The Pretend Wife (16 page)

T
HE NEXT TWO DAYS
passed quickly, even though I tried to hold on to every moment. I was put on kid duty, for the most part. Jennifer taught me how to use the baby sling, and I took the kids to a berry patch where we were given a bucket and paid for our harvest by weight.

Bib and I played croquet in the yard, where she proved to be a vicious competitor. When Elliot joined us he made up extra rules—style points—for playing only on one leg, using a British accent, spin moves. He held Porcupine, which he claimed upped his handicap. Bib delighted in all of this. My accent was wobbly, but I was great on one foot and my spin moves weren't shabby. Elliot played barefoot and, while trying to knock me out of the game, hit his own foot with the mallet. There was bright sun and a grassy lawn filled with wickets and Elliot dueling with Bib—their mallets on guard.

When Porcupine went down for his nap, Bib took me for tours of her pollywogs swimming in buckets. The water was murky and the pollywogs flicked their tails wildly
or held them pin-straight. She pointed out a mosquito larva.

“There,” she said. “See it!” But it moved so fast that she kept having to point it out, its two minuscule paddles spinning madly. She pointed out the American bullfrog, which was smaller than the others.

We stole lettuce from the fridge, boiled it, and fed it to them, their bulbous heads rising to the leaf, munching away almost imperceptibly. “They're so alive,” I said.

“That's because they are alive,” she explained patiently.

We ate from the meals I'd prepared, plus blueberries and cream for dessert. Vivian was doing no better, pain-wise, and she'd edged off of the morphine so that she could be more alert. It was a constant battle between how much pain she could endure and how much time she couldn't spare. I sat with her on Tuesday night.

“You're leaving in the morning,” she said.

I nodded.

“At least open my gift,” she said, pointing to the wedding gifts huddled on a far table. “Do me that favor?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll get Elliot.”

“No, no,” she said. “It's for you. There's an overpriced cappuccino maker in there from me too. But that was before I knew you.” She pointed to a gift the size of an
Encyclopedia Britannica
wrapped in silver paper embossed with bells. “Sorry about the paper, left over from the holidays. I had Jennifer wrap this for me.”

I picked up the gift. It was lighter than I expected. I sat in a chair next to the bed and let the gift sit in my lap. I felt giddy.

“I feel like a little kid,” I said. “I'm not sure why I'm suddenly nervous.”

“Open it,” she said. “You're making me nervous.”

I pulled off the taped edges, being careful with the paper.

“Rip it,” she said.

I paused and then ripped the paper right in two. And there was the framed picture, the one of Vivian in her white swimsuit and Elliot and Jennifer, just little kids, on the grassy lawn by the deck, the one taken from the upstairs window. “How did you know that I love this photo? From the moment I saw it …” I couldn't go on. The words stopped in my throat, which suddenly went tight with tears.

“Elliot said he'd seen you looking at it. I've always loved it too.”

I ran my finger along the see-through curtain along one side of the frame. “It's like someone's been keeping watch over you.”

Vivian reached out, her arm painfully thin but still elegant. I leaned forward, knowing she wanted to touch my face. Her hand was soft and dry. “She is, love. She is keeping watch over you.” Of course, I hadn't consciously been thinking of my mother, but this is what Vivian meant, that my mother was still with me, that I could never be a stranger to her—she'd been with me all of these years, keeping one loving eye cast on me and my life and the people in it alongside me. My eyes welled up, tears slipped down my cheeks.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I knew that I was changed in this moment in a fundamental way. If I could never be a stranger to my mother, then she couldn't remain a stranger to me—not any longer. I knew that this meant that I would have to confront my father and try to find out the truth, once and for all.

Vivian nodded. “You,” she said, “I wish I had more time with you. You're a good daughter. And Elliot is lucky.” She looked at me with watery blue eyes. “Be good to him.”

