Heart of the Matter (11 page)

So far, Dex and Rachel fall squarely in the former camp, still sickeningly in love after all these years. Beyond this, they are truly
best
friends in a way that Nick and I simply are not. For one, they do absolutely
everything
together—go to the gym, read the paper, watch all the same television shows and movies, eat breakfast, dinner, and sometimes even lunch together, and, remarkably, go to bed at the same time every night. In fact, I once heard Dex say that he has trouble falling
asleep
without Rachel—and that they
never
go to bed angry at one another.

This is not to say that Nick and I don’t love the time we spend together—because we really do. But we are not joined at the hip and never have been, even in the beginning. Our workout times (mine nonexistent as of late), bedtimes, and even mealtimes vary greatly. In the evenings, I am perfectly content reading a novel in bed alone, and have absolutely no trouble whatsoever falling asleep without Nick next to me.

I’m not sure that this means their marriage is superior to ours, but at times, it definitely gives me the unsettling feeling that we have room for improvement. Cate and April, with whom I’ve confided the issue, insist that
I
am the normal one, and that Rachel and Dex are atypical, if not completely freakish. April, especially, who has a marriage on the other end of the spectrum, maintains that Dex and Rachel are actually “unhealthy and codependent.” And when I broach the topic with Nick, whether with a wistful or worried tone, he becomes understandably defensive.

“You’re
my
best friend,” he’ll say, which is probably true only because Nick doesn’t really have close friends, typical of most surgeons we know. He once did—in high school and college and even a few in medical school—but hasn’t made much effort to keep up with them over the years.

More important, even if I
am
Nick’s best friend by default, and even if he is my best friend in theory, I sometimes feel as if I share more of my life with Cate and April and even Rachel—at least when it comes to the everyday matters that comprise my life—from the slice of cheesecake I regret eating to the killer sunglasses I found on sale to the adorable thing Ruby said or Frank did. Eventually, I get around to telling Nick this stuff, too, if it’s still relevant or pressing when we’re finally together at the end of the day. But more often, I mentally pare down the important issues and spare him the trivial ones—or at least the ones I think
he
would deem trivial.

Then there is the matter of Dex and Rachel’s sex life, something I know about by accident, really. The conversation began when Rachel recently confided that they’ve been trying for over a year to have a third baby. This, in and of itself, gave me a pang, as Nick has long since ruled out a third in no uncertain terms—and although I overall agree with him, I sometimes long for a less predictable, two-child, boy-girl family.

In any event, I asked Rachel if they’d been working hard at it or just casually trying, expecting her to delve into the typical unromantic strategies and methodologies of couples trying to conceive.

Ovulation kits, thermometers, scheduled intercourse. Instead she replied, “Well, nothing out of the ordinary. . . But, you know, we have sex three or four times a week—and no luck . . . I know a year of trying isn’t
that
long,
but it happened right away with the girls. . .”

“Three or four times a week when you’re ovulating?” I asked. “Well, I’m not really sure exactly when I’m ovulating. So we just have sex four times a week, you know . . .
all
the time,” she said, releasing a nervous laugh, indicating that she didn’t feel entirely comfortable discussing her sex life.

“All the time?” I repeated, thinking of the old Japanese adage that if a newly married couple places a bean in a jar every time they make love during their first year, and then remove one every time they make love thereafter, they will never empty the jar.

“Yeah. Why? Should we do it . . . less?” she asked. “Maybe save it up for the best few days of my cycle? Could that be the problem?”

I couldn’t hide my surprise. “You have sex
four
times a week? As in, every
other
day?”

“Well. . . yeah,” she said, suddenly reverting to her old self-conscious self, the girl I worked so hard to bring out of her shell when she married my brother, with the hope that we would someday feel like sisters, something neither of us had growing up. “Why?” she asked. “How . . . often do you and Nick?”

