The Hopefuls (34 page)

“How do you know?” I asked. My eyes were already closed, and I'd been half in a dream just seconds before.

I heard her sigh. “I just do,” she said.

The next morning I woke up, remembering in some fuzzy part of my still-sleeping brain that something was wrong. And then it all came rushing back to me. Colleen was already gone, the covers on that side of the bed pulled up and a note left on Matt's bedside table that said, “B—Had to run. Didn't want to wake you. Call me later.” I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes, but it was no use. There was no chance of falling back asleep now.

The rest of the week crawled by so slowly that I considered ripping out my hair just to have something to do. Colleen stopped by after work a couple of times, and on Thursday, she insisted I come over for dinner. “You can't just sit inside all day,” she said, wrinkling her nose like the apartment smelled. So I went to her house, and sat at the kitchen table nodding every so often as she and Bruce carried on a conversation. I assumed she'd told Bruce the whole story, because when he saw me, he kissed my cheek and then pulled me against him for an awkward embrace, my face smooshed against his shoulder. “It's good to see you, Beth,” he said, finally ending the hug but still holding on to my arms. And honestly, I couldn't even muster up the energy to feel embarrassed.

I spent most of the time lying on my back and obsessing over what had happened, going over each step in my mind. I was paralyzed. It felt like I should do something, but I didn't know where to start. Should I look for a job? Contact Ellie to see if there was anything for me at DCLOVE? If Matt and I broke up, would I even stay in DC? My mind was an endless loop of questions, none of which I had the answers for.

Sunday night came and went with no word from Matt. I wondered if he was staying at his parents' house, if he was back in DC, or if he'd gone somewhere random to think things through.

“I could be dead for all he knows,” I said to Colleen that night. “He hasn't even bothered to text me. Someone could've kidnapped me or I could be in the hospital.”

“So call him,” Colleen said. “He's your husband. You have a say in this, too. You deserve to know where he is.”

“How can he really not care enough to check in just once?” I asked. Anger flared in my chest. This was the longest we'd been out of contact since we first started dating all those years ago.

Colleen looked at me, then said again, slowly, “Call him.”

“I can't,” I said.

She shook her head at me, frustrated. “You're always letting things happen to you,” she said. “You just wait to react. Do something.”

I just looked at her, not knowing how to respond. She was right, of course. But I didn't know how to change that about myself—didn't know if it was even possible.

I couldn't sleep that night, imagining Matt had gone to Sunday dinner at his parents' house, that he was telling everyone what happened, turning them all against me, acting like he'd done nothing wrong. Would he do that? I didn't think so, but at this point, nothing would surprise me. To leave me like this, to care so little that he wouldn't call, or even bother to send a text—that I never could've imagined.

I began to think he was never going to bother coming home, that he was just going to Irish-good-bye out of our marriage. Which, on top of everything else, would be awkward to explain.

As I tossed and turned, I kept trying to picture my life without Matt. It felt impossible. If we split up, no one would ever call me Buzz again. And while there were so many more important things to worry about, it was that thought that made me the saddest.

But then the next morning, he texted:
I'll be home tomorrow night. We'll talk then?
The question mark made his text seem almost friendly, made me feel hopeful despite myself. I had a million things to say, but I just wrote,
Sure. I'll be here.
And he answered,
See you around 7.

The next night, I sat on the couch and waited. My heart jumped when I heard the lock, and I stood at the top of the stairs, watching Matt come in. He looked serious and tired. My heart was beating so fast that I thought I might pass out and considered for a minute if this would make him feel more sympathetic toward me.

“Hey,” he said, looking up at me.

“Hi,” I said. I didn't know how to greet him and I could tell he felt the same. Even when we were mad at each other, we hugged and kissed hello—maybe out of habit, but also because we belonged to each other. Now I wasn't sure that was still true.

