Between Husbands and Friends (33 page)

I run my hands over my face. “Margaret, let me explain—”

“Just tell me!”

“I will, if you’ll give me a chance—”

“Is it true?”

I hesitate, then quietly admit, “It’s true.”

She flushes scarlet. “That’s disgusting!”

“I know, I know it’s terribly upsetting. But I want you to—”

“Upsetting?” She’s spitting with fury. “Mom, it’s
gross.
It’s, it’s
pornographic
!”

“Stop that.” I’m deathly quiet.

She opens her mouth, then shuts it so tightly she shudders all over.

“Listen to me, Margaret. Seven years ago I made a terrible mistake, it’s true, but it wasn’t a simple thing, and I’d like to talk to you about it sometime when you’re calmer. I don’t know if Daddy and I are going to get a divorce. He’s pretty angry with me right now. That’s understandable. He has a right to his anger. There’s something much more difficult that our family has to deal with. Jeremy has cystic fibrosis. He doesn’t know yet—and you mustn’t tell him. He needs more tests; I want to discuss this with him when we have all the facts. I don’t want him to be scared. I won’t have him frightened, Margaret, do you hear me?”

Margaret sinks back in her chair. Her skin has gone from scarlet to white. Her eyes are wide. Her voice is tiny when she asks, “Does that mean … will Jeremy have fits?”

“No, honey.” She is so shaken, all at once transformed into my child, my girl. I go around the desk and kneel before her and take her hands in mine. Her hands are freezing. “It’s not that
kind of disease. It doesn’t affect the muscles. It has to do with secretions. It’s why Jeremy gets so many colds and can’t gain weight.”

“Is he going to die?”

“No, no, honey, no.” She’s so pale she frightens me. “You know what, Magpie? I’ve got some iced tea in the refrigerator. I’m going to get you a glass. You wait right here.”

“No, Mom, I don’t need tea.” She pulls her hands away from me. Her brow is furrowed, but color is returning to her cheeks.

“Margaret, the important thing right now is that we haven’t told Jeremy yet. You’ve got to promise—”

“I won’t tell him.” Her lip trembles. “Am I going to get it?”

“No. Your father doesn’t carry the cystic fibrosis gene.”

“So Chip
is
Jeremy’s real father.”

“
Natural
father.”

Her face flushes. “Why did you do it, Mom?”

I pause. Margaret’s seen it all, I sometimes think, especially when I hear what videos she watched at a friend’s house. But this is different. This is her mother talking. This is, as she said, pornographic. Which is worse: to tell my daughter that I felt love for another man, or to tell her I didn’t?

“It wasn’t really an affair, Margaret. It was just a very brief … liaison. When you were seven. Right after your father and I lost baby Maxwell. When we were both so sad. I guess I just needed a friend, and it was all more to do with friendship than with desire. Sex is a complicated thing, Margaret. Sometimes it’s about true love. That’s when it’s best. Sometimes it’s about other things.”

“Matthew says his parents are getting divorced. He says his mom is living with that Garrison guy.”

“Well, you know, that might just be a temporary thing. I mean, everyone is mad right now.” I manage a little laugh. “Well,
I’m
not mad. I’m the one people are mad at. The thing you have to remember, Margaret, is that your father and I love you, and we love Jeremy, and we’re going to do the best we can for both of you, to keep you both safe and happy. We—”

But Margaret’s face has hardened again. “How can you say that? Why don’t you tell me the truth? Are you guys getting divorced? Just tell me.”

I walk to the window and look out, gathering my thoughts. “Dad has told me that he wants a divorce. But I don’t think he really means it. You know how, when you’re mad, you say
a lot of things you don’t mean? That’s what he’s doing right now.”

“He
should
be mad. Poor Daddy.”

“Poor Jeremy,” I say softly.

“It’s all your fault.” Tears well in her eyes.

“Oh, Margaret.” I reach out to hold her. “We’ll get through this.”

But she recoils. “Don’t touch me!” she says. Her eyes harden. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

“Sweetheart …”

“I’m
not
your sweetheart! I don’t want to be
anything
to you! You’ve ruined my life!”

“You’re exaggerating just a little, don’t you—”

“It’s true! Everyone’s going to laugh at me. Talk behind my back. Guys will think I’m a slut like you.”

I wince at her words. “Margaret, please.”

She’s wild now, standing, yelling, her face flushed with anger. “I hate you.”

“Oh, Margaret, don’t—”

“When you get divorced, I’m going to live with Dad!”

“No, Magpie, no. I won’t let you.”

“Wait and see,” she spits bitterly and runs from the room.

“Margaret!” For a moment I’m stunned, filled with a white numbness, and then rage explodes in my chest and without thinking I yell, “Come back here!”

Sobbing, Margaret rushes through the house. Hurtling after her, I race through the hall and up the stairs, just in time to see her slam her bedroom door. Filled with an insane, blood-pounding energy, I hurl myself against the door and half fly, half fall into her room. Margaret stands in the middle of her room, fists clenched, her face contorted with anger and contempt.

I grab her shoulders and shake her. “Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m talking to you!” Somewhere in my heart I know that this anger is meant for Max, but I can’t help myself; my fingers dig into my daughter’s shoulders. “Don’t you ever walk away from me again!”

Anger bleeds from her face, replaced by a look of genuine fear.

Appalled, I drop my hands. “Margaret, I’m sorry.”

She backs away from me, her chin quivering, her face melting back into a child’s face, the face of my darling little girl.

“Margaret, honey, you’ve got to give me a break.”

We stand, both shaking, weeping, horrified at the wrath we’ve summoned up from each other.

