“Where have you been?” I ask, hoping he was out Christmas shopping for the kids. For me.
“In the Common,” he says.
“What were you doing there?” I ask.
“Walking,” he says.
“Alone?” I ask.
He shakes his head, looking mournful.
“Who were you with?” I say, my stomach dropping.
He looks at me and I hear her name in my head just as he says it aloud. “Valerie Anderson,” he tells me. “Charlie’s mother.” His voice cracks and his eyes appear glassy, as if he might cry, which horrifies me, as I have never seen my husband cry.
“Oh,” I manage to say—or something like that. Some monosyllable to indicate that I heard her name, that I understand what is happening here.
“Tessa,” he says. “I have to tell you something.”
I shake my head out of fear. I know it’s not good, this thing he wants to tell me, this thing I already know deep inside, but don’t want confirmed once and for all. Then he falls to one knee, just as he did the day he proposed.
“No,” I say, as he takes my hands, pressing my knuckles to his cold cheeks. “Tell me you didn’t.”
He stares, motionless, then nods, his chin moving ever so slightly.
“No,” I say again.
He pulls me down beside him, right onto the floor, and whispers, yes, he did.
“Was it just a kiss?” I say, looking into his eyes.
He whispers no, it wasn’t just a kiss.
“Did you have sex with her?” I ask, my voice so calm that it scares me and makes me wonder if I love him. If I ever loved him. If I have a heart at all. Because nothing is breaking inside me. Nothing even hurts.
“Once,” he says. “Just one time.”
But he might as well have said ten or a hundred or a thousand. It might as well have been every night since the day we married. And now tears are welling in his eyes, and he is crying. Something he did not do the last time he was on one knee before me. Something he didn’t do on our wedding day, or the day I stood before him with the plastic stick and pointed to the red lines and told him we were having a baby, or the moment he first held Ruby in his arms and officially became a father, or the moment when he learned we were having a boy, that he was going to have the son he always wanted.
But he is here now, crying. For her. For Valerie Anderson.
I reach out and wipe a tear from his cheek, wondering why I am doing it, whether it will be our final tender exchange.
“I’m sorry, Tessa. I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Are you leaving me?” I ask, as if I’m consulting him before checking beef or fish on a reply card.
“No,” he says. “I ended it. Just now.”
“Just now?” I say. “On your walk?”
He nods. “Yes. Just now . . . Tessa . . . I wish I could take it back. I would take it back if I could.”
“But you can’t,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“I know,” he says. “I know.”
I watch him, my head spinning, ticking through all the times I’ve seen this scenario unfold. To the greenest of teenaged girls who believe they will never love again and to silver-haired, wrinkled women without time to find another. To ordinary housewives and to some of the most beautiful, famous women in the world. I conjure a list with almost no effort, as if I’ve been subconsciously preparing for this moment: Rita Hayworth, Jacqueline Kennedy, Mia Farrow, Jerry Hall, Princess Diana, Christie Brinkley, Uma Thurman, Jennifer Aniston. Yet the list provides me no comfort, no reassurance that his act isn’t about me, isn’t a rejection of me, of everything I am.
I think of that theoretical conversation—the “what would you do?” conversation, all the times I had it, including very recently with Romy and April, when, for all I know, Nick could have already slept with her. What if Nick did this unspeakable thing to me? What would I do?
And now I’m about to find out; I am watching myself again.
I discover that I do not cry. I do not shout. I do not fall apart or crack at all. I keep my voice low, thinking of my children upstairs in the playroom, knowing that this will be a day that they will someday ask about, wondering what I will tell them. I think of my mother—then my father—then my mother again. I think of the fights I overheard and the ones I never knew about. Then I stand, straight and tall, and tell him to leave.
“Please,” he says, a word that doesn’t soften me, but rather, fills me with hate. Hate that gives me strength. This is not the way it’s supposed to be, I think. Hate is not supposed to make you strong. But that is what it is doing.
“Go,” I say just as it occurs to me that I would rather be the one to leave, that I want to be alone, out of this house. That if I stay, maybe my strength will expire. Maybe I’ll collapse on the kitchen floor and won’t be able to microwave the chicken nuggets or sit through the Charlie Brown Christmas special with the kids that I’ve promised they can watch. That the sight of Linus, encircling that scrawny tree with his blue blanket, will be too much for me to bear.
“Get out now,” I say.
“Tessa,” he says.
“Now,” I say. “I can’t stand to look at you.”
Then I step away from him, backing up slowly, as if keeping a close eye on my enemy. The only enemy I’ve ever had. I watch him put his scarf back on, throwing it over his neck, as I flash back to the day we met on the subway, the day I knew that marrying Ryan—sweet, simple Ryan—was a mistake. And the irony of that, the irony of thinking I was saved by Nick, slashes through me, along with profound regret. Regret for every single thing about our life together. Our first date, our wedding day, our move to Boston, our home and everything in it, down to the dustiest can of lentil soup in the back of our cupboard.
