Apart at the Seams (3 page)

A
fter rinsing out my mouth and spending half an hour pacing around the apartment like a caged animal in a zoo, circling walls that pressed too close, I grabbed my keys and purse and left, unable to endure one more minute trapped in those rooms. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I ran down six flights of stairs, flew through the lobby without returning the doorman's greeting, and fled into the street.

The temperature was hovering just above the freezing mark during this, the most miserable May on record, and I was wearing only slacks and a blouse. A few people stared at me, possibly wondering what the lady with the tears streaming down her face was doing pounding down the sidewalk without a coat. I ducked into the minimart on the corner and bought three packs of cigarettes.

I'd smoked my last cigarette shortly after I learned of my pregnancy, giving my final pack of Benson & Hedges a burial at sea, tossing them overboard and watching as they swirled and disappeared into the white wake of the barge engines. When they were gone, I turned from the railing and walked away, and that was that. I never experienced withdrawal, never even thought about cigarettes after that day.

Now I was desperate for a smoke. My hands shook as I tore at the cellophane and paper packaging, pulled out a slender tube of tobacco, lit the end, and inhaled as quickly and deeply as I could, ravenous for nicotine and answers.

What had happened between this cigarette and my last? What had made my husband turn away from me and the promises we'd made to each other? What was I supposed to do with those promises now? And with my life?

It was cold and getting colder, but I didn't want to go back to the apartment. I couldn't. But I couldn't keep walking around Manhattan with no coat and no plan either. I jogged two blocks to the parking garage and asked the attendant to bring up our car. Five minutes later, I was behind the wheel and driving north.

I turned the heat on full blast while simultaneously cracking open the window, hoping to keep the smoke from smelling up the car. I opened the ashtray, a thing I'd never had occasion to do before, squashed my cigarette butt into the pristine little receptacle, and immediately lit up another. The nicotine, or perhaps the simple act of breathing deeply, calmed me.

But I still didn't know what I was supposed to do next. I couldn't just pick up my husband curbside at the United terminal, kiss him hello, and pretend everything was all right. One look at Brian's face and I knew I'd fall apart, sob and wail and end up looking pathetic and foolish—because I was. Because I'd never seen it coming.

I couldn't face Brian, but I couldn't just leave him waiting at the airport either. He'd be worried that something had happened to me. Or, it occurred to me, he wouldn't be worried. And that would be worse.

I rested my cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and started digging through my purse for my cell phone, keeping one eye on the road as I did so, knowing I was breaking a lot of very good laws. Brian was in the air at that moment. I could leave him a voice mail. But what would I say?

I needed a story . . . a burst pipe at the cottage? Having to run up to Connecticut to deal with the situation? He'd believe that; we'd had plumbing problems since day one. Once I was out of town, I could shut off my phone and ignore his calls for at least a day or two without arousing suspicion. Three years after we'd purchased the cottage, cell reception in New Bern was still spotty. I needed time by myself to figure out what I was supposed to do next—contact a lawyer, or do whatever it was people did when they got divorced.

Divorced.

Even after reading that letter—no, memo—even then, it was hard to believe this was happening to me, to us.

Glancing in my rearview mirror to make sure the coast was clear of police cruisers, I hit Brian's number on my speed dial, the first in the list, and waited for his voice mail to pick up. Except it didn't. Brian did. He started talking even before I could get in a word.

“My connection is delayed—again.” He groaned. “I honestly don't know why I go through Chicago. Anyway, I'm at the gate, and they say we'll be boarding in about a half hour, so, assuming they're telling the truth, I should be home in time for dinner. Did you cook anything?”

“No, I—”

“Then let's go out. Italian?”

“I can't, sweet—” I started to call him “sweetheart.” The endearment is nearly automatic by now, but I stopped myself. “I . . . I can't pick you up either. You'll have to get a cab. Drew texted me. . . . I'm driving up to Connecticut.”