My daughter glares at me, her entire body rigid with loathing.
“I wish you were dead.”

Wild with pain, I press my hands against my mouth to keep from shouting abuse at this furious, arrogant, relentless young woman. Something powerful within me surges, wanting to continue the fight with Margaret, wanting to escalate it, wanting to scream and hit in an ecstasy of anger. It’s all I can do to get myself out of her room and into my bedroom where I stare around me like a madwoman, looking for something to destroy. This is how people get murdered, I think, this is how suicides happen, this is what makes a man gun down his entire family, this is what makes a woman slit her own throat.

Come on, Lucy, I command myself, do
something.
You’ve got to get in control. You’ve got to calm down.

What would I do normally? I’d call Max. I can’t do that. I’d call Kate. I can’t call Kate, but if I could, what would
she
tell me to do? I can almost hear her voice saying, “Lucy, lock yourself in the bathroom where no one can get to you. Pour yourself an enormous Bailey’s Irish Cream and drink it in a hot bath steaming with buckets of your best bath salts.” Maybe it will work. I don’t know what else to try. I race downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Mom!” Jeremy calls. “Mom! Come look!”

“Not now, hon. I want to take a bath.”

“But, Mom!”

Holding myself together so tightly I feel ready to shatter, I go, Good Mother, into the den. “What’s wrong, Jeremy?”

“Mom, look. A hurricane is headed toward Nantucket!” Like his father, Jeremy loves watching The Weather Channel.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. It probably won’t reach Nantucket. It’s got lots of time and room to change its course.”

“But what will happen if it does hit the island?”

“Don’t worry about the hurricane,” I want to scream. “You’re in much more danger from your own mother!” Instead, in a falsely calm voice, I say, “Remember what they did the summer you were four? How they boarded up the windows on Main Street and put X’s in tape over the windows in houses?”

“Will Mr. Findlay board up our house?”

“Of course.”

“Can the hurricane come here?” Jeremy asks.

“No, Jeremy. Hurricanes don’t come this far inland. We’ll just get lots of wind and rain.”

“Cool,” Jeremy says.

“Right. I’m going to take a bath.”

“Are you going out tonight?”

“No,” I sigh, exasperated, ready to weep. Why does everything always need an explanation? “I’ve been typing all day and I want to relax my back muscles.” This sounds reasonable. At least it satisfies his curiosity, so I hurry from the room, grab a glass of creamy liqueur, and head back upstairs. Rushing through my bedroom, I lock the bathroom door and turn the faucets on high so that hot water plunges into the tub, quickly sending billows of steam into the air. Glimpsing myself in the mirror as I undress, I consider that the body reflected in the mirror looks far too normal to have brought about so much turbulence in the world, and this thought almost makes me smile. If I could share it with Kate, we’d both laugh.

I sink into the warm water, feeling it close around my skin like the silkiest of comforters, and I
am
comforted, it does accept me, this fragrant water. Silence. Peace. I take a deep breath. It has been a long day. The liquor and the easy heat release something within me, and with the thundering of the water to hide my noise, I’m free at last to surrender to the full, shuddering fury of my emotions.

What have I done? What can I do? Who will help me? Will Margaret, my precious beloved light of my life, my beautiful daughter, really leave me to live with her father? A well of grief and fear rises within me, ready to spill out. I bury my face in my hands and prepare to let it come.

“Mommy?”

I stifle my sobs. “What is it, Jeremy?”

“I don’t feel good.”

“Go lie down in your room, Jeremy. I’ll be out in a moment.”

“But, Mom. I really feel ucky.”

I take deep breaths to control my shuddering breath. Not now, I think, come on, Jeremy, give me five minutes alone. “Honey, go tell Margaret.”

“She won’t open her door.”

“All right. I tell you what. Go lie down on my bed. I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“But, Mommy.”

“Jeremy, please. I want to finish my bath.” I’m digging my fingernails into my knees
with frustration. Jesus, can’t I have five minutes to fall apart in peace?

“All right,” Jeremy agrees, his voice plaintive, and then I hear retching.

“Jeremy?” I rise from the tub, my skin scarlet, covered with suds.

“Mommy, I threw up.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Pulling a towel around me, I open the bathroom door. Jeremy sits by the door, thin shoulders heaving. A small pile of undigested crackers and peanut butter swims in a pool of mucus and phlegm. “Oh, baby.”

Jeremy weeps. “I don’t feel good.”

I kneel next to him, suds dripping from my face and hair. “Poor baby. Do you need to throw up more?”

He shakes his head. I lift him in my arms and carry him to my bed, settle him among pillows, then grab a moment to slip into my robe. I take his temperature, which is only slightly high, and change his clothes, dressing him in his favorite old pajamas. I give him ginger ale to sip. I clean up the vomit.

Jeremy lies listlessly against the pillows.

“How do you feel, kiddo?”

He shrugs. “Would you read to me, Mommy?”

“Sure, hon.” I grab a pile of books from his room and settle him next to me. I can hear a rattle of phlegm in his chest as he breathes. Rain thunders on the roof and slides down the windows.

I read for hours, it seems, while Jeremy squirms restlessly, unable to concentrate on the books, too uncomfortable to sleep. Right in the middle of a story, he asks, “Mom, is Dad mad at me?”

“No, Jeremy. Of course not. He’s just so busy.”

“But he doesn’t come home anymore. He never even calls me.”

I have to give him some excuse: “It’s this town meeting thing, honey. After tomorrow night Dad will have more free time. He’s just so busy until then. Don’t worry, your daddy loves you, I promise. Okay?”

Jeremy shrugs. “Okay,” he replies.