On Grace (4 page)

“I know, buddy. You are the kindergarten man!”

“Kindergarten’s easy. It’s for babies,” Henry says, sneering at his little brother.

“It’s not easy when you’re the one in kindergarten,” I say lightly. “And there are no babies in this house.”

“No more babies!” the boys shout in unison, mimicking my familiar refrain whenever someone mentions we should have another baby. Two is just about all I can handle right now.

As the boys eat, I try to ignore the awful images of Darren’s dalliance going through my brain. I implore myself to focus.
Just get them on the bus. Then you can collapse into a puddle.
I take a deep breath and lean the backpacks (camouflage for Henry, SpongeBob for James) against the door and check, for the third time, to make sure their necessary first-day-of-school forms are inside, including the health forms that I forgot to send before the deadline. All there. Ditto for the school supplies and mid-morning snack (packaged and nut-free). Relieved not to have to worry yet about jackets, mittens, and hats, I return to the kitchen to move things along.

“James’s fish isn’t dead yet, so you have to feed him, Mom,” Henry reminds me.

“His
name
is Little Blue!” James insists, hands on hips and eyebrows scrunched, as I drop a few pellets into the tank.
Damn fish won’t die.

When the boys finish eating, Henry puts on his socks and shoes while I quickly brush James’s teeth and load the dishwasher. I know what’s coming next even as I try to brace myself and remain calm. I have ten months of school mornings until summer vacation, and I had pledged to make it through at least the first one without yelling.

“None of these socks feel good,” Henry whines from the mudroom.

I feel the familiar knots starting in my stomach as a trickle of sweat makes its way down my back. I lower James from the step stool and stand in front of Henry. “But we tried on all these socks, Hen. You said you’d wear them.”

“But they don’t feee-eee-uhhll good,” he replies, trying my patience.

“Well, you’re just going to have to wear them,” I say in a calm voice that surprises us all. The boys are no strangers to my frustrated urgency when it comes to getting out of the house on time. “We don’t have time for this today. Just put them on and deal with it. Once you get your shoes on, you won’t notice the socks anymore.” This tactic has worked in the past, so I pray to the mothering gods that they won’t disappoint.

“Fine.”

Victory.

“Okay, now put your arms around each other. I need a first-day-of-school shot,” I say, as I rally the boys and search for my phone in my purse. “Henry, don’t make rabbit ears over James’s head, please,” I beg as the shutter clicks and captures Henry smirking and James looking behind his head to see what the hell’s going on back there. It’ll have to do. The bus is about to arrive. I sigh, “Come on guys, let’s go.”

The good thing about having my neighborhood’s bus stop right in front of my house is that I have until the last possible moment before we have to rush out the door. And, on the days that I don’t feel like engaging with the likes of Lorna Smithson et al., I can just send the boys on their way and wave from the house until the bus door closes. This being the first day, I brave the dewy grass in my slippers and join the other Central Casting suburban mothers and kids on my lawn.

Which brings me to the bad thing about having my neighborhood’s bus stop right in front of my house: The likes of Lorna Smithson et al. feel some inalienable right to comment on the state of my grass, and I can always be sure that as the bus pulls away I will find sundry breakfast food wrappers from some of the neighborhood children littering my lawn, especially those for strawberry Pop-Tarts, which I know for a fact don’t belong to Lorna Smithson’s triplets, because I know for a fact she feeds them only steel-cut oats with organic blueberries and a kale shake. She just told me so. And how that woman gets those fifth graders to dress in identical outfits for the first day of school and actually have smiles on their faces, I will
never
know.

“Did you get a good first-day-of-school photo?” Lorna asks me, her monstrous Nikon hanging from her neck as her pink Prada scrunch ballet flats sink into the wet grass. She cornered me, despite my attempts not to make eye contact with anyone.
Just deal, Grace. A few more minutes.

“Not so good. But good enough. I just like to capture the
essence
of the boys. I’ve always felt that the super-posed shots feel too forced,” I tell her, crossing my arms in front of my chest so no one will be able to tell I’m not wearing a bra under my threadbare U2
Joshua Tree
concert T-shirt. I’m convinced she can read in my eyes that my husband cheated on me.

“Mmmm.”

Condescending bitch.