“Don't tell me,” he said in a resigned tone. “That bloody furnace. I was hoping it'd last till spring. But why do you have to go up? Can't you just call a repairman?”

The sound of his voice pulled me up short. He sounded so normal, as if nothing had changed between us.

Obviously we'd moved past the “tell me what you're wearing” stage many years ago. This is what our conversations are like now. We talk about the kids, our schedules, our jobs, and . . . things like bills and broken furnaces. I never thought that meant we were unhappy. The conversation wasn't exciting, but discussing domestic details was just part of married life, wasn't it? And, in a way, it made me feel secure. Obviously, I was wrong. Maybe I'd been hearing what I wanted to hear all along.

“Not the furnace. It's . . . a burst pipe. And there's water in the . . .” I paused for a moment, took another run at it, trying to launch into the story I'd rehearsed, but I couldn't do it. I'm a terrible liar.

“Brian, I accidentally opened some of your documents on my computer. I saw the letter you wrote—the memo.”

“The memo,” he repeated. I could almost hear the shrug in his voice. He had no idea what I was talking about. “What memo?”

“
The
memo,” I snapped. “The memo you wrote to
me
. Saying you're unhappy in our marriage, that you had an affair and that you want a divorce.”

“You got into my computer? You read my documents?”

“Excuse me!” I shot back. “You're angry with
me?
You wrote me a memo to tell me you're divorcing me. A memo, Brian! Who does that?”

“I'm
not
divorcing you! I never sent it!”

“But you wrote it.”

“But I never
sent
it. After the wedding, I changed my mind. I realized what a mistake it was, all that I'd be giving up, and so I deleted it. You must have opened up the trash folder somehow. I don't know how you could have—”

He stopped, took in a big breath, and let it out in a long, deflated whoosh.

“Oh God, Gayla. I'm sorry. You have to believe me. I didn't mean it.”

The lining of my throat felt thick. “You had an affair.”

He was quiet for a moment. “It wasn't an affair so much as it was . . . a mistake. I thought about telling you, but then, once I'd made up my mind to see things through, I realized that if I told you about it I'd only be doing it to salve my guilt. I never thought you'd have to know about it.”

“And that makes it okay?”

“Listen to me, Gayla. It's over. I haven't seen her since August. Or called her. That doesn't make it all right, but it truly is over. I kept it from you because I hoped you'd never have to know. What would be the point in hurting you if it was over? But I have. And I'm sorry.”

“Who is she?” I spat, ignoring his apology.

“Just someone I met at the office. Gayla! It was three times. It didn't—”

“Brian, if you tell me it didn't mean anything, I swear I'm going to hang up! Because it did. It means you aren't happy and you don't love me anymore.”

“That's not true.”

“You said you're not happy. You even said
we
aren't happy. You don't get to decide that for me, Brian. Only I get to say if I'm happy or not, all right?” I swallowed hard, trying to keep my anger from dissolving into tears.

“Where are you now?” he asked. “Turn around and come home. I'll get a cab from the airport and meet you at home. We need to talk about this. Please.”

“I can't. Not today.”

He was quiet again, perhaps hoping I would say something. I didn't.

“Tomorrow I'll rent a car and drive to Connecticut—”

“Don't,” I said quickly. “I don't want to see you right now. Maybe in a few days, but not now. Brian, I have to go. I forgot my Bluetooth, and there are cops everywhere. I'm going to get a ticket. I'll call you in a couple of days.”

My thumb hovered over the end button on my cell but was stayed by the frantic sound of his voice.

“Gayla! Don't hang up!”

I waited, saying nothing.

“I am so sorry.”

He waited for my response, hoping, I guess, perhaps even expecting, that I would say what I always said: that I forgave him, that it didn't matter, that everything was going to be all right. It was something I'd said often and easily in the last twenty-six years because it
had
been easy, because it had always been true. Until now.

For the first time in my life, I didn't know what to say to my husband.

