creepy. Thrillingly so. I couldn’t imagine how Mrs. Harris could let Mr. Harris touch her after a day at work, let alone fathom an O’Dooley’s couple . I was ten, and the funeral home was in a large, chalky mansion in town, and I pictured Mr.Harris and some woman with pancake makeup doing it in a red velvet casket.
Mrs. Harris was alive and well, but her marriage was dead, and even though I didn’t realize it then, the mystery was likely deeper than I ever could have imagined. Human nature deep. I’ve said it before, but in marriage there are things you don’t know about your partner. Always. The real thoughts in his head as he drifts off to sleep with his shoulders turned away from you—you can’t even guess. But you want to believe you do know. That a person is knowable. You need this belief. It’s a necessary denial. How can you go about everyday life otherwise? How could you ever water the tomato plants and unfold your chaise longue and enjoy a summer afternoon if you knew there were things buried under the cement patio of your very own yard?
“When can I see you?” I say to Nathan Benjamin.
5
“Mom? Mom!”
I rise through the shadow layers of sleep, untangling nightmare images from waking ones. When I open my eyes, I’m almost surprised to find myself in my own bed. Abby is there in her pajamas with the dancing dogs on them, the ones my mother made her for Christmas. Her face has the sweet plainness of no makeup, framed by shoved-up, bedraggled hair. But she also has that look she gets, a mix of worry and concentration. I first saw it when we made the papier-mâché horse for her third-grade report on Misty of Chincoteague .
“Are you okay? Jesus, you scared me.”
“A bad dream …”
“You were crying out.”
“I don’t know. It’s already gone. I don’t even remember.”
The abrupt yank into wakefulness is confusing, until my real life efficiently barges in and takes over duty again. I hate that disorienting moment in the morning, I’ve always hated it—that brief empty in-between before you remember your life’s plotline. The blankness is the perfect setup for a nasty surprise, and I’m not fond ofsurprises. It can go either way, of course. Sometimes what returns to you upon waking is good news. That’s right, I’ve fallen in love! Or, Oh, yeah! Today my new boots are coming in the mail! But, other times, what reappears is the knowledge that your child is sick or that the kitchen flooded the day before. The bad stuff forgotten in sleep comes rushing back, and it’s new all over again. Every single time, it’s a split second of fresh pain or joy or thrill or doom.
My husband is gone .
“God,” I say. “Ian.” I can hardly believe it. I just … It’s impossible.
“That stuff we drank probably didn’t help. My head feels full of fluff.” She rubs her eyes. “I can make you some breakfast. Pancakes?”
“We’ve got forty pounds of baked stuff. Banana bread …” That fact also comes rushing back.
“Cinnamon rolls, oatmeal–raisin cookies …” She counts on her fingers. “I need coffee.”
Pollux trots in at the sound of voices. He puts his paws up on the side of the bed, looks at me hard.
“Okay, I know,” I tell him.
I put on my robe. I grab my phone, which I’d placed next to my pillow the night before. Nathan Benjamin, that’s right. My stomach flips in dread. I’ll be meeting him that afternoon.
I don’t know why I do it, but after I get up, after I let Pollux out, I go to Ian’s closet. I run my hand across the row of colored dress shirts. I choose one and put my face to it, sniffing deeply. I don’t do it because I’m longing for the lost, missed scent of him. No. I know it’s crazy. But I’m wondering if I just might find the lingering smell of perfume.
After that first time I lied to Mark, Ian and I began to meet regularly. Oh, those were intoxicating days. I was elevated by love. I felt connected to all people and things, struck
Mrs. Harris was alive and well, but her marriage was dead, and even though I didn’t realize it then, the mystery was likely deeper than I ever could have imagined. Human nature deep. I’ve said it before, but in marriage there are things you don’t know about your partner. Always. The real thoughts in his head as he drifts off to sleep with his shoulders turned away from you—you can’t even guess. But you want to believe you do know. That a person is knowable. You need this belief. It’s a necessary denial. How can you go about everyday life otherwise? How could you ever water the tomato plants and unfold your chaise longue and enjoy a summer afternoon if you knew there were things buried under the cement patio of your very own yard?
“When can I see you?” I say to Nathan Benjamin.
5
“Mom? Mom!”
I rise through the shadow layers of sleep, untangling nightmare images from waking ones. When I open my eyes, I’m almost surprised to find myself in my own bed. Abby is there in her pajamas with the dancing dogs on them, the ones my mother made her for Christmas. Her face has the sweet plainness of no makeup, framed by shoved-up, bedraggled hair. But she also has that look she gets, a mix of worry and concentration. I first saw it when we made the papier-mâché horse for her third-grade report on Misty of Chincoteague .
“Are you okay? Jesus, you scared me.”
“A bad dream …”
“You were crying out.”
“I don’t know. It’s already gone. I don’t even remember.”
The abrupt yank into wakefulness is confusing, until my real life efficiently barges in and takes over duty again. I hate that disorienting moment in the morning, I’ve always hated it—that brief empty in-between before you remember your life’s plotline. The blankness is the perfect setup for a nasty surprise, and I’m not fond ofsurprises. It can go either way, of course. Sometimes what returns to you upon waking is good news. That’s right, I’ve fallen in love! Or, Oh, yeah! Today my new boots are coming in the mail! But, other times, what reappears is the knowledge that your child is sick or that the kitchen flooded the day before. The bad stuff forgotten in sleep comes rushing back, and it’s new all over again. Every single time, it’s a split second of fresh pain or joy or thrill or doom.
My husband is gone .
“God,” I say. “Ian.” I can hardly believe it. I just … It’s impossible.
“That stuff we drank probably didn’t help. My head feels full of fluff.” She rubs her eyes. “I can make you some breakfast. Pancakes?”
“We’ve got forty pounds of baked stuff. Banana bread …” That fact also comes rushing back.
“Cinnamon rolls, oatmeal–raisin cookies …” She counts on her fingers. “I need coffee.”
Pollux trots in at the sound of voices. He puts his paws up on the side of the bed, looks at me hard.
“Okay, I know,” I tell him.
I put on my robe. I grab my phone, which I’d placed next to my pillow the night before. Nathan Benjamin, that’s right. My stomach flips in dread. I’ll be meeting him that afternoon.
I don’t know why I do it, but after I get up, after I let Pollux out, I go to Ian’s closet. I run my hand across the row of colored dress shirts. I choose one and put my face to it, sniffing deeply. I don’t do it because I’m longing for the lost, missed scent of him. No. I know it’s crazy. But I’m wondering if I just might find the lingering smell of perfume.
After that first time I lied to Mark, Ian and I began to meet regularly. Oh, those were intoxicating days. I was elevated by love. I felt connected to all people and things, struck
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