The Actor and the Housewife

  We could be together. I wouldn’t have to be alone. The kids like him. Mike wouldn’t mind. It could be true.

  He walked her to her room. They stopped before her door, and he took both her hands. He was looking at her, in that way that meant he’d like to kiss her, as he had at the Valentine’s Ball eleven years ago. But now there was a decade of friendship between them, his face as familiar to her as her own, and she loved him so much, and there was nothing to prevent her. She could kiss him, and she wouldn’t betray anyone. She could be with him.

  He smiled, so kindly, so sincerely, though there was a fire of longing in his eyes too. “Marry me, Becky.” He put his hand up, cradling the side of her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, as he had on the movie set years ago. And then he came closer.

  There were no cameras, no gelled lights, no director to yell “action!” No bite of garlic on her tongue. This was not a prank. This was the kiss that would change her world, this was the kiss of no return. This was the part of her story where she could let go, move forward, forget the past and become happy and carefree again.

  She wanted to kiss him so badly. She wanted to lean in and feel his lips on hers and melt into him and let Felix become her new half so she could be whole again. She closed her eyes. She felt his breath on her lips, and for the barest moment she thought the man leaning toward her was Mike.

  Mike. The weight of reality brought her slamming back down to the ground. She took a sharp breath.

  Mike. I love Mike. Mike is mine forever. I’m married, aren’t I? I’m still married. “Widow” doesn’t mean anything. Death isn’t a divorce. If it were my choice, I’d still be with Mike. I’ve never loved anyone else but him. And I can’t, I’m afraid. This is wrong. It would be a lie, a horrible lie, a lie I could never undo. No, no, no . . .

  “No,” she said. It hurt to say it. There was an actual physical pain in her heart that radiated down into her stomach, but there was no yes inside her to speak.

  Felix winced, as if he could tell that this “no” was different. The unforgiving resonance of the word still thrummed in her head. She meant it. She started to cry.

  “No. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m married to Mike. I can’t. I won’t ever be able to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Felix let go. They were still standing in the corridor outside her hotel room, and a couple of men in basketball jerseys walked past, talking about hamburgers. Felix and Becky froze, turning their backs to the intruders, waiting with exhausted patience until the men entered their room.

  Felix leaned his arms and head against the wall. When he spoke, his voice was muffled and low.

  “I risked it all.”

  “I know . . .”

  “Becky, if you mean this, then I can’t . . . I crossed over these past months, and I can’t go back.”

  “I know,” she said, though it was only at that exact moment that the truth of it crashed down on her. “I know, I know, dammit.”

  “You swore,” he said without looking up.

  “I did not.” She paused. “I did. I meant it. I’m sorry. I’ll miss you so much, but this in-between, this pulling back and forth between you and Mike, it’s killing me. It’s like he’s dying all over again.”

  “Then it would be best if we parted ways.”

  He was formal as he took her hand, his face like a rock—no sadness, no regret. The look terrified her. She wanted to slap him, just to see some emotion there. Worse than having Felix hate her or explode in anger was to see him turn to stone.

  His face may be stone, she thought, but not his heart. Please, Father in Heaven, save him from the misery of my mistake. Don’t let his heart turn to stone.

  “Felix, I’m sorry.”

  Felix kissed her hand. “Good-bye, Becky.”

  He went into his room and shut the door.

  In the morning, a hired car waited to take her to the airport. Felix wasn’t in it.

  In which Becky claims her miracle

  That was a second bad time for Becky. She was accustomed to feeling a flood of calm after doing the right thing, even when it had been a difficult decision to make. But there was no peace now. Instead she felt beat-up and tired. But that couldn’t mean that she’d made the wrong choice—she knew she and Felix couldn’t change their relationship to that, she was certain she couldn’t be a wife to anyone besides Mike. Surely that anxious gnawing inside her wasn’t a reprimand for a bad choice, but rather just the misery of a post-Mike world.

  “I’m going to be alone,” she realized in the shower, speaking the words aloud to the drowning sound of water. “I really am going to be alone for the rest of my life. And my children will never have another father.”

  She cried into the pouring water until her throat ached, and even when soaking wet, she felt dried-up and crumbling. Her husband was gone, her best friend was gone, and now she knew just how miserable she would be.

  She stuffed all her DVDs of Blind Love under the sofa and stopped going to movies with the other single neighborhood ladies because they tended to pick romantic comedies. It seemed such a farce now, such a grotesque mimicry of actual love. The very idea of those plots—the plying of two individuals who are gorgeously compatible but kept tragically apart—were so fl at, such a joke, so meaningless. That game, that freak show, it had nothing to do with love, not companionship love, not the partnering of two people, the creation of family, the essence of home. What was the use? Why had she wasted a single moment on those stupid screenplays? How had she let fictional romance abduct her mind for one moment away from Mike? Just the memory of sitting in a movie seat and sighing over a handsome character made her physically ill.

  “You’re moping,” her friend Melissa said as they waited in line for movie tickets (a screwball comedy with no romantic subplot whatsoever).

  “What do you mean, I’m moping? I’m just standing here.”

