Vanity Fare (20 page)

The top of his head came bobbing up the stairs and he was whistling,
whistling,
as if everything was just grand. My fingers itched with the urge to grab one of Aidan’s
Star Wars
light sabers and bash him on the head.

His pace slowed as he reached the top of the stairs where I was waiting. “Molly.” He gave me a look I’d seen him practice many nights before an important deposition.

“Hugh. Come on in.” I waited for him to enter, then slammed the door extra hard just to watch him jump.

He walked into the living room and stood, shifting his weight from side to side. His eyes swept over the table’s surface, darting away from the big stack of bills I’d left right in the middle.

“How you doing, Molly?” he asked, widening his eyes like he was really concerned.

“Fine, thanks,” I replied. “How’s not working going for you?”

He clamped his lips together, and I saw his jaw clench.

“By the way,” I continued artlessly, “if Sylvia says yes, do you think you could get her to work out a child-support agreement? Since it seems like she’ll be making the money in the family. Unless you got a job?” I made my voice sound extra-sweet. I paused, letting it sink in. “You can answer that later, let me just go get the ring.”

It was hard to find the ring through the mist that was clouding my eyes. It was not tears, it was
not,
and I’d be damned if I let Hugh see how he affected me. I blinked, hard, then peeked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Not too bad. I looked as if I hadn’t gotten enough sleep, but then I always looked like that.

“Here you go,” I said, holding the ring out in its little box. “Let me know when I can expect child support again.” Hugh hesitated for just a moment, then took it from my outstretched hand. He opened it for a minute, and the overhead light made a radiant sparkle on the floor. I peeked at it again. Probably the last time I’d ever see it. I swallowed and looked away.

“Thanks, Molly. I know this is a tough time, I . . .” He spread his hands out, as if he couldn’t control anything that had happened to us.

“Sure. Right. Look, I know you’ve got to be going,” I said, starting to walk to the front door again. He followed, his head bowed like a teenage boy who’d just been busted by the principal.

“Thanks. See you,” he said, giving me a little wave.

I closed the door quietly this time and leaned against it, gazing up at the ceiling.

As usual, Dr. Lowell got to the tough question
right away. “How did it feel?”

I drew my eyebrows together in thought. Screw the wrinkles. “It felt like closure, actually. It didn’t hurt to see him. It did hurt to give the ring back because that means it truly is over. Not that I want to be married to him anymore, but that part of my identity is finished.”

“Is he going to marry her?”

“He wouldn’t say. I did ask, I couldn’t
not
ask. He might marry her as soon as he’s gotten his divorce. That would be weird.”

I stopped speaking for a moment and reached for a tissue from the family-size box on Dr. Lowell’s side table. Hugh. Married to someone else. Someone taller, blonder, sharper.

Someone not as funny, not as kind, not as clever with a pun. Someone who didn’t have Aidan as a kid. Someone who probably couldn’t talk about romance novels as easily as she could talk about the latest in literary fiction.

Someone who wasn’t me. I scrunched that tissue in my hand. I didn’t need it after all.

“But,” I said, “that all doesn’t hurt that much. Not like it would have six months ago. Aidan and I are better off without him, actually. Aidan gets a mom who’s not resentful all the time, and I get to try to be happy.”

Dr. Lowell nodded in a satisfied-therapist kind of way. “That sounds fantastic, Molly.” She brought her fingers together and ticked off each point as she made it: “You are over Hugh. You are discovering your own personality. You have realized you can make it on your own. You are taking risks and chances in ways you never would have before. Good for you,” she said, finishing her words with a few claps of her hands.

I inclined my head in a modest bow. “I’d like to thank the Academy, my therapist, my son, not my mother, and Keisha. But really,” I continued in a serious tone, “this morning was hard, but I didn’t fall apart.” I shook my head slowly. “Weird. I would have thought I would always fall apart.”

She assumed her pondering expression, and I knew she was going to say something pointed and salient. “Funny how our idea of our own personality is quite, quite different from the reality. Keep that in mind, Molly.”

“I will,” I said in an assured tone. “I will.”

