If I see one more smiley face I’ll buy a frigging gun, I swear. Now our free periods aren’t free periods at all. Big Brother’s always watching like a fucking globe in the sky that follows you around with a spotlight and a signal beaming back to the principal’s office.
Anyway, a couple of days ago I told Samantha that Mrs. Tippet told me I didn’t need my math tutor anymore because I “finally grasped” calculus. Samantha shot Bob a look across the serving bowl of spaghetti and they both looked at me and she goes, “You told us that when you got home from school.” I go, “Yeah, I know. I’m just saying …” but the truth is I totally forgot. She gave Bob another look that basically said “she’s fucking up again.” But it got better when Bob said, “We’re proud of you, Cam.” I mean, not better but less awkward. I was so almost busted. Then Samantha said, “Can I speak to you for a second?” to Bob, which was fine because we were all finished anyway. The boys asked to be excused like little cult members and Samantha said, “Yes, but clear your plates, put everything in the sink. Cammy, put the place mats away. And take out the trash, will you?”
I was in the kitchen stacking the stupid plastic mats Bob brought back from some trip to D.C., the ones with the faces of the presidents in little ovals. When I was little my teacher had us memorize the first ten and I was putting them away trying to do it without looking, but right when I got to Madison I heard Samantha laying into Bob so I moved to the corner of the doorway to the living room so I could hear them better.
“You’re always doing that,” she goes. “You’re always good cop, I’m always bad cop.”
“How was I good cop just now?”
“‘We’re proud of you, Cam,’” she says in a high mimicky voice. “I mean … Jesus. Can’t you see what’s going on?”
“What? What’s going on? Why do I always feel like I’m being tested on my own kids? Like I don’t know them or something?”
“Because you smooth things over so no one fights. So there’s no disruption in your bubble world.”
“My bubble world? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Why don’t you say what you mean, for God’s sake!”
“Just forget it,” she says. “The point is, something’s wrong with Cammy …”
“Something’s always wrong with Cammy,” he says. “Think about it, when was the last time everything was fine with her?”
I heard Samantha shushing him. The floor squeaked with her coming toward the kitchen doorway to see if I was listening. Part of me wanted to stand there and let her see that I heard everything. But mostly I wanted to go up to my room and zone out. The buzz was starting to fade, so it must’ve been about six o’clock.
So there it is: something’s always wrong with Cammy. Perfect.
Samantha
I couldn’t sleep last night. At about three in the morning I threw in the towel and got up to e-mail Craig, asking if we could do a Starbucks meeting. Somehow I managed to drift off because when Bob’s alarm clock went off it startled me fully awake. There’s that moment when you wake up and you’ve forgotten what it is you’re worried about. That happened a few seconds ago. Then I remembered. I check e-mail while Bob’s in the shower and now I’m sick at my stomach knowing that in a few hours I’ll be telling Craig about meeting Evie at soccer. After lunch. One o’clock. Of course I’ll tell Craig I met Evie. I’ve got to tell him. I do have to tell him, right? Of course. What am I thinking? So the question is … how. Part of me wants to start off being indignant that he kept her beauty from me. My saying it aloud might convince him that yes, it’s true, I am married to a breathtaking woman, so what am I doing here with Samantha?
The other part of me is afraid. Petrified. He’ll be shocked at the collision of his separate lives. He’ll look at me like there’s a real possibility I could tell her everything. This will inevitably upset the balance in our relationship. He’ll become careful with me, careful to keep me happy so I won’t tell on him. On us.
I’ve taken four swigs of Pepto-Bismol this past hour alone. I’ve changed clothes twice. I’m not sure how I should look: casual, like it’s just another story I’ll tell him (jeans and a light sweater) or dressyish, like hey, I’m a grown woman, there’s no way I’d blow your cover and by the way I can look good, too (pencil skirt, black boots, white shirt). I compromise on black jeans, low boots and the same white blouse but untucked. So I’m half and half. Which is how I feel.
