The First Husband

She sighed. “If only it were that simple.”

I smiled, looking toward the next group of paintings and realizing we were coming up on the series of purple Christmas trees. And then I was right in front of it: the double tree bearing the names SaMMMMMy and DeXXXXX. Written just like that. Sadly, they weren’t exactly good trees—even forgetting the purple. One could confuse them with flagpoles instead. Or pretzels.

I ran my fingers over the tree anyway, over the letters of their names. “These are them,” I said.

“Them who?”

“My nephews,” I said. “Sammy and Dexter Putney . . .”

“Sammy and Dexter?” she asked.

And then she went white. She went so white, right in front of my eyes, that suddenly I understood the expression “seeing a ghost.” All of a sudden, I could see one.

She stared at me for a long minute. “So are you related to Jesse’s wife or something?” she said. “You must be related to Cheryl, right? She has a stepsister, I think. Or maybe you’re just a good friend of the family. The kind of friend they call aunt . . .”

But she started talking very low. She started talking very low, and in the voice of someone who already had a question’s unfortunate answer.

“No, I’m actually married to Jesse’s brother, Griffin,” I said. “Just recently, though.”

The air started to close out of the room. I didn’t know how—or why—but I could feel it condensing around us.

“How just recently?”

“We met in Los Angeles while he was filling in at a restaurant near where I live. Or where I lived, I guess.”

I gave her a smile, but she wasn’t having it. So I kept talking.

“The whole thing happened really fast, actually . . .” I said. “I probably shouldn’t tell you how fast or you’ll get the wrong impression about me. I’ve never done anything like this before. Impulsive like this, before.” I felt myself blushing a little. “And I’ve always hated people who say things like, ‘When you know, you know.’ I’ve never just known about anything else. Not even a pair of socks.”

She was staring at me, as if with a growing level of concern that I might be a lunatic.

“Well, maybe there was one pair of socks at some point. For the gym or something . . .”

Nothing. She said nothing. I was still talking, telling her more than she could possibly want to know, more than anyone could. But I couldn’t seem to stop. I couldn’t seem to stop trying to do something to bring her color back.

Then I noticed it on the inside of her wrist—the other half of Griffin’s tattoo. The other half of the anchor. The right half. The sharper one.

“Oh my gosh, wait. You’re Gia?”

She nodded. “I’m Gia.”

“Griffin told me about you! I guess not your last name, though,” I said. “But he told me about the tattoo. I love it. I mean, I love the tattoo. But I also love that you guys did that together.”

I was still smiling. This is the worst part: I was still smiling when I said this. I didn’t quite know yet that I shouldn’t be. Then Gia, my former new friend, walked away from me. She turned and walked away from me, fast.

And I got my first idea.

13

Something else I discovered from writing “Checking Out,” something that should not be underrated, is the joy people feel when they get to pretend to be someone else for a while. When you travel, you can become anyone. No one knows you. No one is telling you who—based on your history, or their ideas about your history—they’ve decided you are. When you travel, everything is unfamiliar and possible again. Like with a brand-new job or a brand-new partner. Like with a first kiss. For a short, perfect while, you get to see yourself—you get to experience yourself—as new. Until the inevitable (and inevitability surprising) reminder: you are still you.

I walked through town in a fog, the directions to Griffin’s restaurant in my fleece jacket’s pocket, taking too many wrong turns anyway. Then I found a small, barnlike structure—slightly hidden from Main Street, unless you knew to look for it—with an amazing red chimney, scaffolding surrounding it, a sign (matching the chimney’s red) without a name on it yet, still resting on the ground by the front door, still waiting to be raised.

I walked inside—the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street blasting out its glory from a floor-side stereo—to find the place midconstruction, working toward its own glory: unfinished floors and markings on the walls, electrical wires coming from the ceiling. A large, rectangular hole in the far wall that I imagined was going to be the bar area. A cool, metal chandelier waiting to be raised above it, Griffin touching its top as he talked to several men.

When he looked up and saw me standing there, he gave me a big smile and headed my way.

“You’re here,” he said.