He sat on one end of the couch and I sat on the other, my hands in my lap. My heart was still beating so hard that I could hear it and wondered if he could too. I waited for him to start talking, and finally he took a deep breath and said, “I've spent these past two weeks thinking about this, trying to figure out what we should do. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't angry. But I want us to get past this.”

“You do?” He wasn't done talking, but I couldn't stop myself from asking the question. I was sure he heard the relief in my voice.

He sounded solemn as he said, “I do. We've put too much into this to just throw it away. We made a commitment to each other. I think we can make this better. If you're willing to.” It was such a Matt thing to say—to bring up commitment and work—that I almost smiled. He looked so serious sitting there, my thoughtful husband. It was an expression I recognized from so many times we'd talked about our future or world issues. I'd missed this version of Matt; it felt like forever since I'd seen him.

“I want that too,” I said. Our whole conversation felt so formal, like we were negotiating a contract instead of talking about our relationship. Matt looked like he was going to say something else, but I spoke first. “Matt, I want to try to explain. I've been going over everything again and again. And I'm sorry for what happened, for what I did. I will always be sorry about that. But I've also been thinking about us. About how bad things got.”

“I know,” Matt said.

“I don't know what happened. I've tried to go back and figure out where it was that things started to feel off. You seemed so angry—at me, at the situation. At everything.”

“I was,” he said. He didn't meet my eyes at first, like he was embarrassed.

“It felt like you didn't even like me anymore,” I said, my voice wobbling.

“Beth.” He looked up at me like he felt sorry for me, and I felt tears come to my eyes.

I held up my hand, wanting to get out what I had to say. “You weren't talking to me. I felt so shut out. I knew you were upset, but you wouldn't tell me about it. I'm not saying this as an excuse, I'm not. But I need you to know what it felt like. Like it didn't even matter that I was there, like you wouldn't have cared if I left.”

“That's not true,” Matt said, but his voice was soft. “It's not. I'm sorry if that's how it felt.”

“And then you left me. You left me here. Didn't even call once. I didn't know if you were ever coming back. You
left
me.” My voice sounded angry for the first time in our conversation, and Matt looked surprised.

He closed his eyes. “I know. I can't explain it. I just needed to think. I just needed space to think.”

“This wasn't—it wasn't about Jimmy. I don't know if that makes it worse or not. I think I was just confused and sad and it just happened. But I've never done anything like that before. I promise. You have to believe me about that.”

He raised his head and looked right at me. “I believe you.”

“Okay, good,” I said.

“I know things were bad, Beth. I don't know why, exactly. It was happening and I couldn't stop it. I don't know why I was acting that way. I don't want to be like this. I really don't.” Matt had tears in his eyes, but he blinked them back. It was such a simple thing to say, but maybe that's why I believed him. I got up and sat closer to him on the couch, reaching out and taking his hand.

The conversation had gone better than I'd hoped, but I tried not to get ahead of myself. I knew Matt was still angry—I could feel that he was hesitant as I held his hand and knew that wouldn't go away for a while. And I was still angry too, if I was being honest. But he wasn't going to leave, he wasn't going to use this thing that I'd done as an excuse to end things. And I wasn't going to ask him where he'd been for almost two weeks, wasn't going to demand that information. I'm sure Colleen would've said that I let Matt make a decision and then reacted to it—and maybe I did, but I didn't really care. It was what I wanted too, and it didn't matter to me how we got there.

“I want things to get better,” I said. “And I know it will take a while, but I think—” My voice broke here and I waited a second to continue. “I think we can do that.”

Matt squeezed my hand and then took his away and put it in his lap in a way that felt slightly unfriendly. But then his voice was soft and agreeable as he said, “Me too.”

That night we were polite to each other as we got ready for bed, standing next to each other at the sink while we brushed our teeth, taking turns spitting and rinsing like we were new roommates who didn't know each other very well. We'd been apart for two weeks, but it felt like much longer. Our good-night kiss was dry and chaste, and as I pulled the covers over me I wondered how long this was going to last. Maybe we'd have to live like a prudish Amish couple for a while; maybe that was our price to pay. I guess it wasn't the worst thing in the world, but it certainly wasn't great.