I look in the full-length mirror. It’s only ten in the morning. I have three hours to kill and a million ways to do it but I don’t. I sit on the couch with my hands on my lap like I’m waiting to go into the principal’s office. Enough. This is silly. I’ll mow through the pile next to my computer. That’ll keep my mind off of it.
There’s a chain e-mail from an old college friend. Some warning about deodorant and breast cancer. Another friend forwards a joke that promises good luck if you send it to ten friends including the one who sent it to you. Another sends a long-winded story about a little girl dying of cancer whose only wish is to get letters. That girl’s been dying for years now, I remember the same plea from a few years back. Maybe the letters kept her alive. Yeah, right.
An e-mail from Ginny reminding us that book club is next week and could she get a count of how many people will be there. I let her know that I’ll be there, but otherwise there’s nothing else I need to respond to. I return phone calls, I make orthodontist appointments for the boys, I schedule Cammy for a physical.
Somehow it’s noon. I nibble on cold leftover spaghetti out of the Tupperware. That’s what I’m doing when the front door opens. I jump and freeze right here at the open fridge.
“Hel-lo? Sam?”
It’s Bob.
“Oh, my God, you scared the hell out of me,” I say, walking to the kitchen doorway to see him jingling his keys onto the front hall table. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Why does something have to be wrong?” he says.
“Um, well, because you never come home in the middle of the day. Has something happened? Is everything okay at work?”
“I thought I’d come home for lunch.”
“You thought you’d come home for lunch.”
“Anything wrong with that?”
We both look at the container in my hand. The refrigerator door is still open. Somehow I feel guilty about eating from the Tupperware. Like he’s caught me in the act.
“Want some spaghetti?” I open the cupboard for a plate. “We don’t have much else.”
I check my watch. It’s 12:20. I’ve got to be out the door at ten of one. He’s got to eat fast and go so I can be on time.
“Looks good,” he says. He’s thrown his tie over his shoulder and scrapes the bar stool back and I realize I’m supposed to be serving him. Like every other time. Today I don’t mind because I can hurry it along.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
He doesn’t make a move to get anything for himself.
“Seriously, what’s up?” I ask. I’m scooping noodles onto his plate. “You want it warmed up?”
“Cold’s fine,” he says.
“So? What’s going on?”
“I had to get out of the office,” he says. “They’re driving me crazy. I’m supposed to have specs of the shoe we’re doing with Cole Haan and I’m not finished yet.”
“So you’re … here?”
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want me here.” It’s more of an accusation than a question.
“No no no,” I say. I try not to look suspicious or guilty or like I’m in a hurry, which I am. In a hurry, that is. “I’m surprised, that’s all.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. He smiles at me. “I wasn’t sure you’d be home or running errands or something. This is good.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, it is,” he says. “Is everything so bad that you can’t believe I’m glad to see you? Wait. Don’t answer that.”
“Funny,” I sa
y. “Very funny.”
The oven clock says 12:40. Ten more minutes.
“Why is spaghetti better the next day?” he asks. “Have you noticed that? It’s always better the next day.”
Hurry up. Hurry up. Shovel it in, I’ve got to get going, for God’s sake. Of all days for you to come home, I think.
“Yes, I know,” I say.
“I guess I just wanted to sneak out for a few minutes,” he says. “I’m not even that hungry. It’s getting to be like a pressure cooker there. You wouldn’t believe all the shit.”
Now? You’re talking to me about all this now? It’s 12:45. Can’t you see I’ve got to get going!
“I bet,” I say instead. I clear my throat, “Um, I’ve actually got to get going.”
“That’s fine. I’ll walk out with you.”
“But you just got here,” I say.
I should feel bad that I’m rushing him. I should be happy he’s finally making an effort to talk, even if it’s about mundane stuff. I should pull up a chair and listen. This is the kind of conversation that could open up to more. This is the kind of talk I’ve been begging him for. I should embrace it. I should, at the very least, feel guilty. But I feel none of the above. I want him gone.