I felt myself hesitate, then nearly told her the truth—that we have sex three or four times a
month,
if that. But a basic sense of pride, and maybe a little competition, kicked in.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe once or twice a week,” I said, feeling wholly inadequate—like the kind of old married women I used to read about in magazines and couldn’t imagine ever becoming.

Rachel nodded and went on to bemoan her declining fertility and whether I thought Dex would be disappointed never to have a son, almost as if she knew I was lying and wanted to make me feel better by pointing out her own worries. Later, I raised the issue with April, who quelled my fears, likely along with her own.

“Four times a
week?”
she nearly shouted, as if I had just told her they masturbate in church. Or swing with their upstairs neighbors. “She’s lying.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“She totally is. Everyone lies about married sex. I once read that it is the most skewed statistic because nobody tells the truth—even in a confidential survey . . .”

“I don’t think she’s lying,” I say again, feeling relieved to know I wasn’t alone, and even more so later when Cate, who loves sex more than most pubescent boys, weighed in on the subject.

“Rachel is such a pleaser. And a martyr,” she said, giving examples of such behavior from our girls’ trips before we had children—how she always took the smallest room for herself, and defers to everyone else when it comes to dinner decisions. “I can totally see her stepping up to the plate even if she’s not in the mood. Then again . . . your brother « pretty hot.”

“C’mon. Stop,” I say, my automatic response when my friends start going on about how hot my brother is. I’ve heard it my whole life, or at least since high school when his groupies emerged. I even had to jettison a few friends in those days on the suspicion that they were blatantly using me to get to him.

I went on to tell her my theory that looks actually have little to do with attraction to your spouse. That I think Nick is beautiful, but on most nights, it’s not enough to get past my clichéd exhaustion. Couples might fall in love based on looks and attraction, but those things matter less in the long run.

In any event, I am mulling all of this over when Nick finally rounds the corner into the family room, greeting everyone and apologizing for being late.

“No problem,” my mother is the first to say—as if it’s
her
role to absolve
my
husband.

Nick gives her an indulgent smile, then leans in to peck her cheek. “Barbie, dear. We’ve missed you,” he says with a trace of sarcasm only I can detect.

“We’ve missed you, too,” my mother says, giving her watch an exaggerated, brow-raised glance.

Nick ignores her jab, leaning over to plant a real, full-on kiss on my lips. I kiss him back, lingering for a millisecond longer than I normally would as I wonder what I’m trying to prove—and to whom.

When we separate, my brother stands to give Nick a man hug as I think what I always think when my husband and brother are standing side by side—that they could pass for brothers, although Dex is leaner with a green-eyed preppy look and Nick is more muscular with dark-eyed, Italian flair.

“Good to see you, man,” Nick says, smiling.

Dex grins back at him. “You, too. How’re things going? How’s work?”

“Work’s good . . . fine,” Nick says—which typically is about the extent of their professional conversations, as Dex’s understanding of medicine is as cursory as Nick’s grasp of financial markets.

“Tessa told me about your latest patient,” Rachel says. “The little boy roasting marshmallows?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, nodding, his smile receding.

“How’s he doing?” she asks.

“All right,” he says, nodding. “He’s a tough little kid.”

“Is he the one with the single mother?” Rachel asks.

Nick shoots me an irritated look which I take to mean either,
Why are you discussing my patients? or Why are you getting sucked into
this petty gossip?
Or likely both.

“What?” I say to him, annoyed, thinking of the harmless conversation I had with Rachel right after the accident. Then I turn to Rachel and say, “Yes. That’s the one.”

“What happened?” Dex says, always ferreting out a good story. I mentally add it to the satisfying things about my brother—and perhaps one of the reasons he and Rachel are so tight. Without being girly or even metrosexual, Dex will partake in gossip with the girls, even flip through an occasional
People
or
Us Weekly.

I give my brother a rundown of the unfolding story, as Nick shakes his head and mumbles, “Jeez, my wife is turning into such a yenta.”

“What’s that?” my mother says, visibly getting her fur up on my behalf.

Nick repeats his statement, more clearly, almost defiantly.