  Melissa fixed her with a stare. The devil girl tattoo on her neck was three years gone, her brown hair was twisted into two innocent braids, but Melissa’s stare was just as intimidating as ever.

  “I miss the purple you used to put in your hair,” Becky said, finger-ing one of Melissa’s braids.

  “Don’t change the subject. A little girl about six years old just walked by in a T-shirt that read, ‘Eat your heart out, boys.’ ”

  Becky couldn’t hold back a shudder.

  “I knew you saw it! But you didn’t even wince, let alone haul her parents downtown for questioning. You’ve lost your spunk, Bec. It’s scary.”

  Becky stuck out her bottom lip. “I’m still spunky.”

  Melissa shook her head. “You seemed to be better. The last few months you were like a half-dead plant that was getting watered again. But now . . . what’s going on?”

  Becky was counting how many women in the theater lobby didn’t have a man beside them. Twenty-six. That seemed like a lot. She felt Melissa sidle up closer and hook her arm.

  “You’re allowed to grieve, Becky Jack, but you’re most Definitely not allowed to go away. Come back to me.”

  Becky realized how in many ways she and her oldest friend had changed places. Melissa had spent the past four years working with a phenomenal therapist, and the difference in her expression alone was remarkable. Her smile seemed so new and genuine, Becky wondered if her lips had been smile-less for years. A few months before, Melissa married a widower with three children and found a dazzling kind of peace and purpose as a stepmother to teenage boys. Her existence had lost that constant wail of pain. She was the one offering an arm of comfort.

  Becky pulled Melissa closer and lay her head on her shoulder. The least she could do was make Melissa believe she was helping. But nothing seemed to touch that hollow ball filling her chest.

  “I’ve been thinking about putting in hot pink highlights,” Melissa said.

  Becky nodded against her shoulder. “That sounds nice.”

  Besides the sadness, things were ugly and tight wit
h her checkbook. Hyrum couldn’t go to soccer camp because there was no money, and Becky thought it typical that she would go into real estate right before the real estate market imploded. Everything in her life seemed cursed.

  Polly kept asking why Felix didn’t come around anymore. So did Hyrum, to Becky’s surprise. Sam especially noted the change, mostly because Felix had promised Sam a helicopter ride and still hadn’t come to deliver.

  “Will he come tomorrow, Mom?”

  “No, not tomorrow.”

  “Next month? Is he in California or England now?”

  “I don’t know. Sweetie, it’s possible that he won’t come again ever.”

  Sam looked at her with wide, horrified eyes, then his face relaxed. “Nah, he’ll come. He promised. He took a pinky pledge.”

  Becky fl inched.

  Polly was listening and later asked her mother in whispered voice, “Did you guys break up?”

  “We were never together, honey. We were always just best friends.”

  Polly looked like she very much doubted that. “But . . . so are you still friends?”

  “We’ll always be friends, I think. But from . . . afar. We probably won’t be in each other’s lives so much.”

  “Oh.” Polly’s face was very pale. “Oh.”

  Becky squinted as she washed the dishes—the ache in her heart was traveling to her head. She’d always had the tendency to fall into happiness. Even on the worst days, she’d had enough natural delight to dance while making dinner or smile sympathetically at herself in the bathroom mirror. But mourning Mike sapped all her spare energy. She didn’t know if she could keep it up much longer, and if Polly’s spirits were crushed, Becky might as well lie down on the linoleum, shut her eyes, and hold a flower in her crossed hands.

  That evening, she overheard Polly on the phone with Fiona say the name “Felix.” Her tone was concerned.

  A few weeks later (a few long, gray, fraying weeks), Fiona came home for a visit. The whole house lightened. Fiona drifted in swathed in colors and fabrics Becky couldn’t name, looking like a grown woman, smart and saavy and as content as she’d ever seen. She took Becky’s breath away.

  “You are stunning.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Fiona said, shrugging.

  “Thank you for coming home. You lift my heart, my girl. I didn’t realize how much I missed you.”

  “I feel the same. I actually didn’t know I missed home until I walked in. I’ve been so busy, but happy too.”

  “Bless you, you wonderful girl! Nothing you could say would make me happier myself.”

  “I love what I’m doing, and I love California. But it’s good to come home too. I walk into this house and the smell makes me feel like a little kid again. Except that I keep expecting to see Dad.”

  Becky nodded.

  Fiona glanced at the family room where Sam was reading a fantasy novel almost too heavy for him to hold. He was too far away to overhear. Her mannerisms softened, as if she were tending to a sick child.

  “Mom, do you remember when Bronson broke up with me my junior year? And you found me in Hyrum’s tree house crying? You climbed up and didn’t ask me any questions; you just sat beside me and hugged me. And after a while you said, ‘Fiona, you deserve to have someone who sees how truly fabulous you are.’ ”

  Becky had forgotten. There was no greater gift in the world than when one of her children thought she’d done something valuable, offered evidence that she’d been a good mother.

  I was a good mother once, Becky thought.

  She turned away because her eyes were stinging. Handily, she was in the kitchen, so she began to wash dishes.

  Fiona leaned against the counter. “Well, I’ve been thinking about you and Dad, and I feel like I’ve had a little inspiration, I guess, though you know I’ve never been very good at that stuff.”

