The Pretend Wife (20 page)

“Yes?” This was my father, standing in the doorway, duck-footed, his cardigan buttoned up, his cheeks soft and tinged pink, his unsteady eyes.

I wanted to cushion the questions somehow, to make it easier for him, but I didn't know any way to disguise it, and, as much as I wanted to protect him, I was tired of protection—his protection of me and mine of him. I was tired of hiding things. “Was she suicidal?” I asked.

He froze for a moment then nodded. The room went silent. In the distance, I heard a leaf blower. His eyes welled up and then he shook his head again. “She wouldn't have tried to kill herself with you in the car. She never would have done that.”

“Where was she driving that night with me in the car?”

He sat down in an overstuffed armchair, rubbing his chin as if he wanted to stop it from quivering. He looked small and frail. “She was leaving me,” he said in a quick exhalation of air.

“Leaving you?” I sat down on the couch and stared at all of the piles of knitting, the stack of books, the emptied boxes. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“She would have come back,” he said, although his voice revealed more than a hint of doubt. “I know she would have.”

“Did you have a fight?” I didn't remember my parents ever raising their voices, no squabbles, no shouting. When I was younger, I wished they'd been more volatile so that I could have had memories—even bad ones were better than a vague nostalgic memory that left me nothing to hang on to.

“No,” he said. “She was too fragile for that. She didn't have any fight in her. She wasn't that kind of person. It was
an erosion, she told me. She felt eroded, and she needed to be away from me to see what that feeling meant.”

“Where was she going?”

“To a friend's house, a girlfriend from her Mount Holyoke days.”

“How did the wreck happen?” I asked.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “The roads were wet. There was construction. She was exhausted. She hadn't slept in days.” I imagined her tugging the wheel in a sleepless haze, the damp air, the flashing lights—maybe they were disorienting rather than clarifying. Maybe she was already asleep.

“But someone came in and saved me.”

“Yes,” he said. “A man named Martin Mendez. A stranger. He and I had coffee once.”

“You had coffee with him?” This stunned me. Martin Mendez and my father—two men in a diner, talking about what, exactly? Did he describe the accident site, the skidding car, my mother's death?

“I felt like I needed to know as much as I could,” my father said quietly. “He was a good man. He died a few years ago.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that he saw the accident. He watched her car careen into the water. The car started to fill.” My father stopped for a moment. “He said that the water was cold. But when he went in, he saw you thrashing and she wasn't. And so he saved you first. By the time he got out, someone else was there. He went back in and pulled out your mother, but she was already gone. She likely died on impact.”

I turned and looked out the bay window at the weedy
lawn, the crumbling sidewalk, the rusty mailbox, a boy walking a terrier down the empty street. “If you'd told me earlier, I could have asked Mendez these questions myself.” Martin Mendez was dead. I'd never get to hear his version for myself, to help me rebuild my memory.

“I'm sorry,” my father said, but I didn't want his apologies.

“I want to see the bridge,” I said, standing up, suddenly furious. “What kind of car was it? I want to talk to the paramedics. They came, didn't they? I want to talk to them!”

My father stood up. “No, no,” he said. “It's over. It's history.”

“I want to talk to the paramedics!” I shouted.

My father walked to me and touched my shoulder. I shrugged him off, and he let his hand fall to his side. “Sweetie,” he said. “Gwen.”

“Look at all of this,” I said, pointing to the ransacked boxes, the piles of sweaters and hats and mittens, the stack of knitting books, the blanket on the floor—this secret that my father kept all of these years, boxes and boxes of secrets, and now unpacked, let loose. I wondered why he'd needed to hold on to the secret so tightly. “If you'd told me earlier,” I said. “If you'd only … I would have been able to put it together for myself. All of these boxes, it's all so unhealthy, so poisonous, packed up there for all of these years and years. How did you live? How did you live and breathe with all of those heavy boxes up there in the attic collecting dust, just up there, over your head all the time?”

“It's over,” he said again.

