The First Husband

Eight inches. Griffin was eight inches away. I’d traveled clear around the world twice. I’d been to Dubai three times; Hong Kong, four. I’d found the tiniest town in New Zealand, which takes three days to get to by boat, and, then, only if you know exactly where you are going.

I could get as far away as possible.

And still. I couldn’t figure out how to move eight lousy inches toward the person I needed most.

24

A few days later, I did something I didn’t ever think I’d do. I drove all the way out to Amherst, to the library at the state university there, to write my final column for “Checking Out.” The column was focused on Las Vegas—a city that, despite its close proximity to Los Angeles, I had avoided writing about the entire duration of the time I worked on the column. I picked several things about Las Vegas, several things that would make it a trip worth embarking on—a place where you’d want to escape. They included a beautiful hike out in Red Rock Canyon (for “Open Your Eyes”), an underground Korean restaurant (“Find the Special Sauce”), a bizarrely interesting lake community (“Take the Wrong Exit), and a private downtown casino—far from the strip—that was open only after midnight, and housed Edward, the longest-running blackjack dealer in Vegas, who had been dealing blackjack hands for seventyone years (“Leave Your Comfort Zone”).

And then, for the final one (“Discover the One Thing You Can’t Find Anywhere Else”), I chose something personal, the first and only personal thing I’d really shared about myself in the entirety of writing my column. I wrote about the chapel, the small chapel with orange shutters right on the Las Vegas city border, where you could have a quiet wedding, quieter then the rest of Las Vegas would certainly allow. Where the in-house chaplain would give you sweet bouquets of white and green flowers, and raspberry-infused champagne. He’d also give you a moment alone. Before and after the service.

But I didn’t write down any of that. What I wrote was this:

Because it’s where I married my husband.

I hit SEND, and left the library quickly. Or, I should say, I intended to leave the library quickly. But, on the way out, I saw it—on a pole right by the main door—a poster announcing MOVIE NIGHT in the Student Commons. And the movie they were showing. Roman Holiday.

I can’t explain exactly why I went over to the commons to watch it, why I gave in to my need to get lost in its comfort. Maybe because I felt so emptied right then, so very tired. Maybe because I felt something else, something more precarious—that tricky mix of lost and found—which, I was learning, meant I was entering the final moment where both outcomes were equally possible.

I got to the commons halfway through the movie, in time to see Joe Bradley and Princess Ann sitting together by the incredible Spanish Steps, as he convinced her to step outside herself and do the things she’d always most wanted to do—take a disallowed adventure through Rome’s glorious streets and cafés; ride a motorcycle and go dancing; find the magical wall where wishes came true. To give in, if just once, to her own heart.

I got there in time to see Ann sitting in Bradley’s car at the end of their adventure, looking dazzling and alive and brutally resolved, saying good-bye to her one love.

I have to leave now. I’m going to that corner there and turn. You must stay in the car and drive away. Promise not to watch me go beyond the corner. Just drive away and leave me, as I leave you.

I got there in time for all of that. And I stayed until the very end, enjoying every single second.

And, forty-eight hours later, Nick came to take me home.

Part 3

Happily Ever After . . . Take 2

You may do this, I tell you, it is permitted.

Begin again the story of your life.

—JANE HIRSHFIELD

25

It was the morning of Griffin’s restaurant opening and I decided it all came down to this: I needed to remember. Before I opened my eyes, I needed to remember—no, I needed to know—five things about this room. Five was a good number. It clearly counted as several, counted as many. I needed to prove to myself that waking up in someone’s house, someone’s house who was apparently my husband, waking up in a bedroom I had committed to living my life in, I knew many things about it for certain. From memory. From some place deep inside myself. Then, maybe, this was my home. Then I could decide what to do next.

Number one. On the wall across from the bed, there was a black-and-white photograph of the Strand Theater in Keyport, New Jersey. A beautiful photograph of the theater’s side view, taking up most of the wall. It was a photograph Griffin’s mother had taken, which he’d blown up and framed himself. She had taken it when Griffin was a kid, during a summer the family had spent down on the New Jersey Shore. Griffin told me he remembered standing there, beside his mother, when she took it. He remembered because it was the first time all day she hadn’t insisted that he and Jesse stand in the frame too. She’d wanted the theater alone. I had seen a remarkably similar photograph of the theater in the window of an art gallery in Venice Beach. It had struck me, even then, but I hadn’t gone inside to look at it closely. So maybe I was remembering wrong. What I thought had struck me, what I thought I’d seen. What I thought was connecting Griffin and me, even before we were connected.

Number two. Large glass doors covered the left wall of the bedroom, two beautiful french doors that led out to a balcony. This was my favorite part of the room. My favorite part of the house. Those doors, that balcony. The house—its sweet Craftsman quality—felt built around it. Griffin put a wicker rocking chair out there, and I loved sitting in it and looking out, toward the backyard, the forest, the river beyond it. The two times I had.

Number three. There was a desk in the corner of the room, an iron desk—slanted, like an artist’s desk, but with a slender drawer. A drawer that had a gold knob, which I had assumed would open the drawer. I’d assumed wrong. When I turned the knob, it fell off. I’d hidden it in the sock drawer. That tiny gold knob. Hidden the minor crime. And I still hadn’t told Griffin. I still hadn’t gotten around to telling him that either.

Number four. The walls were painted a pale blue. Not an ocean blue, not a deep royal blue. Softer than all of that. Griffin had these soft blue walls that looked lovely with his brown curtains, a combination that couldn’t help but draw your eyes upward, toward the sky itself. Toward Gia’s incredible design, living there. Still living right above me.

I opened my eyes. I was out. At four, I was out. I had thought there were two matching nightstands—iron and tilted, like the desk—but that was wrong. When I opened my eyes, I saw that there was only one. By my side. The side that ate my wedding ring. On the other side, on Griffin’s, there was a small table. His ring resting there, safe.

So there I was. At number four. Four was better than three. It wasn’t five, but it was better than three. So why was my heart pounding so loudly, and so hard, that it was starting to hurt? Why was I panicking? And what did it mean that, as much as I tried to push the question aside, it kept coming back: How could I stay here?

Because there was this: There was a number five that I knew, only it belonged to me. My suitcase, by the bedroom door, still packed. And ready to be used. In a matter of minutes, ready to come with me out of here.

Just then, my eyes on the suitcase, Griffin reached out, and put his arm around me. His arm was surprisingly heavy—were many men’s arms this heavy? Nick ’s certainly wasn’t. I didn’t remember ever having an arm around me that was that heavy—that sturdy, that ready. Ready, in its strength, to try and keep me safe. His arm had this long vei