I can’t risk him following me even by accident. The Starbucks is on the route back to his office so there’s a real possibility he’d see me parking there. “Why don’t you stay and eat some more.”
“Nah, that’s okay,” he says. “I kind of just wanted an excuse to duck out. What’re you up to this afternoon?” he calls from the bathroom off the kitchen. It’s 12:48.
Come on, come ON. How long can it take you to go to the bathroom, for God’s sake. Hurry up. Hurry up.
“Not much,” I say back to him. “This and that. Bunch of errands.”
He zips up his pants on his way back into the kitchen. It feels like he’s moving in slow motion. Instead, I focus on looking laid-back, like oh I guess I’ll get going too. My heart’s beating a drum into my rib cage. I’m never late to meet Craig.
Our jackets are on. Bob pulls the front door closed behind us. We’ve both parked in front of the house. As we walk down the front steps, Ginny passes with her dog, Harry.
“You guys are such a gorgeous couple,” she calls. “Look at you. It’s like you’ve stepped out of a magazine ad.”
For a split second I see us as she does. We do look like the perfect couple. To someone else.
“Aren’t you sweet,” I manage to say.
“I got your e-mail, Sam. So far we’ve got six coming next week.”
It’s got to be one by now, from the way my palms are sweating.
“Great,” I say. “Let me know if I can bring anything.” I whoosh past her while I hit the unlock button on my remote.
“Swear to God, you are the perfect couple,” she says. “If I didn’t love you I’d hate you.”
My hand stops at the door handle. I look over at Bob getting into his car, starting it up. You are the perfect couple is exactly what I’d planned to say to Craig.
I drive slowly to put distance between Bob and me. Somewhere ahead of me I hear a honk and I’m sure Bob’s the target. I cut over to Ashland because I know he doesn’t take it, so I can step on the gas. By some miracle I’m only five minutes late.
I park and rush down the sidewalk. At the front door I shade my eyes to look at him through the plate-glass window. I love doing this. Even in a hurry I love to take him in when he doesn’t know it. He’s at our table. Warming his hands on his cup of coffee. He must feel a stare because he looks out at me and smiles, motions me inside.
I wish I could breeze in and kiss him. Of all the normal things I’d like to do with him—go to the movies, walk in the park in broad daylight, curl up in bed—most of all I want to be able to kiss him hello.
He stands until I slip into my chair.
“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Your e-mail sounded weird. It’s never good to hear we have to talk. What do you want? Same as usual? Sit sit sit, I’ll get it.”
I have a few seconds to get nervous all over again. I reapply my lipstick by heart without a mirror. I don’t know why but this feels like a pivotal moment. They’re playing the new John Mayer CD and I remind myself I want to download it onto my iPod. I listen to it in the car now that Bob installed an iTrip remote. I watch the barista scribble code on the side of the cup even though no one’s in line and mine will be made instantly. There’s nothing to remember.
“There you go,” Craig says. He slides back into his chair. “So? What’s up?”
Here goes. I’m aware that I’m thinking that: here goes. I figure it’s better to just dive in. Let the chips fall.
“I met Evie.”
I’m burning holes into his head, watching for the slightest flinch or twinge. But there’s nothing. It’s not registering.
“Did you hear me? I met Evie. And Lexi.”
It’s his daughter’s name that shakes him into understanding.
“How? What do you mean you met them?”
“It was at soccer last weekend. She didn’t know who I was of course.”
“How did you? I mean.” I can see he’s trying to find the right questions. He’s trying to act normal.
“How did I know it was her? Lexi’s ball rolled over to me. I was at the boys’ game and I guess her field was the next one over.”
He looks down at his cup like he hasn’t realized it was there. His wheels are turning. He’s trying to decide what to make of this. What to make of me. Oh, God, he’s feeling possessive of her. Maybe he’s overstated their lack of intimacy. Maybe he does this all the time and he’s busted again and he’ll get up and say, “It was nice but it’s got to end. No hard feelings.”