“Why didn't you just tell me that she was leaving you? All these years, I blamed myself in so many stupid ways … Why didn't you tell me the truth?”

He stared at his hands. “I thought I was shouldering all of the blame,” he said. “I thought I was sparing you.”

“No,” I said. “You were wrong.” I picked up my pocket book and walked to the door. “You were completely wrong.”

I
DON'T REMEMBER THE DRIVE
home, only that when I walked into the apartment, Peter was making a casserole—one of his mother's recipes—and I knew that I'd forgotten some plans that included a potluck. He always made this for potlucks. He was wearing his thick white chef's apron, the one he wore when making this meal.

I'd come to some not yet fully formed notion of the role of secrets in our private lives. I couldn't have articulated how pointlessly dangerous they often could be. My father showed me my mother's knitting. He let go of his secrets, finally. This changed everything. My mother's knitting, the attic so weighted with all of her sorrowful and frenetic stitching—it was too much. I only knew that I'd decided not to live with secrets any longer.

I put my keys and pocketbook on the dining room table. I walked into the kitchen. Peter looked up from topping the casserole with bread crumbs. I stared at him for a moment. I knew that I was about to change everything, and I wanted one last look, one last glimpse of this man. I loved Peter in this moment—the apron, his quick
hands, his broad shoulders. I loved the way he glanced at me and smiled, like a little boy who's proud of himself for being so grown up. I felt sorry for him because I knew what was coming. I wanted to spare him. I would have if I could. I'd have transported him to some future when maybe the two of us could be friends—like comrades who'd been soldiers side by side in these pretty trenches we'd dug for ourselves. I would miss this life, this apartment, this steamy kitchen, this man. But I knew that he would never be enough. I knew the truth, and it was time for me to start saying it.

I said, “I'm in love with Elliot Hull.”

He paused, put the canister of bread crumbs on the counter. He didn't look at me. “What?”

“I'm in love with Elliot Hull.”

“Did you sleep with him? Are you having an affair?”

This response infuriated me. It seemed recklessly territorial and demeaning, and yet came so naturally. “No,” I said. “It's worse than that.”

“No,” he said. “Having sex with him would be the worst. Trust me.”

I didn't respond. I didn't move. I just stood there.

“Are you leaving me for Elliot?” he asked, and then he kind of laughed, as if this were absurd, and I suppose all of this must have seemed absurd.

“No,” I said. “I think he's seeing someone.”

“So you're in love with someone who's seeing someone else,” he said, as if he were trying to cast this off as a matter of my stupidity instead of betrayal.

“I'm not leaving you for Elliot.” I hadn't yet gotten very far in my thinking, but an odd calm settled over me. I said quite logically, “But I don't think I can be married to you and in love with someone else.”

“Please,” Peter said. “People do it all the time.” He picked up the casserole, put it in the oven with an angry jab, and set the timer.

“Do they?” I asked. Was this his definition of marriage? How could we have been together for so long and I didn't know that he held this belief? And he'd said it with such steadfast conviction that it shocked me.

“Sure they do. Of course. Don't be naive. You'll get over Elliot. And that'll be that.” His tone was casual now, and again, I couldn't help but feel like I was being patronized.
I'll get over Elliot? And that will be that?
I was infuriated, but at the same time, I knew that I couldn't push him. He was responding the way he knew how. But still, I was confused by what he was saying. What was he saying exactly? What did he mean people do it all the time—stay married to one person while in love with someone else?

“Have you been?” I asked.

“Been what?” He got a beer from the fridge and was opening it on his apron.

“Have you been married to me and in love with someone else?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and then wagging a finger at me admonishingly. “Not at all. This is your problem. Don't turn on me.” He pulled his apron off roughly over his head and stuffed it through the handle of the fridge. “Fix it,” he said. “That's what I'm saying here. Just fix it.” He walked to the living room.

I stood there for a moment, alone, and then I said, “Peter, I don't know how to fix it.” I walked back to the dining room table, picked up my pocketbook and keys.

“Are you walking out?” he said, finally showing some real anger. “You can't walk out on a fight.”