“Turning
into?”
she asks. “Since when?”

It is a test but Nick doesn’t realize it.

“Since she started spending time with all these desperate housewives,” he says, playing right into her hands. My mother gives me a knowing glance and polishes off her glass of wine with purpose.

“Wait. Did I miss something here?” Dex says.

Rachel smiles and reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Probably,” she says jokingly. “You’re always one step behind, honey.”

“No, Dex,” I say emphatically. “You missed
nothing
here.”

“That’s for sure,” Nick says under his breath, shooting me another reproachful look.

“Oh, get over yourself,” I say.

He blows me a kiss, as if to say the whole thing was a joke.

I blow him a kiss back, pretending to be just as playful, while doing my best to ignore the first seeds of resentment that my mother, in all her self-proclaimed wisdom, predicted.

***

Our collective good spirits are restored at dinner, the mood both fun and festive as we discuss everything from politics to pop culture to parenting (and grandparenting). My mother is on her best behavior, not once taking a jab at anyone, including her ex-husband—which might be a first. Nick, too, seems to go out of his way to be outgoing, and is especially affectionate with me, perhaps feeling guilty for being late or calling me a yenta. The wine doesn’t hurt matters, and as the evening progresses, I find myself becoming looser and happier, buzzing with feelings of familial bliss.

But early the next morning, I awaken with throbbing temples and a renewed sense of worry. When I go downstairs to make coffee, I find my mother at the kitchen table with a cup of Earl Grey and a worn copy of
Mrs. Dalloway,
which I know to be her favorite book.

“How many times have you read that?” I ask, filling the coffeemaker with water and freshly ground beans before joining her on the couch.

“Oh, I don’t know. At least six,” she says. “Maybe more. I find it comforting.”

“That’s funny. I only conjure angst when I think of Mrs. Dalloway,” I say. “Which part do you find comforting? Her never-consummated lesbian longing? Or her yearning for meaning in a meaningless life of running errands, child-rearing, and party-planning?”

It is a line right out of my mother’s book, which she acknowledges with a snort of laughter. “It’s not so much about the book,” she says, “as it is the time in my life when I first read it.”

“When was that? College?” I ask—which was when I first fell in love with Virginia Woolf.

She shakes her head. “No. Dex was a baby—and I was pregnant with you.”

I cock my head, waiting for more.

She kicks off her pink fuzzy slippers that seem incongruous on my mother and says, “Your father and I still lived in Brooklyn. We had nothing then . . . but were so happy. I think it was the happiest time in my life.”

I picture the romantic brownstone floor-through, decorated in kitschy seventies style, where I spent the first three years of my life but only know from photographs, home movies, and my mother’s stories. That was before my father built his law practice and moved us to the traditional Westchester colonial we called home until my parents divorced. “When did you and Dad . . . stop being happy?” I ask her.

“Oh, I don’t know. It was gradual. . . and even up until the very end, we had some good times.” She smiles the sort of smile that can either be a precursor to tears or laughter. “That man. He could be so charming and witty—”

I nod, thinking that he is
still
charming and witty—that those are the two adjectives people always use to describe my dad.

“It’s just too bad he had to be such a womanizer,” she says matter-of-factly—as if she’s simply saying,
It’s too bad he had to wear polyester
leisure suits.

I clear my throat, then tentatively ask for confirmation of something I’ve always suspected. “Were there other affairs? Before her?” I say, referring to my dad’s wife, Diane, knowing my mother hates hearing her name. I truly believe that she is finally over my father and the pain of her divorce, but for some reason, she says she will never forgive the “other woman,” fiercely believing that all women are in a sisterhood together, owing one another the integrity that men, in her mind, seem to innately lack.

She gives me a long, serious look, as if debating whether to divulge a secret. “Yes,” she finally says. “At least two others that I know of.”

I swallow and nod.

“He confessed to those, came completely clean. Broke down, tears and all, and swore he’d never do it again.”

“And you forgave him?”