"Do you know what it's like to think that my daughter might have died here? When she told me, I remember wondering to myself why she hadn't called me or your dad. But I know the answer to that, too. You two share something wonderful, and I can't tell you how proud that makes me. We may not have been the best parents, but at least we raised you both right."
She continued to stare at the water tower. "You were in so much trouble, but you never said anything to us. About where you'd been that night. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I said.
I saw a deep sadness in her expression as she turned toward me. "You have a gift," she said. "You feel so deeply and you care so much. And that's a wonderful thing. That's why you knew exactly what to do with Marge. You took her pain and made it your own, and now you're trying to do the same thing with me."
Though she trailed off, I knew that more was coming.
"I know you think you're helping, but no matter what you do, you can't take my sadness away. But you are making yourself miserable. And that breaks my heart, and I don't want you to do that. I'm getting through this one day at a time, but I don't have the strength to have to worry about you, too."
"I don't know if I can stop worrying about you."
She touched my cheek. "I know. But I want you to try. Just remember that I've made it through one hundred percent of the worst days of my life so far. Just like your dad, and Marge. And, of course, you have, too. And how we get through them is one day at a time."
Later that night, I thought about what my mom had told me. She was right, of course, but what I didn't know was that as challenging as life had sometimes been, the worst days were still yet to come, and they would be the worst of all.
Nine thousand, three hundred and sixty minutes.
That was how long it had been--well, approximately, anyway--since my world turned upside down, and to me, it felt as though I'd been hyperaware of the passage of every single one of them. Every one of these minutes in the past week had passed with agonizing slowness, as I seemed to be experiencing them with every cell in my body, every tick of the clock.
It was Monday, September fourteenth. A week ago, Vivian had left me. I continued to dwell on her obsessively, and the night before, I'd had trouble sleeping. Going for a run helped, but by the time I'd returned, I'd lost my appetite. In the last week, I'd dropped another seven pounds.
Stress. The ultimate diet.
Even as I made the phone call, I think I already knew what I was going to do. I told myself I simply wanted to know where Vivian would be traveling this week, but that wasn't true. When the receptionist at Spannerman answered, I asked to be connected to Vivian and reached a woman named Melanie who identified herself as Vivian's assistant. I didn't know my wife even had an assistant, but apparently there was much I didn't know about her, or maybe, had never known at all.
I was told that Vivian was in a meeting and when Melanie asked my name, I lied. I told her that I was a local reporter and wanted to know whether she would be around this week to speak. Melanie informed me that Vivian would be in the office today and tomorrow, but after that, she would be out of the office.
I then called Marge and asked if she would pick up London from school and later, bring her to dance. I told her that I was going to see my wife, but that I would be home later tonight.
Atlanta was four hours away.
I'm not sure how I imagined my surprise visit might go. In the car, one prediction replaced the next. All I knew was that I had to see Vivian; there was a part of me that hoped the hard-edged exterior she offered to me on the phone would melt away in my presence and we would find a way to salvage our relationship, our family, the life I still wanted to live.
My stomach clenched in knots as I drove, evidence of a simmering anxiety that made the drive more difficult than it should have been. Thankfully, traffic was relatively light, and I reached the outskirts of Atlanta at a quarter to twelve. Fifteen minutes later, with my nerves jangling hard, I found the new Spannerman building and pulled into the parking lot.
I found a space in the visitor section but hesitated before getting out of the car. I didn't know what to do. Should I call her and tell her I was downstairs? Should I enter the building and show up at the reception desk? Or storm past the reception and confront her in the office? The countless variations on our conversation that I had imagined on the drive always began with me sitting across from her at a table in a restaurant, not with the steps that led up to that point.
My mind, I knew, wasn't quite up to par these days.
Vivian would certainly prefer that I call; that way she could perhaps put me off entirely. For that reason, showing up inside seemed preferable, but what if she was in a meeting? Would I leave my name and sit in the waiting room, like a kid who'd been called in to meet the school principal? I wanted to head straight for her office, but I had no idea where it was, and something like that would cause a scene, which might even be worse.
I forced myself from the car as I continued to ponder my choices. All I knew for sure was that I needed to stretch my legs and use the restroom. Spotting a coffee shop across the street, I jaywalked through the stalled traffic to reach the other side. When I left the coffee shop and crossed the street again, I made the decision to call Vivian from the building lobby. That's when I saw them--Spannerman and Vivian in a brown Bentley, getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, onto the street. Not wanting them to see me, I edged closer to the building and ducked my head. I heard the roar of the engine as it finally pulled out, inching its way into traffic.
Even though I didn't have much of a plan in the first place, the little I did have was going up in smoke. Despite the lack of appetite, I supposed I could grab a bite to eat and try to catch up with her in an hour or so, which seemed preferable to waiting around, and I started back to my car.
Pulling out of the lot, I noticed that the traffic had barely moved and I could still see the Bentley about eight cars ahead of me. Beyond it, I saw there was some construction going on; an eighteen-wheeler loaded with steel girders was backing onto a work site and the traffic on the street had ground to a halt.