But then the next morning, I felt Matt reach over for me, pulling me toward him, surprising me because he hadn't in so long. I was half awake as he tugged my pajamas off, and I stayed underneath him, both of our movements sleepy and slow. When we were done, we lay on our backs, our limbs just barely touching. Neither of us spoke, but it felt like we'd started to erase something, and it seemed like it was enough for now as Matt rested his hand on my stomach and said, “Morning, Buzz.”

Washington, DC

Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.

—DYLAN THOMAS

H
ere's what I still hate about DC: the way that nothing is permanent, the feeling that everything and everyone you know, could (and does) wash away every four or eight years. All of these important people, so ingrained in the city—you can't imagine that this place could exist without them. But one day they're gone and everything keeps moving just the same.

Who can get their footing in a place like this? It feels like quicksand to me.

Once Matt was back, we moved quickly. He took a job (with the help of Mr. Dillon's connections) as deputy political director at the DNC, and that same week we started looking at houses in Maryland and made an offer on one. A few weeks later, I was hired to edit a monthly newsletter at an adult literacy nonprofit. It paid less than I'd made at DCLOVE, but I didn't have to write blind items about White House love affairs and golf games, which was a good trade-off.

I'm sure a therapist would've gotten a kick out of analyzing us, the way we raced ahead, like if we changed enough things in our life, everything would be fine. Sometimes I worried about it too, but mostly we were too busy for me to second-guess everything, which maybe was the whole point.

The house we bought was in Silver Spring, on a street with well-kept lawns and brightly painted mailboxes. I thought maybe it would feel lonely out there, but in the end it was like any move—the surroundings seem strange until they don't and one day the unfamiliar becomes normal.

Our neighborhood was full of young couples, most of them with kids but a few without. The day we moved in, our neighbor Ginny and her husband, Bob, brought over a welcome basket—a real-life welcome basket, full of jam, cookies, and gift certificates to the local pizza place. “We're such a social block,” she told us. “You'll love it here.” Ginny was the president of the neighborhood social committee, a title she said with so much pride, she could've been announcing that she was President of the United States. “It's a lot of work,” she said. “But it's worth it.”

Within a week, I was invited to join a book club and a Bunco group—a game I'd never played that was apparently all the rage in suburban Maryland. These people didn't joke around about their Bunco.

Ginny was telling the truth about our neighborhood—there were BBQs and block parties and group outings to Nats games. There was always something going on and there were nights we turned down invitations just to get a little break, so we could be alone, closing our blinds so we wouldn't offend anyone.

There were a few times that I'd be in someone's backyard, talking about the quality of our public schools or getting a recommendation for a housepainter, and across the lawn, Matt would be discussing the Redskins and flooded basements while someone cooked cheeseburgers on the grill, and I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, how ordinary and boring it all was.

But those moments were few and far between. They honestly were. Mostly, I enjoyed myself at these gatherings. I liked all of our neighbors—they were funny and kind and welcoming, and I knew we'd never get to know them really well, that we'd always keep a little distance. We wouldn't have friends like the Dillons again, another couple so entangled in our lives, and that was okay. It was probably the way it was supposed to be.

Sunday nights still belonged to the Kellys, and we showed up there every week without fail. Babs was still herself, but I didn't feel her scrutiny as much—it's possible I was just used to it or maybe it wasn't as intense as before. Either way, I didn't dread the dinners the way I once had. And at least once a week, I met up with Jenny and Nellie, sometimes for lunch or dinner, but mostly to go for walks together; just a bunch of outlaws power-walking through the suburbs of Maryland.

We saw Bruce and Colleen more than we had before, had them over for dinner often, the four of us sitting on the patio and watching Bea run around in the backyard. And maybe it's because I'm older or less judgmental, but I see good things about them as a couple that I didn't before—the way Bruce listens to Colleen's long stories, how nicely she repeats things to him when he can't hear. So much of what I used to think was ridiculous about them, now seems right. They balance each other out.