Then, for a fleeting second, I even regret our children—a thought that fills me with intense guilt and grief and even more hatred for the person I once loved more than anyone. I silently take it back, frantically telling God that I didn’t mean it, that Ruby and Frank are the only right decisions I’ve ever made. The only things I have left.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking bereaved, wilted, lost. “I will do anything to fix this.”
“There is nothing you can do,” I say. “This cannot be fixed.”
“Tessa—it is over with her . . .”
“It is over with us, Nick,” I say. “There is no us . . . Now get out.”
38
Valerie
She starts to hail a cab back to work, but decides to walk instead, hoping that the cold will numb her heart right along with the rest of her. But by the time her office building is in sight, she knows that the strategy hasn’t worked, not even close. She considers going back inside, if only to turn off her computer and retrieve her briefcase full of documents she needs for an early morning meeting, but she can’t bear the thought of seeing anyone, certain that they would be able to see right through her, somehow tell that her heart had just been broken. Poor Valerie, they will say to one another, the news making its rapid rounds among partners and associates alike. She just can’t seem to catch a break.
So she heads for her car, parked on the fourth floor of the parking garage, listening to the echo of her boots on the cement floor. Her gloveless fingers are so stiff that she has difficulty unlocking her door, and wonders if she could actually have frostbite. It is the sort of question she would have posed to Nick only days ago—how do you know if you’re frostbitten?—not just because it’s a vaguely medical inquiry, but because she had begun to discuss nearly everything with him, down to the smallest minutiae of her day. And the thought that she will never be able to call him again—for reasons big or small—takes her breath away.
She shivers, then slides into her car and starts the engine, staring ahead at the dingy cinder-block wall, coming in and out of focus. After a while, she stops blinking back the tears, her vision growing more blurry, her shoulders shaking with small, stifled sobs. Some time later, when there is nothing le
ft in her, she takes a deep breath, blows her nose, and wipes the mascara from her face. Then she backs out of her spot, weaves her way down to the exit, past the gold-toothed attendant named Willie, who gives her his usual salute good-bye.
That is that, she thinks to herself as she drives to Jason’s house to pick Charlie up, early. Time to move on.
But the next morning she wakes up feeling worse—much worse—as if the disappointment needed a night to solidify. The realization that Nick is gone, that there is no possibility of a future, or even another night together, makes her ache everywhere, as if she has the flu. She gets out of bed, steps into the shower, then goes through all the other motions of her day, feeling a void deeper than she ever imagined possible for someone in her life in such a brief period of time. It is a void she knows she will never fill—never even try to fill. It’s not worth the downside. She wonders what fool ever said that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all—she has never disagreed with something so much.
But as hard as she tries to push him from her mind, the more she misses him and everything about him. His name lighting up her phone, his voice, his hands, his smile. Most of all, she misses the feeling that something special was happening in her life, that she was special.
The only silver lining, she decides, is the timing. For although the approach of Christmas makes her grief more palpable, it gives her a quiet purpose and focus as she sets about her usual goal of single-handedly creating the sort of Norman Rockwell traditions that comprise the best childhood memories. She takes Charlie caroling with a group from her mother’s church, she builds gingerbread houses with him, she helps him write letters to Santa. All the while, she holds her breath, hoping that Charlie doesn’t ask about Nick, determined to create enough magic in her son’s life so that he won’t realize anything is missing.
Two days before Christmas, on the eve of Christmas Eve, as Charlie calls it, she is feeling particularly satisfied with her efforts. As she and Charlie sit by the tree, sipping eggnog, she tells herself that it is only she who feels Nick’s absence—that Charlie is content. Sure enough, he looks up at her and announces that their Christmas tree is the best, better than the one in the lobby of his school, even better than the one at the mall next to Santa.
“Why’s that?” she asks him, milking the compliment, feeling proud, even moved.
“We have more colorful ornaments, fuller branches . . . and more lights.”
She smiles at him, thinking that stringing lights is one of those things she has always put in the category of fatherly tasks, like taking out the trash or mowing the lawn, only much more critical to a child. Because of this, she has always ensured that no man could do a finer job, taking hours to intertwine dozens of strands of blinking, colored lights through the branches, making them as dense as possible, perfecting their placement as if an army of elves were in on the action. She sips her own liberally spiked eggnog and says, “Well, I think I’d have to agree with you. We have a mighty fine tree.”
One beat later, Charlie sprawls out on the floor, resting his chin in his hands, and says, “When is Nick coming over to see it?”
She freezes, his name spoken aloud making her heart flutter, then sink. She has only heard it once since he ended things—when Jason asked for an update. She responded simply, told him that it was over and that she didn’t want to talk about it—an answer her brother wordlessly accepted.
But she cannot give her son the same line now. So instead, she waffles. “I don’t know, sweetie,” she says, feeling guilty for stringing him along but determined not to taint his Christmas, this moment, desperate for the conversation to wait until January.
“When are we going to see him?” Charlie asks, seeming to detect something wrong in his mother’s voice or expression.