“And this is the study,” Caroline said,
opening the heavy wood door. I’d had my mouth open since I entered her apartment. It was easily twice the size of mine, with dark wood wainscoting and magnificently imposing Victorian furniture. Not that I liked Victorian furniture, but the place just reeked of money, and I had to keep squashing enormous pangs of envy. Caroline’s husband, the lawyer, had taken their kids out to a movie, so there were only women in the room, and you could hear the thrum of conversation even from the front entryway.

“This is an amazing apartment, Caroline,” I said, knowing it was better to sound gushing than jealous. She shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“This was Alex’s parents’ apartment, and they moved to Florida. I’m not a big fan of all that dark wood, myself,” she said, gesturing me toward where I presumed the scrapbooking was to take place.

“Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to Molly. I met her at one of our kid’s—oh, yours, Nancy—birthday parties. Molly lives over on Fourth Street, and she’s never scrapbooked before, have you?” Caroline looked to me for confirmation. I nodded slowly.

“Virgin!” the group shouted. There were about six of them, all seated around an enormous dining room table, the kind you might’ve expected Miss Havisham to preside over. I saw a few familiar faces from the playground, and sat down in the nearest chair. There were materials strewn all over the table: cloth, construction paper, pinking shears, glue sticks, sequins, cardboard photo frames, markers, and, blessedly, wineglasses with some alluring ruby-colored liquid inside.

Caroline must have been reading my mind. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got soda, water, juice, chocolate milk, and wine.”

“Wine, please.” Maybe if I got tipsy I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable. That, or I wouldn’t care anymore.

The woman closest to me took a sip from her glass and gave me a warm smile. She had dreadlocks down her back and was wearing one of those African kente cloth skirts. “My name’s Tamsin, nice to have you here, Molly. What made you interested in scrapbooking?”

I’m not.
“Um, well, Caroline called and invited me.” I tried not to stammer, but it was hard. All of the women were giving me a look I’d seen on the faces of people looking in the cages at the zoo, that slightly condescending
Homo sapiens
way. Regarding the lesser, nonscrapbooking species.

“Don’t bother her, Tam,” Caroline chided, placing a glass in front of me. I gulped a big swallow down before I could think, then leaned back in my chair so I wouldn’t chug the whole thing.

The problem was, this felt like high school again. When I’d somehow get in a room with the popular girls and they’d be talking about stuff I had no clue about: makeup, dates, blow jobs, Long Island iced teas, long phone calls with boys. I’d sit there, with a wan smile pasted on my face, trying to blend into the woodwork. Some of the nicer girls would try to include me, but I would invariably say something that was hilarious, even though I’d been serious when I’d said it. And I’d skulk out, hearing the guffaws of laughter behind me.

“Molly, where on Fourth Street do you live?” It was the woman farthest from my chair, a silver-haired woman with purple eye shadow. “Oh, I’m Sharon, by the way,” she said, shaking her bob a little as she spoke.

“Between Seventh and Eighth avenues.”

“Near the catering place?” she asked, tilting her head quizzically.

“Opposite side of the street and up a little. Just next to the other apartment buildings.”

“Ah, I see.” She nodded, as if she had discovered something very important. “And what do you do?”

“Um . . . I’m in the middle of getting a divorce, so I’m also in the middle of figuring out what I want to do. That English degree I got twenty years ago isn’t much of a help now,” I replied with a dry chuckle. There was a round of answering laughter around the table. “Meanwhile, I’m doing some freelance copywriting.”

“You brought some photos, right?” Caroline asked as she sat herself down in the chair next to me. I couldn’t help admiring her preppy mom style: immaculately pressed khakis, a pink short-sleeve sweater with the matching cardigan tied around her shoulders. She wore little pearls in her ears, and her makeup was perfect. I grimaced as I looked down at my jeans and thrift-store sweater. But I had managed to apply some makeup, and I’d even worn my favorite pair of earrings, silver hoops that swung whenever I moved my head.

I reached down to my bag and pulled out a plastic shopping bag. Caroline gestured to the table in front of me, and I turned the bag upside down and dumped the contents.

When Caroline had invited me earlier that week, my only idea about scrapbooking was ladies writing cute comments and pasting precious borders around their family photographs.

But I realized it didn’t have to be all pink ribbons and pinking shears. I could make something that was a scrapbook of my life, something to memorialize important events in my life. Right now, the most important event besides Aidan was my marriage, which was soon to become my divorce.

