you think other people will expect you to do. Only think about what’s right for you and your family.”

We hug goodbye and she tells me not to fight the conflicting emotions, that I should explore and embrace them, that these emotions all serve a purpose in getting me where I need to be. She DVRs too much
Oprah,
but her words ease my mind a little. I take a deep breath and head toward Grand Central with just enough time to catch the train and meet the boys’ bus on time.

Darren comes home that night with flowers. And even though the almost-wilted blooms scream end-of-day, train-station special, I realize he’s trying. The boys eat their dessert—strawberries and chocolate chips—while Darren eats his dinner—reheated chicken parm—and I arrange the flowers in a crystal vase we got for our wedding.

We got married on a magnificent May day at The Ritz-Carlton, Marina del Rey in Los Angeles. Darren’s family and many of our friends flew in from the East Coast for the weekend-long affair planned superbly with the help of my mom’s good taste and my dad’s checkbook. While not as low-key as Darren would have liked, it was warm, elegant, memorable, and a hell of a lot of fun. Each year on our anniversary, I recreate the meal we had that night—prime rib, herbed risotto, and roasted baby vegetables—and we eat in front of the TV while watching our wedding video. Darren always protests playfully, saying it’s cruel and unusual punishment to force a man to watch a wedding video. But he’s always the one who suggests we dress up, he’s the one who insists we drink champagne while we watch, and he’s the one who asks me to dance during Marc Cohn’s “True Companion,” our wedding song.

“Why did Daddy get you flowers, Mommy?” James asks, his teeth covered with chocolate.

“I’m not sure, James, let’s ask Daddy, okay?” I say, handing him his glass of water. I don’t trust myself not to start crying, so I focus on washing the dishes.

“Okay. Daddy, why did you get flowers for Mommy?”

Darren sets down his fork, and I can feel his eyes on me as I squirt more soap on the sponge. “Because I love Mommy very much. And sometimes daddies do things that aren’t so nice to mommies and giving flowers is part of how we try to say we’re sorry.”

“What did you do?” Henry asks, and I imagine Darren regrets his second sentence. Saying things like that used to be okay when Henry was little, but this stuff doesn’t go over his head anymore. Thankfully, it still does for James.

“Something real dumb, Hen. I said something to Mommy that wasn’t real nice.” And here, he starts to cover his tracks so the boys don’t have to think there’s really something wrong. “I was really tired, and I got a little angry at Mommy for something that wasn’t her fault. Mommy wasn’t too mad because she knew I was just cranky, but I still feel really badly for hurting her feelings.”

“Last year at my school, when you hurt someone’s feelings you had to draw a picture for the person. Maybe you should draw a picture for Mommy,” James sweetly suggests.

“Maybe I should,” Darren says, kissing James. “But maybe what I should do is chase you boys up to bed because you are both silly heads,” and he proceeds to make funny faces at them, tickle them, and then chase them up the stairs while they squeal in delight. He’ll get them ready for bed while I finish in the kitchen. It was a good save. I’ll give him that.

After I’ve finished cleaning up downstairs and checked that the oven’s off, for the third time, I ready the backpacks for tomorrow. When I eventually get upstairs, Darren is in our bathroom washing up.

“Do you feel up to talking for a little while?” Darren asks carefully as he rinses his toothbrush and sets it back on the charger next to his sink.

“Sure,” I say quietly. I pull my hair back in a ponytail and run my toothbrush under the sink. “Let me just wash up. I’ll be in in a minute.”

What a pleasant state of ignorant bliss I was in when I stood here just forty-eight hours ago about to find out my husband cheated on me. That calm-before-the-storm feeling. It’s a shame not to have known the storm was coming so I could have better enjoyed the calm.

This happens to me sometimes when I’m driving. I’ll be singing along to a great song on the radio, feeling the warm wind through the open windows, and I’ll wonder if this is just a blissful moment before I’m about to get killed by some idiot driver not paying attention. I realize this is a horrible way to think, a horrible way to go through life always imagining the worst. But having a relatively blessed life means my number may come up soon. Maybe losing the prospect of a job and the security of a marriage on the same day will count. Maybe now I can relax in the car. Hopefully some force out there believes I’ve received my due.

