Mrs. Perfect

But right now, looking into the girls’ tear-streaked faces, I can’t remember what they are.

The girls are on the sullen side when I take them to school the next morning. They don’t want me to work anymore. They don’t want Mrs. Slutsky coming to the house in the afternoon. They just want me there.

Frankly, I’d like to be there, but I need the income. We need the income.

Nathan calls during my lunch to see how the move went. He called a few times over the weekend, but we could never say more than hi and bye, as I was always in the middle of something like loading boxes into the truck, or away from my cell, or just about to feed the girls Sunday night.

Now I start to tell him about the new house and the new sitter when Marta beeps in from Los Angeles, where she’s presenting to a commercial real estate company. “Nathan, I have to take her call. She only calls if it’s important.”

“Taylor, we really do have to talk.”

“I know.”

“When can we?”

“I don’t know. It’s so busy here. I’m so busy.” I can hear the beeping of Marta’s call still, and I’m panicking that she might hang up. “I’ll try you soon.”

“I’m heading into a meeting, Taylor—”

“Okay. Then we’ll talk after that. Sorry. Bye.” I hang up quickly and take Marta’s call, but the cloud of doom and gloom is on me again.

I’ve learned now that when Nathan says we have to talk, it means he has something to tell me, and it’s never good news.

I try to call Nathan back before leaving work, but I don’t reach him. He calls me while I’m making dinner. “Sounds like you’re busy,” he says, and I immediately feel defensive.

“I’ve just got three hungry little girls here,” I answer, trying not to be short and yet wanting to throw the phone. I’m tired. I really am. “You said you had something important to tell me . . . ?”

He hesitates. “I do.”

“So?”

“Maybe now is not a good time.”

I can’t hide my exasperation. “Will there ever be a good time?”

“I don’t know.”

His voice is so low and heavy that I immediately feel guilty. “Nathan, are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer, and the silence seems to stretch forever.

“Nathan?”

“Maybe we should just do this in person.”

Do what? Panic replaces my guilt. “What, Nathan?”

“I miss you, Taylor.”

I have never heard so much sadness or hopelessness in his voice. My eyes burn and my throat aches. “Come home, Nathan. Please. Because if you don’t, I’m getting on a plane and going there.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I’ll come home.”

“When?”

“Soon. As soon as I can. I promise.”

The rest of the week passes in a frenzy of activity. I wake up, tumble into clothes, hurry kids into theirs, and rush them out the door before hustling to Z Design; and then I’m rushing home, and it’s another frantic couple of hours of homework, housework, laundry, and dinner before bed.

For the first time, I understand what single moms and working moms go through. I’m so busy, I find myself looking at mail as I brush my teeth and leafing through new magazines while peeing. I’ve always been good at multitasking, but multitasking takes on a whole new meaning now.

But even though I’m busy, Nathan is never far from my mind. I think about him first thing when I wake and last thing before I fall asleep, and at night I dream about him, about us, I dream we’re together, we’re over, we’re strangers. I dream the girls miss him. I dream he’s dead. I dream it’s all just a dream and we’re really still in our house and together like we were. In the mornings, I wake up and lie in bed feeling flat, low, depressed.

I need to go to Omaha. I need to go see Nathan.

Marta’s back from Los Angeles, and she returns with a two-page to-do list that she wants taken care of before the holidays, and that’s only my list. She has lists for everyone on the team.

Friday, as it’s a half day, the others leave at noon, but I stay on, determined to get at least half of the company Christmas cards addressed this afternoon. Marta sends cards to 350 customers, colleagues, and contacts; she doesn’t believe in computer-generated labels, and the only way I can do a job like this is by breaking it down in chunks.

With a cup of coffee at my elbow, I work on the stack of envelopes in front of me. I try not to look at the size of the stack; instead I focus on one envelope at a time.

I’ve been working for only forty-five minutes or so when Marta enters the office, slides off her coat, and pulls a paper bag from her purse.

“Here,” she says, pushing the paper bag across the conference table toward me. “An early Christmas present.”

I look in the bag. I pull out a black-and-pink box. There’s a big-breasted blonde on the side and fancy script on the top. I turn the box over to the window and see what’s inside: a gigantic purple penis with silicone veins and a battery end.

Marta’s watching me. “It has great texture. Feel it.”

“What is this?”

“It’s a vibrator.”

“No, I know it’s a vibrator, but . . . what kind of gift is this?” Disgusted, I shove the box back in the bag and crumple it closed.

Marta leans across the table, takes the bag, and dumps out the contents. The box with the silicone penis falls out, along with a smaller box, this one silver and black with a hot pink font.

“And the pocket rocket,” she says, tapping the smaller box. “Every woman has to have one. I love it.”

“Yuck. I don’t want these.”

“Yes, you do. They’ll make you feel better and maybe help you stop pining for Nathan. A man who doesn’t even deserve you, I might add.”

“How can you say that?” I demand, grabbing the boxes and shoving them back into the crumpled bag.

“Because I see what I see. He’s not here for you, he’s not trying to be here for you—”

“Maybe I chased him away. Have you thought about that? Maybe I blew it. Maybe I was the one who messed everything up.”

“How?” She bends down low and looks me hard in the eye. “How did you mess everything up?”

“You don’t know the situation, Marta. You don’t know what Nathan had to put up with—”

“Put up with? Taylor, were you some psycho bitch?”

“No!” I cry, incredulous.

“Did you fly around your house on a broomstick?”

“No.”

“So what did you do that made you so awful?”

I know she’s trying to help me. I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but she doesn’t understand. I do screw up. I have screwed up. I’ve chased Nathan away. And I don’t even know how, as I’ve spent the past twelve years trying to improve me. Trying to be a better woman, a better wife. I have dieted and exercised, I’ve studied fashion and interior design. I’ve taken cooking classes and sailing classes and even joined a wine group so I could appreciate wine with him.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Nothing I do is enough.

“What makes you the villain in this story and Nathan the good guy?” Marta persists.

I shake my head.

“No, I don’t accept that.” Marta is bent so low that we’re eye to eye, and it’s scary as hell. “Tell me. Why are you the bad guy?”

“I . . . have problems.”

“Taylor, everyone has problems. That’s why we have religion. To redeem and save us. To make us whole.”

“But I wasn’t always easy to live with—”

“So who is? And for that matter, did he ever complain before you had money troubles?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Marta returns to her desk, drops into her chair, and crosses her legs. “And I’ll tell you why. Because, Taylor Young, you’re beautiful. You’re smart and hardworking and a great mom and a

ll-around successful. Everyone in the community knows you, and therefore knows him. Nathan isn’t what’s made your family the family it is. It’s you. You’ve created this gorgeous, beautiful family. You carried the babies. You designed the house. You furnished the house. You took care of yourself. You volunteered endlessly at school. You did everything asked of you. And more.”

I grab the Christmas cards and the green envelopes and jam them into my bag. “Maybe I could do these at home—”

“Why can’t you see the good you do?”