I pulled out of my back pocket the list I’d made of everything I’d brought.

THE DETRITUS OF MCLAUGHLIN AND HAGAN

1. Wedding invitation.
   
2. Pictures from our honeymoon in Jamaica. A red bikini was not the best choice for me.
   
3. Pictures from our first Christmas. Red bikini underwear (even with a Santa hat) was not the best choice for Hugh.
   
4. A photocopy of his law degree.
   
5. Dry-cleaning slips for Hugh’s fancy Donna Karan shirts.
   
6. The picture of my first sonogram.
   
7. Aidan’s birth announcement.
   
8. Pictures of Aidan’s first day home, his first nap home, his first burp home, his first poop home, his first morning home, his first smile, his first laugh, his first step, his first fall, his first day of preschool. I couldn’t believe we had been so diligent about recording his life.
   
9. The announcement of Hugh winning his first big case.
   
10. Pictures of Hugh in Hawaii on a corporate retreat. Pictures of Hugh skiing in Tahoe with the partners from his firm. Pictures of Hugh in Atlantic City.
    
11. The separation agreement.
    
12. The Amazon.com order for all the books I’d ordered the day after he left:
    Making It on Your Own, Who Needed Him Anyway?, Survival of the Fittest, Welcome to the Lonelyhearts Club, Raising Children in a One-Parent Home, D-I-V-O-R-C-E, Sex and the Single Mom
    .
    
13. The paper confirming my name change.
    
14. The slip for the last forgotten batch of Hugh’s shirts at the dry-cleaners.
    

It was a helluva lot of material. I hoped, when I was done, I’d have something that would have real meaning for me, some physical manifestation of the emotional upheaval I’d been through in the past six months. Plus it’d be fun to write snide comments underneath Hugh’s pictures.

Caroline peered over my shoulder, picking up one of the photos. “Which one was yours?” she asked.

I pointed to him. He had one of those green eyeshade visors on, the kind gamblers wear in old movies. His companions were all holding dollar bills in the air.

“He looks normal. Kind of like a frat boy,” she said in surprise. I looked at the picture a little more closely. Besides the visor, Hugh had on a light blue three-button polo shirt, dark blue Dockers shorts, and sneakers without socks.

“He does, doesn’t he?” I replied in wonder. When had we grown apart? Probably when he was attempting to climb the corporate ladder in the big city while I was playing Chutes and Ladders with Aidan at home.

“I’m guessing your project will be a little different from the rest of ours. But Sandy over there”—she pointed at a dramatic-looking woman with raven black hair and scarlet lipstick—“did a tribute when her cat passed away.” The woman nodded, her regal features set in a sympathetic look.

“But no matter, the principle is the same. Did you bring a photo album, too?” I reached back into the bag and drew out the book, which was covered in black. She gave me a wry glance. “I can see where you’re going with this. This will be fun.”

She took the album from me, then opened up the pages. “First thing is to define your goal.” She gave me another amused look. “Judging by your materials, I’d say you already have. Next is to lay out the order of your items.” She picked up the list. “Is this how you’d like it to go?” I nodded. “Then all that’s left is to put it together.”

She stood up and leaned over the table, pulling a tablet of construction paper over to me.

“So how long were you married?” Tamsin asked, taking a sip of her wine.

“Ten years. We were together ten years before that.” There was a murmur of sympathy from the women around the table.

I flipped through the construction paper and found the black section. I ripped out one of the sheets and set it in front of me. I opened the album to the first page, and peeled back the plastic covering.

I laid the wedding invitation in the middle, then stared hard at the black paper, hoping to get inspired.

“More wine, Molly?” I gave a start as I saw I’d somehow managed to finish the first glass.

“No, thanks, not just yet,” I said as Caroline gave my pages an approving look. “Seems like you’re getting the hang of it,” she said, touching me on the shoulder. “I know you were skeptical, but this is fun, isn’t it?”

It was. It was also something I’d never do in a million years.

“Ladies, time for a break.” Caroline
stood to my right, waving her hands to get our attention. Her bracelets clinked pleasantly as she waved. The last hour had been spent in almost total silence, all of us working on our projects, with only an occasional murmured “pass the scissors” or “can I have your glue?” I looked up and blinked, pulled out of my trancelike state.