thought that we’d be single together, in a sense, our friendship deepening with each passing decade. We’d drive each other to the doctor if we became sick, sit side by side on rocking chairs complaining about our arthritis, and crack each other up by yelling, “Can you bend over and get me a drink, sonny?” to the muscular young pool boys Isabelle would hire.
I was happy for Isabelle—wasn’t I?—but a shameful sense of betrayal gnawed at me. We were so close. We talked on the phone once or twice a day. We were as comfortable in each other’s homes as we were in our own—which meant I was just as worried about scratching her antique furniture or knocking over a priceless vase as I was about my own. Secretly, I’d begun entertaining the idea that, if I left Michael, I could stay with Isabelle until I sorted out what to do next.
“So are you going to see him again soon?” I asked. I pushed away Michael’s tray. I’d lost my appetite.
“The day after tomorrow,” she said. “He’s surprising me. He just told me to dress casually, and he’s picking me up at lunch-time. Is it horrible that I Googled him? I had to make sure he hasn’t filed for bankruptcy or something awful like—” Isabelle’s voice skidded to a stop.
I broke the silence quickly: “I know what you mean.”
“Not that it’s terrible not to have money,” she said apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t the only thing he was looking for in me.”
There it was: a tinge of embarrassment staining her voice. The first sign of a little fissure between us.
You could argue that a true friendship would endure no matter what, that superficial things shouldn’t matter, but I knew firsthand how emotions like envy and pity and guilt were cancers to a friendship. If I tried hard enough, would I be able to stave off my jealousy when I saw Isabelle living the life I once had? Would Isabelle be as happy about meeting me at a corner deli for dinner instead of a five-star restaurant? Maybe at first, but I’d been on the other side of this equation a few years ago, when Michael had made the quick leap from debt-ridden to insanely wealthy, and I still missed the friendship I’d lost.
I couldn’t let it happen again, I vowed. Isabelle was too important.
“I’m babbling,” she said. “What are you going to do today?”
“Oh, tell me more about last night,” I said, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “What did you end up wearing?”
As I steered the conversation back into safety, Michael tiptoed into the room and took away my tray. There was a note behind the vase of flowers that I hadn’t seen until now, and it slipped off, onto the bed, when he lifted the tray.
“I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you,” it read. “Please give me one more chance.”
I crumpled the little card in my hand, not caring that Michael saw. I wanted to hurt him. He was ruining everything.
----
Eleven
----
FROM TIME TO TIME, you hear on the news about people—usually men, but occasionally a woman—who suddenly abandoned their lives, as cleanly and abruptly as if they took a pair of scissors and snipped away their pasts. The media always focus on the person who walked away, digging into the crushing pile of bills or the double life with another family, but what I’ve always wondered is what happened to the folks left behind, the bewildered people just outside the glare of the hot TV lights and the camera flashes.
Imagine: There you are in the kitchen, tossing salad in a wooden bowl while your baby bangs a spoon against the tray of his high chair and the dog hovers nearby, fervently hoping you drop a scrap of chicken on the floor. And while you putter around, absently listening for the sound of a key turning in the lock, the person you love the most, the person you thought you knew inside out, is in the process of walking away from the life you’ve built together, from the life you’ve only partly finished
I was happy for Isabelle—wasn’t I?—but a shameful sense of betrayal gnawed at me. We were so close. We talked on the phone once or twice a day. We were as comfortable in each other’s homes as we were in our own—which meant I was just as worried about scratching her antique furniture or knocking over a priceless vase as I was about my own. Secretly, I’d begun entertaining the idea that, if I left Michael, I could stay with Isabelle until I sorted out what to do next.
“So are you going to see him again soon?” I asked. I pushed away Michael’s tray. I’d lost my appetite.
“The day after tomorrow,” she said. “He’s surprising me. He just told me to dress casually, and he’s picking me up at lunch-time. Is it horrible that I Googled him? I had to make sure he hasn’t filed for bankruptcy or something awful like—” Isabelle’s voice skidded to a stop.
I broke the silence quickly: “I know what you mean.”
“Not that it’s terrible not to have money,” she said apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t the only thing he was looking for in me.”
There it was: a tinge of embarrassment staining her voice. The first sign of a little fissure between us.
You could argue that a true friendship would endure no matter what, that superficial things shouldn’t matter, but I knew firsthand how emotions like envy and pity and guilt were cancers to a friendship. If I tried hard enough, would I be able to stave off my jealousy when I saw Isabelle living the life I once had? Would Isabelle be as happy about meeting me at a corner deli for dinner instead of a five-star restaurant? Maybe at first, but I’d been on the other side of this equation a few years ago, when Michael had made the quick leap from debt-ridden to insanely wealthy, and I still missed the friendship I’d lost.
I couldn’t let it happen again, I vowed. Isabelle was too important.
“I’m babbling,” she said. “What are you going to do today?”
“Oh, tell me more about last night,” I said, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “What did you end up wearing?”
As I steered the conversation back into safety, Michael tiptoed into the room and took away my tray. There was a note behind the vase of flowers that I hadn’t seen until now, and it slipped off, onto the bed, when he lifted the tray.
“I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you,” it read. “Please give me one more chance.”
I crumpled the little card in my hand, not caring that Michael saw. I wanted to hurt him. He was ruining everything.
----
Eleven
----
FROM TIME TO TIME, you hear on the news about people—usually men, but occasionally a woman—who suddenly abandoned their lives, as cleanly and abruptly as if they took a pair of scissors and snipped away their pasts. The media always focus on the person who walked away, digging into the crushing pile of bills or the double life with another family, but what I’ve always wondered is what happened to the folks left behind, the bewildered people just outside the glare of the hot TV lights and the camera flashes.
Imagine: There you are in the kitchen, tossing salad in a wooden bowl while your baby bangs a spoon against the tray of his high chair and the dog hovers nearby, fervently hoping you drop a scrap of chicken on the floor. And while you putter around, absently listening for the sound of a key turning in the lock, the person you love the most, the person you thought you knew inside out, is in the process of walking away from the life you’ve built together, from the life you’ve only partly finished
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