Lorna continues, “I actually have all our first-day-of-school photos framed in the hallway outside the triplets’ rooms in shadow boxes with each year labeled and containing each child’s photos from school, soccer, and Little League and/or hip hop. It’s such a nice way of preserving the memories. You really should come over for coffee one day, Grace. You haven’t been over since we finished the reno on the kitchen.”

“I’d love to, Lorna,” I lie, wondering how she has time in the morning to apply blush and her trademark red lipstick, put on a coordinated outfit including a belt,
and
prepare whole grains. Saved by the bus.

“Bye, guys,” I say cheerfully to Henry and James, giving them big wet ones and giant hugs that swallow them whole. “You’ll do great, James. I’ll be right here after school. I love you!”

“Love you too, Mom,” they say as they charge confidently onto the bus.

Love that. Love that they’re independent and don’t give a second thought to leaving me and going off into the world. Through the windows, I proudly watch Henry lead James into a seat and help him with his seatbelt.

“I thought the kindergarten moms were supposed to bring the kids into school on the first day?” Lorna asks accusingly, interrupting my thoughts.

“It’s optional this year. Plus, James has been at the school so many times, and he has Henry with him on the bus and to walk him into school. He’ll be fine.”

“Oh. You must be so sad your youngest is starting kindergarten,” she says in a baby voice. “I couldn’t get Lisa Millerton off the phone last night. Poor thing was hysterical that Maddie was starting school.”

When Henry started kindergarten, I walked him into school the first day, James on my hip, Henry’s tiny clammy hand in mine. All the moms were swirling around, putting backpacks into cubbies, posing their kids for photos, greeting the teacher, the works. Like a seething tornado of attentive mothering. And most of the moms were crying. I tried. Honestly. I tried to cry. And considering I am ridiculously sentimental and cry at Harry Chapin songs and weight-loss reality television, I was surprised my eyes remained dry.

I wanted to feel what those other moms were feeling. That powerful sense of loss, of transition, of crossing that line from being in charge of the needs of your child 24/7 to relinquishing that responsibility to someone named Miss Marsha. But I just felt joy. Joy that I had raised my baby, that he was ready for this next step in life, that I was closer to regaining time for myself. Still, I felt sad that I couldn’t cry. That I was denying myself a universal rite of motherhood. And, of course, me being me, I thought I was doing it wrong.

“No, I wouldn’t call it sad. Maybe sentimental or nostalgic, but not sad. He’s ready. And I’m certainly ready to have time for myself,” I respond confidently to Lorna.

“That’s great, Grace. I remember when the triplets started kindergarten, and it freed up my days. That’s when I got involved in the hospital. Let me know if you’re interested in working on the fall fundraiser. We need all the help we can get,” Lorna says cheerfully.

“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” I say as the bus pulls away, and I pick up a few wrappers and go back into the house. I immediately start to cry as I release the intense tension I have been holding in all morning trying to act normally in front of the boys. Yesterday, when I thought of what that delicious moment would be like after the bus pulled away, I pictured myself skipping back into the house giggling, indulging in a bit of crazy dancing while singing George Michael’s “Freedom,” luxuriating in the feeling that I had no lunches to make, no appointments to get to, no mommy-and-me classes to slog through. I never pictured feeling the way I do now.

I pour another cup of coffee and think about what I should do next. When I lived in the city, I would run around the reservoir several times a week. That is where I always got my best thinking done. I would come up with the perfect lead for an article I was writing, the perfect wording for a complicated email I needed to send my boss, the perfect idea for my and Darren’s next travel adventure.

I decide to do a trail run at the preserve where Cameron and I hike every Saturday morning. My neighborhood is perfect for running, but I don’t feel like having to stop and chat if my neighbors are outside. Even having to smile and wave would be too difficult for me right now. I’d heard your typical cautionary tales about the preserve and have never gone there alone, despite the fact that none of the stories had ever been proven. But I just don’t care right now. I’m playing the odds. What are the chances I’ll get raped the day after I find out my husband cheated on me? Plus, that preserve is my favorite place. Being in nature soothes me. I need soothing.

I’m happy to see the parking lot is crowded. There will be other people to hear me scream when the rapist attacks. That is, unless he gags me with a towel. These are the things that go through my mind. Constantly. Always the worst-case scenario. It happens when anyone I love gets on an airplane, when my kids go to a drop-off birthday party at one of those wretched indoor play spaces that I’m convinced hire child molesters, when the technician looks at me funny during a mammogram. And now it will happen whenever Darren goes on a business trip.