When the truck cleared the road, traffic started moving again. I followed along, conscious of the Bentley in front of me, watching as it made a right turn. I felt like a spy--or rather, a creepy private investigator--when I took the turn as well, but I told myself that since I wasn't going to confront them at lunch or do anything crazy, it wasn't a big deal. I just wanted to know where they were eating--I wanted to know something about the new life my wife was leading--and that was normal, something anyone would do.
Right?
Nonetheless I could feel my anger growing. Now there was only a single car between us, and I could see them up ahead. I imagined Walter talking and Vivian responding; I pictured the same joyful expression she'd worn when on the phone with him after her argument with London and my anger transformed into feelings of disappointment and sadness at all I had lost.
Why didn't she love me?
They weren't on the road long. They took a left, and then quickly turned into a parking garage beneath a splashy high-rise called Belmont Tower. It had a doorman out front, the kind you see in New York, and I drove on, finally pulling into a restaurant parking lot just up the block.
I killed the engine, wondering if there was a restaurant inside the high-rise. I wondered if it was the location of the corporate apartments. I wondered if this was where Walter Spannerman lived.
Using my phone, I found the information: Belmont Tower was a Spannerman project, and there was also a video link. I clicked it and saw Walter Spannerman boasting about the building amenities; as his final selling point, he proudly announced to viewers that he'd chosen to live on the top floor.
I stopped the video, but like a man choosing to march unassisted to his own execution, I stepped out of the car and made for Belmont Tower. I signaled to the doorman when I was close and he approached.
"It's a bea
utiful building," I said.
"Yes, sir. It really is."
"I was wondering if there's a restaurant in the building? Or a dining club for the tenants?" I said.
"No, there isn't. However, the building has a relationship with La Cerna next door. It's a five-star restaurant."
"Are there any apartments for rent?"
"No, sir."
I put a hand in my pocket. "Okay," I said. "Thanks for your help."
A few minutes later, dazed at the idea that Vivian had most likely gone with Spannerman to his penthouse, I was in my car and on my way back to Charlotte.
I arrived half an hour after London got back from school and when I opened the door, she came running.
"Daddy! Where were you?"
"I had to work," I said. "I'm so sorry I couldn't pick you up."
"That's okay. Auntie Marge was there. She drove me home." She put her arms around me. "I missed you."
"I missed you, too, baby."
"I love you."
"Ditto," I said.
"What does ditto mean?"
"You say 'ditto' when you want to say the same thing. You said I love you, so I said ditto, meaning I love you."
"That's neat," she said. "I didn't know you could do that."
"It's just a crazy world, isn't it? Did you learn anything fun in school?"
"I learned that spiders aren't insects. They're called arachmids."
"You mean arachnid?"
"No, Daddy. Arachmid. With an M."
I was pretty sure she was wrong, but she'd figure it out eventually. "That's cool."
"It's because insects have six legs and spiders have eight legs."
"Wow... you're pretty smart, you know that?"
"But I still don't like spiders. I don't like bees anymore either. Even though they make honey. But butterflies are pretty."
"Just like you. You're pretty, too. Prettier than any butterfly," I said. "Can I go say hi to Auntie Marge for a minute?"
"Okay. I have to check on Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. Did you remember to give them water?"
Oops.
"No, I didn't. But they had plenty yesterday. I'm sure they're okay."
"I'll go make sure."
I kissed her cheek and put her down. She ran toward the steps and vanished from sight. Marge, I noticed, had been watching us from the kitchen.
"You're a good dad, you know that?" she said when I reached her.
"I try. How was she?"
"You mean in the hour I've had her? I had to drive her home and get her a Popsicle. And then, Mom showed up with a ton of food and I had to deal with that, too. I put some in the refrigerator and some in the freezer, by the way. Let's just say that you really owe me for this one. I'm exhausted. What a day! I'm not sure I can take any more."
My sister had a flair for sarcastic melodrama, obviously. "I didn't think I'd be back so soon."
"Neither did I. And when you did get home, I thought you'd resemble a pile of mashed potatoes. What happened? Was she even there?"
"I saw her," I said. "Well, kind of." I told her what had happened. While I spoke, she poured two glasses of ice water and handed one to me.
"Can I ask a question?"
"Go ahead."
"Why didn't you just wait for her?"
"After they went to Spannerman's place, I realized I didn't want to see her after that."
"Because?"
"She was... with him. Probably at his penthouse or whatever. And..."
"And what? She left you. She told you she was in love with him. You do know she's sleeping with him, right?"
"I know that," I said. "I just don't like to think about it... I don't want to think about it."
Marge offered a sympathetic expression. "That makes you perfectly sane."
I hesitated, realizing I was utterly exhausted. "What am I going to do?"
"You're going to take care of yourself. And you're going to continue to be a good father to London."
"I mean about Vivian."
"For now, let's just worry about you and your daughter, okay?"
I never should have gone to Atlanta.