  She did. While Becky used to come upon little Polly on her knees, praying for help to find her stuff ed elephant or missing headband, Fiona had seemed hesitant spiritually. She didn’t rebel or even doubt, but just stood back, observing instead of doing.

  “Since I was little, the knowledge that you and Dad would never split up has been my greatest source of security. I knew you would stay married and in love all your lives. And after, too. Dad wouldn’t have remarried if you’d died first, and I know you feel the same way. You still wear your wedding ring. If you met Felix right now, you wouldn’t even be friends with him, would you?”

  Becky lowered a dish into the water and looked at her daughter, but didn’t speak. Everything Fiona was saying was true, and she wanted to keep listening.

  “Well, here’s the inspiration bit. What if God knew that? What if he arranged for you and Felix to meet all those years ago, so that you’d be best friends, so that he’d be here for you after Dad’s death, and it’d be too late for you to shut him out? So that you could have someone to be with now, so that you could keep feeling loved, so that you don’t have to be lonely. I think that’s something God would do.”

  Becky’s eyes were burning now, and she pressed the back of a sudsy hand over her face before she could cry in front of her little girl. She felt Fiona stand behind her, wrap her beautiful arms around her mother’s waist, and lean her head against Becky’s back. Fiona’s voice, still confident and fearless, softened to a near whisper.

  “You still deserve to be with someone, Mom, someone who sees how truly fabulous you are. And I think Felix does. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  That night Becky had another Mike dream. They were always doing something simple, like grocery shopping or sitting on the porch swing and talking. Those dreams were a clean, well-lighted place where she felt her relationship with him continue to grow. This time they were sitting on the cabin steps in the Colorado Rockies, where she and Mike had spent their honeymoon. He was whittling a stick. He claimed it would be a whistle, though she couldn’t imagine how he’d hollow it out just right. But Mike had a knack for doing things he’d never done before. She was leaning back, just staring at him, marveling at his arms and chest, the glorious shape of him.

  She said, “I miss you.”

  Mike said, “I’m right here. Let’s get some lemonade later.”

  She said, “Okay,” and forgot why she’d been missing him.

  She said, “How are you feeling?”

  Mike said, “Me? I’m fine. Never felt so fine.”

  “You used to be in pain, didn’t you? I can’t remember now.”

  “Was I? I can’t remember either.” He leaned back, looking up. “That’s about the prettiest sky I’ve ever seen.”

  She said, “It is,” submerging herself in the forget-me-not blue. They watched clouds float back and forth like kelp, dream wind moving like water. They held hands.

  She heard a trill and looked to seem him playing the wooden whistle. “You’re amazing. I didn’t even see you finish it.”

  He placed it in her palm and stood up, bending down to kiss her cheek. “I’d better go. I’ve been pretty busy lately. You’d be surprised.”

  She said, “Wait, there was something I was wanting to ask you . . . what was it? Something about Felix, I think.”

  Mike had started to walk away, but he stopped and turned back. “Felix? He’s skinny, isn’t he? And fussy sometimes. But he’s improved over the years. I like old Felix better than young Felix.”

  She said, “Do you think I should stay his friend? Do you think it’s good for me to be with him until I’m with you again?”

  Mike said, “I think he’s good for you, Bec. And what’s good for Momma is good for everybody.”

  He leaned down to kiss her again, on the lips this time, a kiss that sizzled and dropped down through all of her, warm and electric.

  For the first time, when she awoke and realized it’d been a dream, she didn’t feel sadder.

  Fiona believed. Felix believed. And then the dream—for three days after, Becky’s skin still tingled, her whole self wrapped in wonder. But Becky couldn’t
believe. She wasn’t capable of loving someone else the way she’d loved Mike. She wasn’t. It’d been nearly three years, and she wasn’t remotely recovered. No chance she ever would be. She was a goose, and that was that. And second, it was Felix. Falling in love with him was a leap too great to take without falling down a Wile E. Coyote ravine.

  Which was a shame. It was a shame when she slept with her bedroom lights on and the door open, to keep that hulking isolation at bay. It was a shame when the kids were out and she was home alone, the solitude palpable, pressing like four tight walls and feeling as permanent as a coffin. It was a shame when she thought of her children’s weddings, the photos where she would stand alone, everyone conscious of that empty space at her side.

  She wanted Fiona to be right, in those moments between seconds, in those thoughts that she didn’t mean to think, that surprised her when she was tired and her gaze had gone soft. She wanted to have that whole aching matter settled, to not be alone, to not only have her best friend back, but also allow him to become more and vanquish the loneliness.

  But it was impossible. Ask a fish to grow lungs. Ask a bird to give up the sky.

  Then again, there was the Mike dream, and that cold spot on her already-Mike-achy heart that told her she was missing Felix, and Fiona with her perfect wisdom . . . Night and day, Becky tossed and turned with the question, never finding rest.

  One morning, with the kids gone to school and no real estate appointments for several hours, she sat at her computer and opened her word processing program. She started to write notes, just so she could see the problem put into words. Then taking it a step further, she pushed the words into story. It wasn’t long before she was writing a screenplay.