The Replacement Wife (54 page)

THE DOOR TO
the townhouse, on East Sixty-Third Street, that housed the offices of Gabriella Santangelo, PhD, and Lorenzo Santangelo MEd, LMHC, was painted red. A shiny red-lipstick red that practically sang out, as Edward stood with his finger on the intercom buzzer,
Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it! Don’t despair, you’re in good hands!
He was reminded of Dr. Stepanik, their family dentist when he was growing up, who’d practiced out of his South Side row house (the downstairs had been converted into offices, somewhere around the time of the Eisenhower administration, judging by its antiquated equipment) and who’d kept jar of suckers on his instrument cabinet for “good little boys and girls.” The false optimism promised by the Santangelos’ red door was like the suckers Dr. Stepanik used to hand out: It only ensured future visits.

He was let in by the housekeeper, a dour little mouse of a woman named Sofia who reminded him of women he had known growing up, neighbors and friends of his parents who’d been emotionally scarred by traumas suffered in whichever Soviet-bloc country they’d fled. She silently escorted him down the tiled hallway and up the curving staircase to the parlor floor, where the offices of Gabriella and her husband were situated, Gabriella’s on the street side and her husband’s overlooking the courtyard in back. The offices were separated by a center parlor, which served as a waiting area; solid oak pocket doors at either end ensured privacy. He knocked on the door to Gabriella’s office, and she appeared a moment later to usher him in.

Stepping into the sunny front room, handsomely furnished in antiques, he saw that Camille had arrived ahead of him; she was seated in her usual spot, on the sofa by the fireplace where they always sat together during their sessions. She was more casually dressed than usual, in jeans and a teal sweater that brought out the blue of her eyes, and she looked so much like the girl who smote—there was no other word for it—him at first sight all those years ago, at Barney Greengrass, he broke into a smile. He couldn’t help it. Camille smiled back.

He sat down, a polite distance from her but not so far as to seem hostile. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, though a subsequent glance at his watch showed he was, in fact, right on time. Camille had gotten there early, which annoyed him for some reason. He felt, irrationally, as if he were being ganged up on.

The sofa faced the Eames chair where Dr. Santangelo normally sat, which at the moment was occupied by her pug, Chauncey. The therapist scooped him up and reclaimed her seat, placing him on her lap, where Chauncey settled with a grunt into his default position: that of canine cushion. Gabriella Santangelo was a slender, olive-skinned woman, in her late thirties or thereabouts, with glossy dark hair that fell in thick layers about her angular face, a prominent nose and large, gray-blue eyes that spoke of a quiet intelligence. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she dressed beautifully—the way European women did, effortlessly it seemed. Today, she wore slim charcoal trousers and a cowl-neck sweater the creamy pink of a strawberry milk shake, an expensive-looking silk scarf artfully draped around her neck. Born in Italy and educated at Cambridge, she’d gotten her doctorate at Columbia University and done her clinical work under Hugh. She was the most talented of his protégées, he had said, and Edward had no reason to doubt that. The only thing he wondered was if Gabriella Santangelo had any idea what the outcome of these sessions would be. He hoped so, because he hadn’t a clue.

“Camille and I were just discussing opera,” Gabriella said. “She was telling me about the new production of
Tosca
at the Met. She says it’s not to be missed.”

“I’ve heard good things about it,” he murmured. He didn’t mention to the therapist, who was only making conversation, that he had ceded the remaining tickets of their season subscription to Camille. Though it was obvious Camille hadn’t forgotten; she flicked him a glance, and he saw her cheeks redden. Was she sorry she hadn’t insisted he take the tickets? Grateful that he’d offered them to her? Wishing they could have gone to see
Tosca
together? There was no way of knowing. His wife had become a mystery to him in many ways. “I’ll have to see if I can get tickets for when my parents come to visit.”

They were coming the week after next, for four days. Only, for the first time he was putting them up at a hotel. It would be awkward having them stay with Camille and the kids, he knew, and his place was too small. They were confused and upset enough as it was by the talk of separation and “needing time apart.” Where they were from, a married couple stuck it out no matter what.

“Are your parents opera fans?” Gabriella asked.

“Not particularly, but it’s still a treat for them.” His parents’ musical taste ran along the lines of show tunes and Lite FM. Edward’s love of music, jazz in particular, came from his grandmother. When he was young, the two of them would play Nana Clara’s old 78s on the stereo—Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Count Basie, Fats Waller—in the afternoons after school when his parents were at work. Edward smiled at the mental picture of his tiny grandmother “cutting the rug,” as she called it, to the tune of Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing (with a Swing).”

