Mrs. Perfect

“Tom and Rita Hanks,” Patti adds.

“Bode Miller,” I chime in, feeling utterly ridiculous for even having this conversation when my world is spinning wildly out of control. Nathan’s right. Why am I hosting this meeting tonight? Why am I doing this now? He says he’s moving. He says we have no money. He says we’re broke. I nearly sway on my feet.

Patti shoots me another worried glance. I pretend I don’t notice, and the young first-grade mom, Barb, definitely hasn’t noticed. She’s dazzled by what she’s hearing. “And you just . . . hang out . . . with these people?”

Patti shrugs. Her tone is casual, dismissive. “If they’re at the evening parties, and they usually are.”

“Is it hard to get invited to the evening parties?”

“Not if you know people, and ski.”

“Skiing is essential,” I agree, trying to pull myself together. “The people who ski like to get together in the evening for a cocktail party, and every night it’s a different house and party. Of course, the party is never ‘planned’ in advance, but is a spur-of-the-moment thing while on the slopes.”

“But don’t you believe they’re all that impromptu.” Patti laughs. “The cocktail parties are usually catered, and some people bring in chefs to cook for their friends.”

Barb is hanging on every word. “Are kids included?”

“Most kids stay home with the nannies, although there are evenings where kids are included. It’s not the norm, though, and you don’t want to take your kids to an adults-only party. Big mistake.”

They continue talking, but I can’t listen, can’t do this anymore. It’s starting to hit me, really hit me. Nathan hasn’t worked in months. He isn’t a vice president at McKee. We’ve been living on borrowed money. We’re out of money. Broke, he said.

That’s the part I have the hardest time with. How can we be broke?

I’m hit by an icy wave of panic, and then another. I’m shivering again, uncontrollably. I look around, trying to figure out how to escape. Patti grabs my arm, walks me into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she demands, her voice no-nonsense. “Tell me. I know something’s wrong. I’ve known it all night.”

I want to tell her. I want to tell her everything, but the problem is, I don’t understand everything. I don’t understand anything. My husband’s lied to me. My husband’s been living a lie. We’ve all been living a lie. We’ve been going on trips and spending money and buying expensive bottles of wine when we had no savings and Nathan didn’t even have a job.

My stomach heaves. I put my hand to my mouth, afraid I’ll throw up.

Patti suddenly understands. “You’re sick.”

I nod, my hand pressed even more tightly to my mouth as I battle to get my sensitive stomach under control.

“Go upstairs,” she orders. “Get in bed. I’ll wrap up the meeting, send everyone home.” She claps her hands as if I’m a wayward child. “Go. Now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I dash upstairs and climb into bed fully dressed. My head aches. My stomach continues to heave. I’m shivering like mad.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe Nathan’s been lying to me. Not just once, but again and again. For over seven months he’s deceived me. Gotten up and “gone to work” and allowed me to believe that everything’s okay when it’s just the opposite. Nothing’s okay. Everything’s changed. We’re facing disaster.

Chapter Nine

Nathan returns with the girls a little after nine. I get up and put the girls to bed and then robotically wash my face and prepare for bed.

As I leave the bathroom, I find Nathan standing at our bedroom windows, looking out. The clouds have again cleared, and the lights of Seattle sparkle across the low purple lake.

“Do you know what it’s like trying to provide for a family of five in Bellevue?” he asks as I turn off the bathroom light.

“No.”

“Did you ever wonder?”

“You never talked about it.”

“But then again, it’s not as if you wanted to be bothered,” he answers.

The coldness is back in his voice, the sharp tone that makes me feel as though we’re balancing on a knife’s edge.

“You’re oblivious,” he continues brutally. “You’ve no idea how expensive it is here. No idea how pressured I’ve felt. I barely sleep at night. I wake up early and go work out to keep from having a nervous breakdown.”

I sit on the side of the bed, slide my hands beneath my thighs to hide how much they shake. “I wish you’d tried to tell me.”

“I did.” He turns to face me. “I said, Taylor, stop spending. Taylor, we’re tight on cash. Taylor, don’t buy things. Taylor, Taylor, Taylor.”

He did. I hang my head, the guilt and shame so dark and deep that I can hardly breathe. I feel lost and scared, the same fear I felt when I was fourteen and ashamed of my mother and ashamed of my father and ashamed to be Tammy Jones.

“Why didn’t you listen?” he demands, walking toward me. “Why didn’t you care?” His hands bunch at his sides. He’s furious, and he’s shaking, too. Nathan isn’t a fighter. He avoids conflict like the plague.

