One Saturday night, Danny and I were out with a few other guys at one of the more crowded college bars. With finals looming, most of us were a bit anxious, which of course we tried to downplay. Instead, we drank as we usually did--a bit past buzzed--all except Danny, whose slow-down switch had flipped to the "on" position.
He got the call a little past eleven; I have no idea how he even heard the ring over the noise in the bar. But he did, and after glancing at the screen, he got up from the table and went outside. We thought nothing about it. Why would we? Nor did we consider it amiss when he walked past our table after coming back inside and made a beeline for the bar.
I watched him wedge himself between some people, vying for the bartender's attention. It took a few minutes before he received his drink, but when he turned, I saw that he'd ordered a cocktail--a very tall glass of something golden brown. He wandered off toward another area of the bar, as if he'd forgotten us entirely.
Of everyone there, I was probably his closest friend, so I followed him. By then, he was leaning against the wall near the restroom. As I approached, he took a huge swallow from his glass, finishing nearly a third of its contents.
"What do you have there?" I asked.
"Bourbon."
"Wow. That's a pretty big glass."
"I told them to fill it," he said.
"Did I miss the contest where Pabst got second place, not first?"
It wasn't particularly funny and I don't know why I said it, other than that the way he was acting was making me nervous.
"It's what my dad drinks," he said.
For the first time, I noticed his shell-shocked expression. Not the effect of alcohol. Something else.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He took another long drink. By then, the glass was half empty. It had to be at least four, maybe five shots. Danny was going to be drunk, maybe very drunk, in a very short while.
"No," he said. "I'm not okay."
"What happened? Who called?"
"My mom," he said. "It was my mom who called." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She just told me my dad died."
"Your dad?"
"He was in a car accident. She found out just a few minutes ago. Someone from Highway Patrol came by the house."
"That's... awful," I said, truly at a loss for words. "Is--is there anything I can do? Can I bring you to your place?"
"She's getting me a ticket to fly home tomorrow. I don't know what I'm going to do about finals, though. Will they let me retake them next week?"
"I don't know, but that's the last thing you should be thinking about right now. Is your mom okay?"
It took him a long time to answer. Instead, he seemed to be staring into the distance.
"No," he said. He gulped at his drink, finishing it. "She's not. I need to sit down."
"Sure," I said. "Let's go."
I led him back to the table. Despite the alcohol he'd consumed, he didn't seem affected at all. Instead, he sat quietly, adding nothing to the conversation. He didn't mention the death of his father to anyone else at the table, and an hour later, I drove him back to his apartment.
He went home on Sunday, just as he'd told me he would. And though we were friends, I never saw or heard from him again.
"Hold on," Marge said. After I dropped London off at school on Tuesday morning, she'd come straight to my house, where we sat at the kitchen table. "So she just... left?"
"Last night," I said.
"Did she at least say she was sorry?"
"I don't remember." I shook my head. "I can't even... um... I mean... I..."
I couldn't keep my thoughts straight; my roiling emotions--shock and fear, disbelief and anger--had me veering from one extreme to the next. Though I knew I'd done it, I couldn't remember driving London to school only a few minutes earlier; the drive had been consigned to nothingness.
"Your hands are shaking," Marge said.
"Yeah... I'm okay." Trailing off, I took a long breath. "Shouldn't you be at work? I can scramble up some eggs."
Marge would tell me later that I got up from the table and went to the fridge; as soon as I pulled it open, I must have decided I needed coffee instead. I went to the coffee cabinet and then realized I should probably get cups out for Marge and me first. But I must have thought I still needed coffee so I set the cups beside the coffeemaker. She watched as I went to the fridge and pulled out the eggs before returning them to the same location. She said I then wandered to the pantry and came out with a bowl and...
"How about I make breakfast?" she suggested, rising from the table.
"Huh?"
"Have a seat."
"Don't you need to go to work?"
"I've decided that I'm taking the day off." She reached for her cell phone. "Sit down. I'll be back in minute. I just have to tell my boss."
As I took my seat, I was struck anew by the realization that Vivian had left me. That she was in love with her boss. She was gone. I watched Marge open the door to the back patio.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to call my boss."
"Why are you calling your boss?"
Marge stayed with me all day. She picked up London from school and also brought her to and from her piano lesson. Liz came by after her last appointment, and together they not only made dinner, but kept London entertained and helped her get ready for bed. It wasn't often that her aunties came by to play, and London was over the moon from the extra attention.
Again, it would be Marge who would tell me this. Like the drive to school, I wouldn't be able to remember it. The only thing I really remember was watching the clock and waiting for Vivian to call, something she never did.
The next morning, after sleeping less than three hours, I crawled out of bed feeling almost hungover, with all my nerves on edge. It was a monumental effort to shower and shave, something I'd neglected the day before. Nor had I eaten much--only a few bites at breakfast and dinner--but the thought of food was inconceivable.
Marge handed me a cup of coffee as soon as soon as I entered the kitchen, then started loading a plate. "Take a seat," she said. "You need something in your stomach."
"What are you doing here?"