 

The rain was coming down in sheets and the visibility was so poor that I pulled off at a rest stop to wait for things to clear up.

I lit another cigarette, this time without bothering to crack open a window, no longer caring if the car smelled like smoke. My phone chirruped cheerily to announce an incoming call. I looked at the screen.

Oh, no . . . Lanie. It was twelve minutes after five, which meant she'd been sitting at the Monkey Bar, waiting for me to show up for exactly twenty-seven minutes. Lanie is always on time.

“Where
are
you?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over a background buzz of voices and clinking glassware.

“I should have called. I'm sorry. Something came up—very last-minute. I'm driving up to Connecticut.”

“Connecticut? Now? Why are you . . . Hold on a minute.”

She put the phone down. I heard a scratchy static sound and a mumbled exchange with the bartender, something about extra olives. Lanie likes her martinis dirty.

When she returned she said, “Less than four hours ago you said you were going to meet me here, remember?”

“I know. I'm sorry. It was very last-minute, but I have to go to the cottage for the weekend—”

“The weekend? But you're coming for brunch on Sunday. You are
not
canceling,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. “Not again. I already put in my catering order at Balthazar—goat cheese tart with caramelized onions, pastry basket, fruit platter, the works. You have to come.”

I screwed my eyes shut. Brunch with Lanie and Roger. I'd forgotten.

Brian hadn't wanted to go, but I talked him into it. He doesn't like Roger. I don't like Roger either, but what can you do when your friends marry the wrong people? We'd begged off Lanie's last three invitations. I couldn't say no.

“Lanie. I'm so sorry. I know I promised, but I . . . I just can't.”

There was a brief pause, just long enough for her to swallow a mouthful of olive-infused gin. I braced myself, expecting an explosion, but she surprised me.

“Gayla,” she said, “something is wrong. Tell me.”

She was direct as always, but uncharacteristically gentle. It cut me to the quick. Between sobs, I told her everything, pouring out the whole story minute by minute, from the conversation with Sandy Tolland to pulling off the freeway to wait out the rain. A part of me thought it was a mistake, but I couldn't stop myself.

“You're kidding. Brian?” she asked, sounding genuinely disappointed. “I thought he was the last monogamous man on the planet. Damn. They really
are
all the same. Oh, my darling. I know it feels like your heart is breaking—believe me, I do—but you've
got
to pull yourself together. Time is of the essence. Gayla? Are you listening?”

Too choked up to speak, I sniffled. Lanie took that as a yes.

“Get out a pen and write this down,” she instructed me and began reciting a series of numbers. “Libby Burrell is the best divorce lawyer in town, a barracuda. Call her right this second. She'll still be at the office; she always is. Has no life at all.”

“Not now, Lanie. Not yet. I need time to think things through.”

“Gayla,” she said impatiently, “don't be an idiot. If you want to avoid financial destruction, you have to act now. The best defense is a good offense, so beat him to the punch. Call Libby and get the ball rolling tonight. Forget that crap about arbitration; there's no such thing as an amicable divorce. After you talk to Libby, freeze all your credit cards. Remember how Bill ran up all our cards to the limit, buying jewelry for that slut?”

I did remember. Bill was Lanie's first husband and a serial adulterer. It had taken years for her to clean up her credit scores.

“Then,” she continued, “you've got to get to the checking account before Brian does and transfer all the money into your personal account. Don't wait until Monday; you can do it online.”

“I don't have a personal account. Everything is held jointly.”

She sighed heavily, as if such stupidity was not to be believed.

“Okay. So on Monday, you go to the bank, open an account in your name, and transfer everything. You've got to do it first thing, Gayla, before Brian does. If he hasn't already. Have you checked your balance today?”

I rubbed my eyes, trying to push away the pain that was forming behind the sockets.

“I think you're jumping the gun. I haven't made any decisions yet.”

“Haven't made any decisions? Sweetie, you don't
get
to decide. It's a done thing. For crap's sake, Gayla; he wrote you a
memo
.”