“That will be nice for them, then. They must be looking forward to their visit.”

“Yes,” he said. “Very much so.”

The therapist nodded thoughtfully. “Are you and your parents close?” Her low, faintly accented voice had a musical quality that was strangely mesmerizing. It was a moment before Edward realized they were on the clock; no more idle chitchat.

“I would say so, yes.” He gave the expected response. The truth was a bit more complicated. He loved his parents, and he was a dutiful son. But was he close to them? No. As a boy, he’d blamed them for Nana Clara’s death. He knew better now, but things were never the same between him and his parents after that. A sacred trust had been broken. As it had with him and Camille.

Gabriella stroked the buff-colored ball that was Chauncey, her eyes on Edward. Again, that conversational tone that wasn’t just polite interest, he knew. “What was your childhood like?”

He shrugged, settling back on the sofa. “There’s not much to tell. It was fairly ordinary.” His dad worked at Miller Brewery for forty years until he retired and his mom had kept house for a family in Story Hill, he told her. “I was an only child,” he said, and then hastened to add (because didn’t therapists always look for the crack into which to drive their crowbar?), “My grandmother lived with us, though. So I wasn’t a latchkey kid.

“She made sure I never sat idle, either,” he went on. “If I didn’t have homework, she’d put me to work hanging wet clothes out to dry or folding shirts.” He explained that she used to take in laundry to help with the expenses, and a picture formed in his mind of Nana Clara, armed with a bottle of spray starch and a steam iron. “She never met a shirt collar she couldn’t make stand at attention.”

“Fond memories, then.”

“Yes.” In a softer voice, he added, “She died when I was thirteen.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“Very.” He stopped himself before he could go on. It was still new to him, this business of airing his feelings. He’d been taught to “man up” before that expression was even coined. However, he was learning to open up—it was the one good thing to come out of these sessions.
Feelings aren’t like fine wine, needing to age to the proper vintage,
Hugh had once told him. At the time, Edward had thought it just another Hugh-ism, but now he saw the wisdom in it—he felt lighter, more clearheaded after he’d unburdened himself. So he told the story of how his grandmother died. When he was finished, Camille was dabbing at her eyes—the same as when he had first told it to her, on their third date—and even Gabriella Santangelo did not appear unmoved.

“That was a brave thing to do,” the therapist said.

He shrugged. “What good did it do in the end? I couldn’t save her.”

“So, you felt it was your responsibility?” Gabriella fixed him with a probing look.

Edward sighed. “I was thirteen.” He looked down at the Oriental carpet on which his feet rested. It was old, threadbare in spots, its intricate pattern so familiar to him by now he could see it with his eyes shut. For the first time, he thought about the person who’d woven it—a person who had lived and breathed; who had been more than just a pair of skilled hands; a person who had had troubles of their own. Gabriella’s voice floated like a hummingbird into his consciousness.

“Did you feel that way when Camille was sick, that it was your job to save her?”

Edward brought his head up. He looked at Camille, who eyed him expectantly. He chose his words carefully. “I did what any caring husband would do,” he said.

“And that included honoring your wife’s dying wish?”

Edward nodded his head slowly. “I thought it would help ease her mind.”

“Even though you weren’t happy about it?”

“Isn’t that what marriage is about, making compromises?” An edge crept into his voice.

“Often, yes. But when it’s something you’re fundamentally opposed to, it can cause problems.”

“All right. I wasn’t too happy about it, no.” He flexed his fingers to keep them from balling into fists.

“Is it fair to say you were angry, then?” They’d been over all this before, numerous times, but though Edward had learned to open up about other things—his past, his worries about his children, his difficulty understanding his wife—this was a briar patch into which he’d dared not venture too far.
Angry? You bet I’m angry. If you knew the extent of it, you’d be appalled.
It wasn’t cancer that had ended life as he’d known it; it was Camille—her damn meddling, her supreme arrogance in thinking she knew him better than he knew himself. Now, though, he felt something shift inside him, clearing away whatever had been blocking him. Camille must have sensed it, because she shot him an anxious look as she sat stiffly upright, tense as a drawn bow. Even Chauncey lifted his head, ears pricked—with his flat, rumpled face and pointy ears, he looked like a canine Yoda.

“Yeah, I was angry. Fuck yes.” Edward swung around to face Camille. Normally, he didn’t swear, so she looked startled. “You gave up! Not just on getting better, but on
us
.”