"What does it look like? I came by this morning to make sure you had something to eat."
"I didn't hear you knock."
"I didn't," she said. "After you went to bed, I borrowed your house key. I hope you don't mind."
"It's fine," I said. Raising the mug, I took a sip but the coffee tasted wrong, off somehow. Despite the tantalizing aromas, my stomach remained knotted. Nonetheless I pulled out my chair at the table and plopped down. She set a plate in front of me, piled high with eggs, bacon, and toast.
"I don't think I can eat," I offered.
"Too bad," she said. "You're going to eat, even if I have to tie you to the chair and feed you myself."
Too worn out to argue, I forced down a few bites; strangely, every bite seemed a little easier than the last, but I still finished less than half of it.
"She left me."
"I know," Marge said.
"She didn't want to try to work it out."
"I know."
"Why? What did I do wrong?"
Marge took a puff from her inhaler, buying time, and fully aware that casting blame or heaping criticism on Vivian would only heighten my emotional turmoil.
"I don't think you did anything wrong. It's just that relationships are hard, and both people have to want them to work."
As true as the statement was, I felt no relief when she said it.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay with you today?" Marge asked.
"I can't ask you to take another day off," I said. Eating seemed to have had a mildly stabilizing effect on my emotional state. I still wasn't great, mind you. Not even close. The emotional surges may not have been the tidal waves of yesterday, but they were still in the rogue wave category, the kind that sank the Andrea Gail in the film The Perfect Storm. I felt wildly off ba
lance, but hoped that I could still handle the basics. Get London to school and back. Dance class. Order pizza for dinner. I knew I wouldn't have the mental or emotional energy for anything else; even reading the paper or vacuuming were way beyond my capabilities. My goal was simply to stay upright and take care of my daughter.
Marge didn't seem convinced. "I'm going to call and check on you today. More than once."
"Okay," I agreed, but I knew there was part of me that was afraid to be alone. What if I simply broke into pieces as soon as she left? Or shattered, like the rest of my world.
Vivian had left me.
She was in love with someone else.
I was a terrible husband, worthless, and I had failed.
I disappointed her one too many times, and now I was alone.
Oh, my God, I thought, as soon as Marge closed the door behind her. I'm alone.
I'm going to end up dying alone.
While London was at school, I walked. I paced from one end of the house to the other and back again; I walked the streets of my neighborhood for hours. Questions about Vivian smashed into one another like endless battering rams. Was she in Atlanta or in another city? Was she taking the day off to set up the apartment or at the office? I wondered what she was doing--I imagined her using an earpiece as she spoke on the phone in a corner office, or hurrying down the hall carrying a stack of papers, the office I envisioned shifting from sleek and modern to stuffy and formal. I wondered whether Spannerman was with her; I wondered whether she was laughing beside him or at her desk with her head in her hands. I checked my cell phone constantly, hoping to hear from her, watching for texts or missed calls. I brought the phone everywhere. I wanted to hear her voice telling me that she'd made a mistake and that she wanted to come home. I wanted her to tell me that she still loved me. I wanted her to ask me to forgive her, and in my heart, I knew that I wouldn't hesitate. I still loved her; the thought of life without her was incomprehensible.
All the while, I continued to wonder what I had done wrong. Was it quitting my job? Was it that I'd gained a little weight? Was it that I had worked too much, prior to quitting my job? And when did things start going wrong? When did I become disposable? How could she leave us? How could she leave London? Did Vivian intend to take her to Atlanta?
The final question was the worst of all, too much to contemplate, and after finally returning to the house, I was exhausted. I knew I should nap, but as soon as I lay down, my mind began to race. Marge called three times, and I realized I had yet to tell my parents what had happened, but I still didn't want to believe it.
I wanted this to be a dream.
In midafternoon, I picked up London while my internal storm continued to rage. She asked for ice cream, and though the request felt impossibly taxing, I somehow made it to Dairy Queen. I also, somehow, got her to dance class on time.
I went for a walk while London was at class. I'm not a strong man. I paced to the end of the strip mall. When I reached it, tears had begun to blur my vision and all at once, I was standing by myself with shoulders heaving, my face in my hands.
"When's Mommy coming home?" London asked me. There was a box of pizza on the table and I set my slice of pizza aside. I'd finished half of it. "I don't know, sweetheart. I haven't talked to her," I said. "But as soon as I find out, I'll let you know."
If she thought my answer odd, she didn't show it. "Did I tell you that Bodhi and me found a baby turtle at recess?"
"A baby turtle?"
"We were playing freeze tag and I found it over by the fence and he was so cute. And then Bodhi came over and he thought it was really cute, too. We tried to feed it grass, but it wasn't hungry, and then all the other kids came over and the teacher came over, too. And we asked if we could put it in a box and bring it into the classroom and the teacher said yes!"
"That sounds exciting."
"It was! She got a pencil box and she put the turtle in it, and then we all walked with her while she brought it into the classroom. I think the turtle was scared because it kept trying to get out but it couldn't because the box was too slippery on the sides. And then we wanted to name it but the teacher said that we probably shouldn't because she was going to let it go."