On Tuesday, I tried to bury myself in work on Taglieri's commercial, but it was hard to stay focused and I thought endlessly of Vivian. I would see her in the Bentley, Spannerman in the seat beside her; whenever I imagined her expression, it was the same one I'd seen on the patio.
Those images haunted me, bringing with them a sense of inadequacy. Of inferiority. I hadn't simply been rejected; I'd been replaced by someone wealthier and more powerful, someone who had the ability to make Vivian laugh and smile in a way that I could not.
She had left me, not for reasons of her own, but because of me.
I said as much to Marge on the phone the following day, and when she wasn't able to talk me out of funk, she and Liz showed up at my home after work. It was Tuesday night and I'd fed London one of the meals my mom had made; as soon as they walked in the door, Marge and London headed off to watch a movie in the family room while Liz and I sat on the back patio.
I recounted everything that had happened and the way I'd been feeling. When I was finished, Liz brought her hands together.
"What did you think would happen if you talked to Vivian?"
"I guess I was hoping that she'd make the decision to come back. Or at the very least, we'd discuss how we could work it out."
"Why? Has she given you any indication that she wants to come back? Or try to work it out?"
"No," I admitted. "But she's my wife. We've barely spoken since she left."
"I'm sure that the two of you will have a sit-down when she's ready. But I can't promise that you'll like what she tells you."
It wasn't that hard to read between the lines. "You don't think she'll come back, do you?"
"I'm not sure my opinion is any better than anyone else's. Or that it's even relevant."
"You're right. It's not relevant. But you've seen situations like this before, and you know Vivian. I'd still like to know what you think."
She exhaled. "No," she finally said. "I don't think she's coming back."
I wanted numbness; I didn't want to feel or think about Vivian, but it seemed that the only time I could find oblivion was in the hours that London was in school, when I buried myself in work. On Wednesday, I continued to bury myself in Taglieri's second commercial before finally sending it off to the editor for polishing and finalizing. After that, I worked on the presentation for the surgeon on Thursday afternoon. I was proposing a different campaign than I'd recommended for Taglieri--a much higher online presence and user-friendly website, a heavy emphasis on patient testimonials on video, direct mail, social media, and billboards--and even though I was far less than a hundred percent during the presentation, I left the meeting the following day with a handshake agreement knowing I'd landed my second client. Like Taglieri, he'd committed to a year of services.
With those two clients, I realized that I'd replaced nearly half of my previous salary, not counting bonuses. It was enough to meet my monthly obligations with a few trims here and there, and made it significantly easier when I picked up the phone and canceled our joint credit cards.
I let Vivian know via text.
Vivian called me later that night. Since my ill-advised adventure in Atlanta on Monday, I'd allowed London to answer the phone as soon as I saw Vivian's image pop up on the screen. London let me know that Vivian would be calling me back later. As she headed up the stairs to get ready for bed, I wondered whether she'd figured out that things had changed between her mother and me, or that we were no longer going to be a family.
While I waited for her call, I didn't want to get my hopes up, but I couldn't help it. I would imagine hearing her apologize or say that she was coming home, and yet, like the turbulence of my emotions, those thoughts would be replaced with the memory of what Liz had told me, or that the only reason Vivian was calling was because I'd canceled the credit cards, and she wanted to let me know how angry she was.
/> The push and pull left me exhausted, and by the time the phone finally did ring, I had little emotional energy to expend, no matter what she might say.
I let the phone ring four times before finally connecting the call.
"Hi," I said. "London said you'd be calling."
"Hi, Russ," she said. Her voice was calm, as if nothing had changed between us at all. "How are you?"
I wondered if she really cared or was simply being polite; I wondered why I felt the need to try to read her, instead of letting the call simply unfold.
"I'm fine," I forced out. "You?"
"I'm okay," she said. "London sounds like she might be coming down with a cold."
"She didn't say anything to me."
"She didn't to me, either. I could hear it in her voice, though. Make sure she's taking her vitamins and maybe get her some orange juice in the morning. She'll probably need some children's cold medicine, too."
"How can she get a cold? It's almost ninety degrees outside."
"She's in school. New kids, new germs. It happens in every school at the beginning of the year."
"All right," I said. "I'll have to run out to get some orange juice and the medicine, but she's been taking her vitamins."
"Don't forget," she said. "And anyway, I was calling for a couple of reasons. First, I'm coming to Charlotte this weekend. I really miss London and if it's okay with you, I'd like to spend some uninterrupted time with her."
But not me.
"Of course," I said, keeping my voice steady. "She'd love that. She misses you, too."
"Good. Thank you." I could hear her relief and wondered why she'd anticipated any other reaction. "But here's the thing. I don't think it's a good idea for me stay in a hotel. I think that would be very strange for her."
I frowned. "Why would you stay at a hotel? You can stay at the house. We have a guest room."
"I think she'd notice if I slept in the guest room. Even if she doesn't notice, I don't think we should put her in the position where she asks the three of us to do things together. I would really like it to be just the two of us, for her sake. So she doesn't get confused."
"What are you saying?"