Camille’s eyes welled with tears. “I thought I was doing a good thing. I know now it was misguided,” she said in a choked voice. “But at the time—” She broke off, shrinking into the sofa cushions. She looked small and lost. “I only wanted what was best for you and the children.”

“The best? Is that what you call this? Christ. Look at us!” He could feel his anger expanding, filling his whole body until there was room for little else. “Or was that your
real
plan all along—to get rid of me?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Camille reached for the box of tissues on the piecrust table beside the sofa. Several such boxes were positioned strategically about the office.
They must buy them in bulk,
he thought. He pictured Dr. Santangelo and her husband pushing a shopping cart down the dry goods aisle at Costco, stocking up on enough Kleenex to absorb the miseries of the world.

“It wasn’t like that,” she protested. “I never stopped loving you.”

“No,” he said. “You just didn’t think very highly of me.”

“That’s not true.”

He shook his head slowly. “It was all part of the plan, wasn’t it? You line up someone to help with the children and see to my every need, someone so perfect I’d barely even have to grieve once you were gone. Is that really how you saw me? Did you honestly think I was that shallow?”

“You cheated on me!” She sat up straight, her eyes flashing now with more than tears. “Goddamn you, Edward. Whatever I might have done to you, you got back at me ten times over!”

“I didn’t do it to get back at you.”

“No, what you did was worse. You fell in love,” she choked out.

Edward blinked and sat back, his anger subsiding. What could he say? It was true.

Camille blew her nose into a tissue. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. When she was calmer, she went on, “She came to see me the other day. Angie. She wanted me to know it was over between you and her. In case I had any doubts.” She fixed him with a questioning look.

Edward’s mind reeled at the revelation. Angie had gone to see Camille? He felt something crumble in his chest. He knew what it must have taken for her to do that when she was hurting, too, and it made him love her all the more. “It
is
over,” he said, but the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“But you’re still in love with her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to—I can see it on your face. Remember, it’s what I do for a living. And I happen to be very good at my job.” She gave a short, dry laugh as she helped herself to another Kleenex.

Edward was torn. He didn’t wish to hurt her any further, but to be dishonest would defeat the purpose of these sessions, he knew. He recalled the look on Angie’s face when they were standing on the sidewalk saying good-bye for the last time: It was the same look his wife wore now.

Camille echoed his thoughts. “If you love her, why are you here? Why aren’t you with
her
? I want this to work, Edward, but you have to make up your mind. Is it going to be her or me?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A
s a child, Angie had loved holidays. Going on Easter egg hunts. Trick-or-treating on Halloween. Thanksgiving in all its bounty, and the tradition in her family, in lieu of prayer, of having each person at the table say what he or she was thankful for that year—such as Rosemary giving thanks, this past Thanksgiving, for the lump in her breast having turned out to be benign, and Susanne’s husband, Dan, for making it through his first year of sobriety. “If it weren’t for my AA meetings, I’d be half-crocked by now, so that’s something for
you
all to be thankful for,” he’d joked.

Christmas had been the most eagerly anticipated of the holidays in the D’Amato household. It began with the trip to Dart’s Tree Farm, in Southold, the first weekend in December, to choose the perfect Douglas fir or Scotch pine, which was brought home roped to the top of the family station wagon. Then, there was the elaborate business of trimming the tree. It was Angie’s dad’s job to hang the lights, which mostly involved a lot of muttering under his breath as he sought to untangle the clumped strands. Angie’s mom oversaw the stringing of the popcorn (a large quantity of which invariably ended up on the floor or in the girls’ hair before the rest made its way onto the tree). Rosemary, as the eldest, had the honor of positioning the glass angel on the topmost branch; Francine supervised the hanging of the ornaments, and Julia the placement of the tinsel. Angie made gingerbread cookies, which they all decorated and then wrapped in cellophane and hung on the tree. The ensuing weeks brought whispered secrets, the crinkling of wrapping paper behind closed doors, holiday music playing endlessly on the stereo (which everyone bitched about but secretly enjoyed), Christmas cakes and cookies and mysterious packages arriving in the mail. Angie and her sisters took turns opening the cardboard windows on the Advent calendar, and sometimes a squabble would break out when someone “accidentally” took someone else’s turn. Christmas Eve, they all went to Midnight Mass at Saint Dominic’s. Then finally, Christmas morning, in all its raucous, sugarcoated, stocking-stuffed, gift-paper demolishing, glory, would arrive.