"She didn't want to keep it?"
"She said that it probably missed its mommy."
I felt a lump in my throat. "Yeah. That makes sense."
"But me and Bodhi named him anyway. We decided to call him Ed."
"Ed the turtle?"
"We also thought about calling him Marco."
"How do you know it's a boy turtle?"
"We just know."
"Oh," I said and despite the torment of the last couple of days, I found myself smiling.
It didn't last.
While I was putting the remains of the pizza into ziplock bags, Vivian called. When I saw her photograph on the screen of my phone, my heart suddenly hammered in my chest. London was in the family room watching television and I stepped out the kitchen door, onto the back patio. I steeled myself before connecting the call.
"Hey there," I said, trying to sound like everything was normal between us when actually, nothing was normal at all. "How are you?"
She hesitated. "I'm okay. How are you?"
"It's been a little strange here," I said. "But I'm holding up. Where are you now?"
She seemed to debate whether or not to answer. "I'm in Tampa," she finally admitted. "Is London around? Or is she already in the bath?"
"No, not yet. She's in the family room."
"Can I talk to her?"
I steadied my breathing. "Before I put her on the phone, don't you think we should talk?"
"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Russ."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what you want me to say."
"What I want you to say?" I repeated. "I want you to give us another chance, Vivian." I ignored the deafening silence on her end. "I still feel like I don't know what's really going on. How can we make this work? We can go to counseling."
Her voice was tight. "Please, Russ. Can I just talk to London? I miss her."
Don't you miss me? Or are you with Walter right now?
The thought came unbidden, bringing with it the image of my wife calling from a hotel suite, Walter watching television in an adjoining area, and it was all I could do to step back inside the house and call to my daughter.
"Your mom's on the phone, London. She wants to say hi."
I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the conversation, even when London wandered toward the family room. I heard her tell Vivian about her day--she also told Vivian about the turtle--and say I love you; I heard her ask when Vivian was coming home. Though I didn't hear the answer, I could tell by London's expression that she didn't much like the answer. Okay, Mommy, she eventually said. I miss you, too. We can talk tomorrow.
Vivian knew I generally turned my phone to airplane mode when I went to bed, and old habits dying hard, I did so again that night. In the morning, after turning it back on, I saw that Vivian had left two voicemails.
"I know you wanted to talk and we will, but only when we're both ready. I don't know what else I can tell you. I want you to know that I didn't plan for this to happen, and I know how much I've hurt you. I wish it wasn't this way, but I don't want to lie to you either.
"I'm mainly calling about London. Right now, it's insanely busy at work with the transition and Walter's PAC and all the traveling. We still have the DC leg, and we're flying up to New York this weekend. And since I'm traveling so much, it's probably best if London stays with you for a while. I want to get settled in here first and get her room set up, but I haven't had time to start either of those things. Anyway, I think it's important that you don't tell London what's going on yet. She's already stressed with school and I know she's got to be exhausted. Besides, I think this is something we should do together. Hold on. Let me call you right back. I don't want your voicemail to cut me off."
The second voicemail picked up where
she'd left off.
"I spoke with a counselor today about the best way to tell London, and she said we should stress that we think it's best if we just live apart for a while, without mentioning separation or divorce. And obviously, we should both emphasize that it doesn't have anything to do with her and that we both love her. Anyway, we can discuss it more in person, but I wanted to let you know that I'm trying to do what's best for London. We'll also have to talk about when it might be a good time for her to come to Atlanta." She paused. "Okay, I think that's it. Have a good day."
Have a good day?
Was she kidding? Sitting on the edge of the bed, I replayed the voicemails several times. I think I was searching for something--anything--to suggest that she still cared about me in the slightest, but if it was there, I didn't hear it. I heard a lot of what she wanted, cloaked in terms that were ostensibly all about London's well-being, and the subterfuge infuriated me. While I was thinking about it, my cell phone rang.
"Hey there," Marge said, her tone sympathetic. "Just calling to check in on you."
"It's not even seven in the morning."
"I know, but I was thinking about you."
"I'm... kind of angry, actually."
"Yeah?"
"Vivian left a couple of messages," I said. I paraphrased as best I could.
"Oh, boy. That's what you woke up to? Not exactly a cup of delicious coffee, is it? Speaking of which, I'm on your street and about to pull in your driveway. Unlock your front door."
I left the bedroom and padded downstairs. By the time I got the door open, Marge was already getting out of the car, holding a pair of Styrofoam cups.
Watching her walk up the drive, I noted she was already dressed for work. "I can make coffee here," I said.
"I know. But I wanted to lay my eyeballs on you. Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Maybe four or five hours."
"I didn't sleep much either."
"Liz keeping you up late?"
"No," she said. "Just worried about you. Let's go inside. Is London up yet?"
"Not yet."
"How about I get her ready while you enjoy your coffee?"
"I'm not incompetent."
"I know," she said. "Actually, you're the opposite. You're holding up a lot better than I would be in your shoes."