I hold my keys in my fist and keep one key sticking out between my fingers to use as a weapon should the need arise. I start running, my blonde ponytail bobbing purposefully, and the world seems to fall away. I’m left with my thoughts. My brain is not the shy, silent type. No, it’s constantly churning, leading me to overanalyze, overspeculate, and overthink. At first, my thoughts are all swirling, and then I start to categorize them.

My first thoughts are purely about the physical contact he had with another woman; that disgusts me. I picture him kissing someone else, and my stomach clenches. In that picture, Tina, or as I’ve come to call her, The Chicago Husband Bandit, is in her late 20s and tall with long, brassy blonde hair, rust-colored lipstick, and eyebrows that she plucked too much and now draws in with a brown pencil. She’s wearing a tight, black tank top with a plunging neckline that reveals her voluptuous breasts, a tight, black skirt, and heels that are sensible enough so she can work in them all night, but sexy enough to ensure good tips. I wonder if I really want to know what she looks like. I have a short fantasy about looking up the hotel name on Darren’s corporate AmEx statement, flying to Chicago, and sitting in the bar to watch The Bandit in action. I’m not crazy enough to picture myself with a gun in that fantasy. I don’t really blame her. I only blame Darren. He let this happen.

I start the first uphill part of the trail, and my heart starts beating hard. I haven’t run in a while, and I’m not really in good-enough shape to do three miles. The anger fuels me, and I power ahead. I can’t believe I’ve been so certain over the years that Darren would never cheat. That he would stick to his promise. Men cheat. It’s what they do. I think of the politicians I’ve seen on TV over and over again: the man shamefully announcing his transgression into a microphone, the wife in her Chanel jacket even more shamefully standing off to the side wondering what her mother must be thinking, how her kids will get teased at school the next day, and how unbelievably fucking inadequate and humiliated she feels. I just never thought it would be Darren. I imagine most women think it will never happen to them. I can’t imagine any woman thinking it
could
happen, or why would you marry the bastard in the first place?

But it’s just so not Darren. So I wonder if I should blame myself. If things had been better between us lately, if we had been having more sex, if I had a better body, then would he still have been tempted by the big-boob Bandit? He said it didn’t mean anything. I completely believe that. I have no doubt about that, actually. I do know that he regrets it. That he wishes more than anything that it didn’t happen. But it did. I pass two women walking their dogs and realize the dogs can maul the rapist. I loosen my ersatz brass knuckles.

Then I start thinking that if it could happen once, it could happen again. Maybe this isn’t even the first time. Maybe it’s happened before, but for some reason the guilt finally got him and so he’s admitting this one. Darren travels a lot for his job. He’s had lots of opportunities. And he often travels with John. All of our friends know that since John got divorced—because Amy cheated with her tennis instructor—he’s been like a seventeen-year-old boy whose hormones just kicked in.

As I approach the next hill, I’m in a groove, and I resolve to start a regular running regimen again. It was part of my plan anyway, but I forgot how good the endorphins feel. Speaking of my plan, I realize this changes everything. All the energy I was planning on investing in reconnecting with Darren will now have to go into salvaging my marriage. Or not. At this point, I basically have two options. Option one is to get divorced and option two is not to.

There are loads of reasons why I should get a divorce. I tick them off in my mind: 1) How could I ever trust him again? 2) How much could he really love and respect me if he let something like this happen? 3) If he loved and respected me more, he wouldn’t have allowed this to happen, right? 4) Will I ever be able to be intimate with him again?

On the flip side, there are loads of reasons why I shouldn’t get divorced: 1) What we have (had?) is so solid. 2) I don’t want to foist a divorce on my boys; I know they won’t be the only kids in the world growing up with divorced parents, but having grown up that way myself, I know it’s not ideal, and if I can avoid it, I’m going to try. 3) While I’m not defending his actions, I know that biologically, anthropologically, there’s a difference between men and women when it comes to sexual needs. I did read
The Clan of the Cave Bear,
after all. I know that it is possible for a man to be unfaithful (I’m talking a one-time drunken sexual encounter, not a long-term emotional affair—completely different animals) and have it not mean anything. 4) I believe that Darren regrets this, loves me, and is hoping that I’ll forgive him. At least I think I do.