I brush my teeth and wash my face. I even floss, and put on moisturizer and eye cream just to stall a bit. I’m still so utterly confused. I’m not sure I’m prepared to talk.

Darren is sitting on the bed, and the television is off. I know this is big for him because the Yankees are playing the Red Sox, a monumental event in the lives of sports-obsessed men up and down the Eastern Seaboard. As I get under the covers, hoping the warmth of the white, silky duvet will calm me, Darren looks at me and smiles cautiously.

“Do you want to start or do you want me to?” He’s clearly tiptoeing here, uncertain of where I stand, and wanting to be respectful of how I want this to go.

“You,” I say, unsure of where I’d even begin. I flash back to a conversation that started exactly this way about nine years ago. Darren had taken me out to our favorite restaurant, Gramercy Tavern, and told me there was something important he needed to discuss. I suspected it was about our decision to have kids, or rather my decision that I wasn’t ready yet. Darren had been tossing out not-so-subtle hints for months (gift certificates for pregnancy massages, a maternity clothes starter kit box set, and an entire library of
What to Expect
-type books), and I had been lovingly objecting to his suggestions that now would be a perfect time to start a family. I was scared of the enormity of having kids, the responsibility, the pregnancy, the impact on my career, the loss of identity.

That night, Darren ordered a fancy bottle of wine and got us a table near the fireplace. He even wore a suit (something most investment bankers hate to do on a Saturday night), determined as he was that I take him seriously and that he give the subject all the reverence it deserved. He told me he loved me so much and wanted to create something that would be part of us. Something that we could love and nurture together. His voice trembled and his eyes pled, and when I exhausted all of the reasons why I was hesitant—he had really good rebuttals for each—I told him yes. And I meant it. That might have been one of the more special nights we ever shared. When we got home, we ceremoniously dumped my birth control pills in the toilet, lit candles, and made love. While that wasn’t “the night,” it definitely cemented a deeper bond between us. We were embarking on a joint venture, one that would connect Darren and me forever.

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands. “I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this, as I have been since it happened. And I’ve been really trying to look at this all from your perspective. And I can only imagine how bad this all is, Grace. I’m not sure where you’re at right now in terms of how you feel about me and all this. I’ve been frustrated because ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ don’t say exactly what I want to say. I need much stronger words to convey the absolute regret I feel for doing that to you. I know I’ve hurt you so much, and I can’t believe I was capable of doing that.”

“I’m having a lot of trouble,” I start, looking into Darren’s glassy eyes. “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do and what I’m supposed to feel.” I speak slowly, calmly. “I never thought I’d be in this situation.”

Darren’s voice turns determined. “I promised you I would never cheat on you. And when I made that promise I meant it with every ounce of my being. And the fact that I’ve gone against that promise is killing me. I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done to you.”

“I need to know something.” My voice is angry, accusatory. I’m relieved in a way that I’m not calm about this anymore. “How could you have had sex with me
after
you had sex with her?” I continue. There are so many thoughts buzzing in my head, so many big, important issues. “I keep coming back to the worry that even though you wore a condom, or say that you did, you might have gotten some disease from that woman!”

“I did wear a condom. And trust me, Grace, that was one of the first things that went through my mind when I woke up the next day,” Darren says firmly. My germaphobic husband is staying in character. “I went to Dr. Lambert as soon as I got back and got tested.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him the truth because I wanted him to test me for everything. I was mortified, it was one of the most humiliating things I’ve ever had to do, but I needed to know. I couldn’t make you pay for me being a complete idiot.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And, did the test results come back showing anything?”

“Seriously, Grace. Do you think I would have been with you if there were any chance that I was going to give you a disease?” he asks with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Don’t get annoyed with me, Darren,” I say angrily. “You have no right to get angry with me. I have every right in the world to ask you that. And you have no right, zero, to be anything but kind and patient with me as I try to figure this all out.” I’m mad. I start to cry. I walk into the bathroom to get a tissue. I decide on the whole box instead.