During our first year in Maryland, I felt Matt coming back to me, little by little. It happened in small ways—how he'd touch my hair as I sat nearby, when he'd bring me coffee in bed. Once, as he leaned down to hug me from behind, I drew in a sharp breath to keep from crying. Because it was only when he was back that I realized how much had been gone.

We see the Dillons sometimes, not alone, but when they're in town we run into them at parties, and everything is perfectly pleasant, almost normal really. Maybe we know we can't avoid each other and the best option is to act friendly. Maybe enough time has passed. Maybe we remember the good parts of our friendship. Or maybe we're all really good at pretending.

They sent us a beautiful gift when our son, John, was born—a blue quilt with his name and birth date embroidered in the corner. I called Ash to thank her, but she didn't answer, so I left a message. She responded with a text, which was fine with me. Texting (didn't you know?) is the best way to keep in touch with people you don't really want to talk to.

I do feel guilty that we're Viv's godparents, and I make sure to send presents on her birthday and Christmas and whenever else I think to. I'm sure this will slow down over time, that over the years I'll send fewer things and then eventually stop. I can imagine that when she talks about us, she'll say, “They were friends of my parents a long time ago, but we never see them now.” She'll probably look at the pictures of the four of us and try to figure out why these random people were chosen to be her spiritual guides. I'm sure Ash will water down the relationship in her retelling. “We spent so much time with them in DC,” she'll say. “Matt ran your dad's first campaign in Texas.” But as Viv's friends have their godparents show up at graduations with presents and envelopes full of money, I doubt she'll care about any of that. She'll just understand that she got pretty screwed in the godparent department.

The Dillons still send a Christmas card each year, one long letter that's signed from Viv and written in her voice. It gives updates on Ash and Jimmy and recaps the year with some pretty priceless lines: “With all the jewelry she's selling (and it's a lot!), my mom says I'm still the most precious jewel of all.” “And, Praise be to God! It's finally time to celebrate Jesus' birthday!” It goes without saying that the card is decorated and designed by Ash, a Santa stamped on the outside of the envelope, a baby Jesus at the end of the letter.

I always want so badly to read this card out loud to Matt, since no one else could fully appreciate how ridiculous it really is, but I never bring it to his attention, afraid that mentioning the Dillons when I don't need to will bring up bad memories. So I just leave it on top of the pile and pray that he sees it.

For the most part, I don't miss the Dillons—not exactly, anyway. But there are times when Ash is the only person I want to talk to, when there's something that only she would understand. Last week, we were at our block party and I watched Matt talking to our neighbors. He seemed a little too smiley, a little too friendly, like he was trying to win these people over, like he was campaigning. (We didn't choose this district by accident. The real campaign will be along soon, I know.) And I was dying to call Ash and tell her about it, describe what it was like to watch Matt performing for them, auditioning in the middle of his real life. But I didn't, obviously. I just turned and asked Ginny a question about Bunco and then nodded and smiled as she talked for the next twenty minutes.

Of all that I hate about DC, there are things I've learned to love, or at least to appreciate. There are fall days in October that are so beautiful they take your breath away. The sky is blue and the sun is strong and the air is finally the tiniest bit crisp. Most of the East Coast is already bundled up in their winter coats, but we get to appreciate the last of the sunshine, to hold on to it a little while longer.

And then there's the way that people come here, earnest and full of dreams, believing that they can make a difference. That's the thing about DC—people are always leaving but that makes space for the new transplants, the crowds that keep flooding in, full of energy and wonder.

You can see it on their faces as they walk down the street. You can spot the new people from the way they smile at the monuments, how they stare at the White House as they pass outside the gates, feeling thrilled and thinking,
I'm here, I've made it.
That's what I see, mostly, when I walk around now, which is for the best, because it's not easy to stay annoyed in the face of so much optimism. It's hard to ignore that much hope.