“Are we fighting?” I asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Of course not. You tell me you're in love with someone else and we're not fighting! That's what we're
not
doing!”

“I'm going out for a while,” I said, feeling sick. “We're not making any progress here. I have to think. I need to be alone.”

“We've got a potluck tonight,” he said. “At Faith's. Did you forget?”

“I've got to go,” I said, and I left.

 

I drove for an hour or more, running over the argument in my head, seeing my mother's taut, then lulling stitches in my mind's eye. I imagined her driving, like I was, as the dusk settled in and then night. I'd walked out on both my father and my husband. I felt outside of myself, detached, and invisible. No one knew where I was or what I was doing or what I was going to do next. I didn't either.

Eventually I wondered where I should go. I needed to talk to someone, didn't I? I couldn't wander forever. Faith would have been my first choice, but she'd be preparing for guests and then guests would be arriving. That left Helen, who understood men and relationships and love with her own particular brand of insight. I knew she probably wouldn't go to Faith's potluck, claiming it was the married clique—not to mention too clichéd to bear. It was a Sunday night. I hoped that she was home.

I knocked on the door of her apartment. I heard her bustling within. Helen's body seemed to have its own entourage of restless gestures that followed her everywhere. “Who is it?” she called out.

“It's me,” I said. “Gwen.”

The bustling stopped for a moment, and then the door
swung open. She looked at me, and I wondered what I must have looked like—wide-eyed, disheveled, pale? “Gwen,” she said. “What's wrong?”

She ushered me in, sat me down on the long white sofa. I didn't say anything. I didn't know where to begin.

“Okay,” she said. “Hold on.” She brought out a bottle of wine and two glasses. She filled a glass and handed it to me. “Au Bon Climat, 2005. Pinot noir. Have some.”

I took a sip, closed my eyes, let it fill my mouth. It was smooth and good. When I opened my eyes, I nodded. “It's really good.”

“So start talking,” she said.

And I did. I talked and talked and talked. She didn't interrupt. She sat back. She nodded. She sipped her wine. I didn't cry. I didn't even tear up. I simply reported the last few months of my life—Elliot Hull, his mother, his sister, Bib and the nesting eagles, the golf outing, Elliot in the grocery store parking lot, the woman in his car, my father's confession, my mother's knitting, her accident, my argument with Peter, everything. I said it all quickly, almost breathlessly, but with a certain serenity too. I narrated all the way to this moment, on her couch, with the wine. And I looked over to her. “That's why I'm here,” I said.

I looked at Helen and realized I'd told this story while staring off, glancing around her apartment, not making eye contact. Basically, I told the story while living in my own head. I was surprised now that her face was flushed, the pale skin of her neck blotchy. Her wet eyes were scanning the room. “I don't know what to tell you,” she said.

“You always have something to tell everyone.”

“Not this time,” she said. “You should call Peter. You should talk to him.”

“That's it?” I sat back and stared at her.

“Call him,” she said. “He'll be worried about where you are. He loves you.” She stood up and said, “Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.”

I sat there a moment. I wondered if this was the reason Helen had never gotten married, if she was incapable of insight when it was needed most, if she shut down on her men, in just this way, in the crucial hours.

But too, I decided she was right. Simply put, she'd told me what to do. Peter would be worried. He did love me. I dug in my pocketbook for my cell phone and then realized I'd left it in the passenger's seat of my car. Helen's cell phone was on the coffee table. I picked it up and dialed Peter's cell number.

It rang, but only once, and then there was Peter's voice, and I could immediately tell he was drunk. I didn't say a word. He said, “Hey, why haven't you called? I've been waiting for your call. Did you get my messages?”

For a moment, I was relieved that he'd gotten drunk because I'd left and that he'd been desperately waiting for my call, but the moment quickly disappeared. I didn't answer—because this was Helen's phone, not mine. Peter thought
Helen
was calling, not me.
Hey, why haven't you called? I've been waiting for your call. Did you get my messages?
His voice was so intimate and private and urgent. My heart started pounding so loudly that I heard it in my ears. My stomach felt light as if filled, sickly with air. I shut the phone.