“I don’t know,” she says again, forcing a smile. She clears her throat and tries to change the subject back to the tree, remarking on a snowman ornament she made as a child.
“We have to see him before Christmas,” Charlie says. “To exchange gifts.”
Valerie tenses, but says nothing.
“Don’t you have a present for him?” he presses.
She thinks of the vintage postcards of Fenway Park that she bought for Nick on eBay, now tucked into her sock drawer, and the tickets to the symphony she bought for Charlie to give him, imagining the two going alone together, but shakes her head. “No,” she lies to her son. “I don’t.”
“Why not?” he asks, looking confused. In the dim, reddish glow of the tree, she can barely make out the burn on his cheek, and she thinks of how far they have come in two months, how she never imagined that they would be here, like this, that she could ever worry about anything other than Charlie’s basic health. She feels fleeting comfort in this until she considers the emotional damage that this setback could cause. Perhaps more lasting than a scar on his face. “Why don’t you have a present for Nick?”
Her insides seize as she carefully replies, “I don’t know . . . Because he’s not family.”
“So? He’s our friend,” Charlie says.
“Yes . . . But I really only buy presents for family,” she says lamely.
Charlie seems to consider this and then says, “Do you think he got us one?”
“I don’t know, honey. Probably not . . . But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you . . .” she says, her voice trailing off.
“Oh,” Charlie says, looking momentarily hurt. Then his face clears as he says, “Well, that’s okay. I still have something for him.”
“What do you have for him?” she asks nervously.
“It’s a secret,” he says, his voice mysterious in the way of a little boy trying to be mysterious.
“Oh,” she says, nodding.
He looks at her as if he is concerned that he just hurt her feelings. “It’s a Star Wars thing. You wouldn’t understand, Mommy.”
She nods again, adding this to the growing list of things she doesn’t—and likely never will—understand.
“Mommy?” Charlie asks after a few beats of quiet.
“What’s that, Charlie?” she says, hoping that the next words from her little boy will be about Star Wars, not Nick.
“Are you sad?” he asks her.
She blinks and smiles and shakes her head. “No. No . . . Not at all,” she says as convincingly as she can. “It’s Christmas. And I’m with you. How can I be sad?”
He seems to accept this, adjusting the Nativity scene along the Christmas tree skirt, pushing Joseph’s and Mary’s heads together as if in a symbolic gesture before his next question. “Did you and Nick break up? Like Jason always does with his boyfriends?”
She looks at him, stunned, then flounders for the right words. “Honey, we weren’t together like that,” she says. “Nick is married.”
It is the first she’s discussed this basic truth with her son, a fact that fills her with even more guilt.
“We were just friends,” she finishes.
“But you’re not friends anymore?” he asks, his voice trembling.
She hesitates but dodges the question. “I will always care about him,” she says. “And he will always care about you.”
Charlie is not fooled, staring into her eyes and asking, “Did you get in a fight?”
Valerie knows she cannot evade his questions anymore, that she has no choice but to crush him. Two days before Christmas.
“Charlie. No. We didn’t get in a fight . . . We just decided that we shouldn’t be friends anymore,” she says, flustered and feeling certain that she chose the wrong words. Again.
He looks at her as if she just told him that there is no such thing as Santa Claus. Or that he’s real, but just won’t be coming around to their house this year.
“Why?” Charlie says.
“Because Nick is married and has two children of his own . . . and he’s not in our family.”
And he never will be, she thinks. Then forces herself to say the words aloud.
>
“Is he still my doctor?” Charlie asks, his voice strained, panicked.
She shakes her head and says, as cheerfully as she can, that he has a new doctor now—a doctor who taught Nick everything he knows.
Hearing this, Charlie begins to choke up, his eyes growing huge, red, wet.
“So I can’t be friends with him, either?” Charlie asks.
Valerie shakes her head slowly, barely.
“Why not?” he says, now shouting and crying. “Why can’t I?”
“Charlie . . .” she says, knowing that there is no explanation she can give him to make sense of this. Knowing that all of this could have been avoided if she hadn’t been so selfish.
“I’m going to call him now!” Charlie says, pushing up to his knees and then feet. “He told me I could call him anytime!”
Her heart fills with guilt and sorrow as she reaches out for her son.
He angrily resists, swatting at her hand. “He gave me his number!” Charlie sobs, his scar now aglow in a new angle of light. “I have a present for him!”
She tries to hold him again, this time catching him, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as she can.
“Sweetie,” she says, holding him to her. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I want a daddy,” he says, sobbing as he goes limp in her arms.
“I know, sweetie,” she says, her heart breaking even more—something she didn’t think possible.
“Why don’t I have a daddy?” he continues to cry, his sobs gradually losing their edge, turning into soft whimpers. “Where is my daddy?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“He left us,” Charlie says. “Everybody leaves us.”
“No,” she says, breathing into his hair, now crying herself. “He left me. Not you.”
She isn’t sure who she is talking about, but she says it again, more firmly. “Not you, Charlie. Never you.”
“I wish I had a daddy,” he whispers. “I wish you could find my daddy.”