I keep going. “She introduced herself and Lexi. They’re beautiful. They’re gorgeous actually. They took my breath away.”
He looks up at me when I say this.
“I mean, wow. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Jesus, Evie’s a knockout. It was so weird knowing all about her. For a split second I wanted to ask her if her migraines were getting any better.”
Weeks ago he’d told me she’d had blinding ones.
“Remember? You told me she had bad migraines. You’re looking at me strangely. I didn’t say that to her, by the way. Of course I didn’t say that to her!”
I laugh a nervous self-conscious laugh. I try to cover it up by clearing my throat. “Funny, when I saw her I wondered what you were doing kissing me when you have her to go home to. Isn’t that funny? That was my first thought.”
Goddamnit, say something. How can you leave me twisting in the wind like this. Be a man and say what you’re thinking! I don’t say this out loud.
“You know what’s weird? Meeting Evie, meeting your daughter, I didn’t feel the slightest hint of guilt. You’re probably feeling it now but I’m not. I know that makes me unattractive, but it’s the truth. I should have felt guilt, putting a face to the name and all, but I didn’t. I still don’t. We’re just friends, you and me. All we did was kiss. I mean, that part’s not good but it’s not like it’ll happen again, right? We talked about that. So we’re friends. It just felt weird meeting her. Knowing so much about her. And you. You know.”
Nothing.
“Here’s the part where you jump in and say something,” I say.
Maybe this will be the part where he ends it. We’ll stop talking. E-mailing. Too risky the way our lives can overlap at the most unexpected times, he’s thinking. And he’ll end it. This is when I realize that if he’s not my friend I’ll be heartbroken. I need him in my life. I need him, period. But maybe it’d be for the best. I need to focus on my family … on Cammy. That’s right, it’ll be for the best. I’ll pour all the energy I have for him back into the family. He’ll set me free. And it’ll be for the best. I’ll look back on this and be grateful to him for being the strong one. Then again: Oh, God, he’ll set me free and I’ll have to go back to my family. Please don’t do it, Craig
. Please don’t send me back. He’ll return me for his money back. Thirty-day refund policy. He won’t be setting me free, he’ll be throwing me away.
“Weird,” he says.
“Weird, what? In what way? What do you mean weird?” I ask. I’m sounding desperate.
“Just … you know … weird,” he says. In a shrug sort of way. In a tone that could go either way.
“Can you say anything more? Like what you’re thinking right now? Weird as in weird but whatever, or weird like this is a wake-up call?”
“I don’t know,” he says. I’m leaning forward like I’m waiting for the jury to read the verdict. I correct my posture—I’d been hunching over the table like Cammy does when she’s eating cereal.
“I better go,” I say. I say this knowing it will force him to say something of substance. I say this hoping he’ll stop me long enough to explain his silence. “I’m gonna get going.”
I stand up slowly, to give him time to construct a sentence that will sit me back down.
“Wait,” he says.
I lower to the chair quickly. Relieved.
I fight the feeling that I did something wrong in meeting her. Like it was my fault the soccer ball rolled to my feet. I should’ve kicked it a short way back to her. Smiled and waved. The way you do on sidelines at kids’ games. But she walked up to me. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know who she was. How could I have? I never in a million years pictured her like that. Besides: we’re just friends.
“I don’t know what to think,” he says. “I don’t mean to torture you. I don’t. I just don’t know. In some ways I think it’s amazing this hasn’t happened before. We don’t live that far away from each other. If we scratched hard enough we’d probably find we know people in common. But it’s close to home. Don’t take this the wrong way but I guess I feel protective of them.”
“Of Evie and Lexi.”
“Yeah,” he says. Suddenly he doesn’t like saying their names in front of me.
“That’s cool,” I say. I try to stay casual, as if it’s not killing me that he’s making me feel like the other woman or something. He’s feeling guilty. He’s feeling guilty and he chose them.