Helen walked back into the room. She looked so simple now. Helen. She was a traitor. All of her gauzy dresses, her flapping and bending, her wild gesticulation, it was all a cover-up. For what? This simple woman with simple needs. She was a brute, a thief. I imagined all of us as
animals suddenly.
That's all we are,
I thought.
Animals.
“Did you call him?” she asked.

I nodded, but it was only the slightest jerk of my head. I put her cell phone down on the coffee table.

She looked at the phone and then at me. “Did you …” she took a step toward the phone and then stopped. She clasped one hand with the other, as if one were trying to keep the other from making the wrong move. “You used my phone,” she said.

I put my pocketbook straps on my shoulder and stood up.

“Wait,” Helen said. “What did he say?”

I walked to the door.

“Gwen,” she said, and then she relied on her flurry of gestures, all of which meant nothing. She said, “It wasn't premeditated. We ran into each other in a bar, after he'd played golf with some buddies. He walked me home in the rain and it just happened.” I thought of his water-logged spikes. “We tried not to see each other again, but … listen. I've shut it down. For good. It's over.”

And this was the confirmation. She and Peter had been having an affair. She sighed. “I don't blame you for hating me. I hate myself.” And then she reached out to touch my arm. I held up my hands to stop her. I opened the door and walked quickly down the hall, the patterned carpeting moving swiftly under my feet, the yellow walls sliding by.

“Gwen!” Helen shouted. “Gwen!”

 

When I got outside, there was snow. It was only early November so I felt disoriented, and it was easy to imagine that I was in a different world now. It had dusted the
ground and my small Honda, and it was still coming down, swirling and gusting.

I got in my car, turned on the engine, the wipers. The snow was light and dry. I put the car in drive and eased onto the streets. Peter and Helen had been carrying on an affair—this stood as a fact in this different world. I could still hear his drunken voice:
Hey, why haven't you called? I've been waiting for your call. Did you get my messages?
Was this something Peter had done to get back at me? I remembered the way he'd leaned onto Helen's lap and bitten her corsage. Didn't he dislike Helen? He'd said she laughed like one of those old toys that when you press the bottom, the toy collapses. I remembered how she'd forced us to be thankful, to be appreciative during our last lunch. I wondered now if Helen was punishing me for not being thankful enough.

I drove deeper into the city. The apartment buildings rose up on all sides. And then my cell phone, sitting exactly where I'd left it in the passenger's seat, started to ring. I picked it up and looked at the caller ID.

It was Elliot Hull.

What in the hell could he want now? Did he know? Had he sensed something was wrong? I was willing to believe almost anything now. This different world had different facts and different rules.

The truth was that I was relieved that he was calling, grateful. I wanted to hear his voice to erase the echo of Peter:
Hey, why haven't you called? I've been waiting for your call. Did you get my messages?

“Hello,” I said, pulling over into an empty parking spot.

“I know I'm not supposed to call, but Peter is hitting golf balls at my house.” I heard him clattering around. I
heard a muffled, “Holy shit!” And then his voice came through clearly again. “And he's got a pretty fucking good swing!”

“Golf balls? Into your house?”

“Shit!” Elliot said, amid more clattering. “Yes, golf balls! He's completely lost it. What the hell?”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. I'd seen Peter get drunk many times, and every once in a while drinking brought on a snide tone that could then turn verbally hostile. Although I'd never seen him act on it, I wasn't surprised that he'd broken down. Golf balls, though? Hitting golf balls into Elliot's house? This was my fault. Elliot shouldn't have to get involved. I wondered if the woman was with him, if he'd been trying to have a nice evening with her alone and had been forced to explain this insanity. “I'll come get him.”

“Any ideas on why he might want to put all my windows out?” Elliot asked. “Two, by the way, so far. He's gotten
two
windows.”

“I told him.”

Elliot was quiet a moment. “What exactly did you tell him?”