Just like my dad, I think, and my dad’s conflict avoidance meant he ended up becoming the laughingstock of Pasadena. Dad didn’t want to fight with Mom and did everything he could to avoid the truth, which included admitting that he was married to a woman with no moral fiber.

But this isn’t about my parents, it’s about Nathan and me and our life together. A life that seems as fragile as a sandcastle.

“I did care,” I whisper. “I do.”

“Then why didn’t you stop?”

I can’t answer him. He already knows I’m compulsive and obsessive. He knows the reason I try so hard to be perfect is to make up for my failures.

“Maybe it’s better if you don’t go to Omaha,” he says after a moment. “Maybe it’s better if you and the girls stay here. Better to keep the girls settled until you and I sort out our thing.”

I lift my head to look him in the face. “What do you mean, our thing?”

“Us. You and me. It’s not really working anymore, is it?”

He’s taken my heart in his hand. “I still love you.”

“And I love you. But—” He pauses, rifles his hair, his expression stricken. “But what good is love when it turns us into this?”

Chest burning, eyes burning, I look past him to the night and the lake and the lights of a boat slowly sailing by.

“Face it, Taylor, we’re not living in reality. We haven’t been in years. We both buy stuff to keep us busy. To keep from feeling empty.”

My eyes are watering. I’m trying to hold back the tears. I don’t want to cry.

“Taylor . . .” His voice drops, persuasive. “I know you’re not happy. I don’t make you happy—”

“But you do,” I interrupt, desperation making my voice too loud. “You do,” I repeat, more gently. “I love you. I love you more than I’ve loved anyone or anything. That’s what makes our girls so special. They’re you and me together. They’re us.”

He just shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says finally. “I realized this afternoon I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore. I need to get back to work, get back to earning money and paying the bills. Get back to the things that matter.”

“I don’t matter?”

“The family matters.”

I hear such a strong “but” in there. “But it’s not the girls you want to get away from. It’s me.”

He gives me a side glance, his expression remote, shuttered. “Taylor, you’re still not listening. I love you, but I can’t do this right now. I need to think. I need some time.”

Nathan goes to bed, but I can’t sleep. I pace downstairs. I eat four white-cheddar-flavored rice cakes. A handful of almonds. A couple of Oreos. Half a pint of ice cream.

Nathan has said things he’s never said before. He’s said the very things I’ve feared my whole life. I?

??m too flawed. Too broken. Unlovable.

My hand presses to my eyes to stem the tears. I wrap the other arm around my middle, holding in all sound. I have to keep it together. Have to keep me together.

I get scared when I hurt like this. So afraid there’s something really, truly wrong with me. None of my other friends ever talk about hurting. None of them talk about fear and shame. I went to counseling for a number of years after I graduated from USC. I was tired of being bulimic, tired of hating myself. The counseling did help. Maybe I need to go again.

At one, I make myself go upstairs and climb into bed. Nathan sleeps with his back to me. His shoulder is so wide, his legs so long. I creep toward him, lie curled just behind him, as close as I can without actually touching him. I need his warmth. I need his love. But most of all, I need him.

In the morning, I get the girls to their bus stop and return home to tackle the breakfast dishes, only to find that Nathan’s already done them and is now sitting with Tori on the couch, reading her one of her favorite stories, the Berenstain Bears’ The Bears Picnic.

I hover in the doorway, listening to Nathan read. It’s a story I’ve heard a thousand times before. Jemma never really took to the Berenstain Bears stories, but Brooke and Tori just loved them. Tori has her dad read them at least once a week.

When Nathan finishes the story, I drive Tori to preschool and come home instead of heading to the gym. Upstairs, I find Nathan packing. He’s dragged out a suitcase—a real suitcase, not one of those overnight bags that hold a few things. This suitcase could empty his closet.

That’s when I get it. Nathan’s leaving. Really leaving. Permanently leaving.

I lean against the doorjamb, my legs weak. “When do you fly out?”

“Tonight.”

“The girls—”

“Already know. I told them last night. I’ve promised them I’ll call every day. I told Jemma to keep her cell phone charged, as I’ll call the girls daily on that.”

“You don’t want to use the house number?”

“You’re not usually at the house, and I don’t want to risk missing talking to the girls. This way they know they can always reach me, too.”

I bundle my arms across my chest. “You make it sound like we’re getting divorced.”