 

That night, I couldn't sleep. The one thin sheet was stifling, and when I kicked it off, I was chilled by the breeze through the window. It was getting gusty outside, actually. The leaves were rustling, and when I went to the window to shut it, the moon was lost in quick purplish clouds, and the trees seemed to be swaying. The sky looked burdened, heavy, the air tensed for a storm.

The photograph sat on my bedside table. I picked it up and looked at it again, noticing the slight bow of Elliot's knees, the sag of his swim trunks, the curly lumps of his hair. He was a beautiful kid with a wry smile, some freckles, a wise look in his eyes, taking it all in—a little philosopher already. I sat on the edge of the bed and then stood up and paced. I needed something to drink—a glass of milk to help me sleep.

I padded down the stairs in a blue tank top and shorts and slipped into the kitchen. I poured a glass of milk and then looked out the French doors to the view of the lake, the tall grasses bending deeply in the wind. I let my eyes wander down to the water, and that's when I saw something white shifting at the end of the dock. At first I thought it was a crane or some large white bird, but then I saw that it was a shirt. Elliot was sitting at the end of the dock, alone.

I walked out onto the deck and watched him for a moment. He leaned back, his hands on the dock, his elbows locked. I walked across the lawn, which was cool and wet
on my feet, and down the dock. The wind was so loud now that he didn't hear me until I said his name. “Elliot.”

He turned around, startled. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I'm here for the light show.” He pointed toward the far corner of the lake. “The lightning will start over there then it will tear across the lake. It'll likely pass right over us and end there.” He drew a line over the lake, stopping above some distant roofs.

I looked up at the sky, the breadth and dark, arching blueness of it.

Elliot scooted over and patted the dock. “Sit.”

I sat down beside him. The dock was old, its edges soft.

“When I was a kid, I got caught in a gustnado,” he said. “In a sailboat, right out there.”

“A gustnado?”

“It's like a tornado, but it's a gust of wind that comes up from nowhere. It filled the sail of the boat I was on—a neighbor's boat—and lifted me and the boat into the air, just a few feet, but still it was so strange. This bubble of air rising up out of the blue. It was this kind of weather, but during the day, just before a thunderstorm. I told my father about it but he didn't believe me. I really wanted my picture in the paper.”

“Did you tell your mother?”

“She believed me. She called me Gus all summer long. She called me
her little survivor.
It was the summer before their divorce and she was looking for reasons to get me to believe that I was tough, that I could make it through anything. She knew what was coming.”

“She's smart,” I said. “She's really very smart.”

“You like her,” he said, lifting his eyebrows. “I thought you two would like each other.”

“I can't explain it, but she's done a lot for me. This short visit. I don't know how to put it, but I'm different. She's made things shift for me.”

“In a good way?”

“In a good way.”

There was a distant rumble. I looked toward the corner of the lake where he said the lightning show would start, but he kept his eyes on me. I could feel his gaze. I closed my eyes. “She told me to be good to you,” I said.

“She did?” He leaned forward and glanced up at me hopefully. “And?”

“This might be all we ever get.”

His face was lit up softly by the far-off lightning. The wind flipped my hair across my face. He brushed it back with both of his hands and held my face. Then he kissed me—a soft kiss that quickly turned passionate. I imagined it—having sex with him on this dock, the lightning rising up, the wind churning around us, the rain. It was all I wanted in that moment.

But he pulled back. He said, “I don't want this to be the thing swept under the rug.”

I was breathless. “What?”

“I don't want this to be all that we ever get. And if we go through with this, it becomes something else. An affair, something we'll have to sweep under the rug.”

“I can't leave my husband,” I said.

“Yes, I know that. I understand,” he said. “But I don't want to become something you feel guilty about, something to be ashamed of.”

He stood up. I heard the rain starting across the lake.
It moved quickly, and in a matter of seconds, it was pouring down on us. But neither of us moved.

“I remember what it was like, to be with you. I remember the feel of your ribs and your hips. I remember the birthmark on your upper thigh. Don't think this isn't killing me,” he said and he pushed back his wet hair. “I'd give anything to have sex with you again,” but then he corrected himself. “
Almost
anything.” He looked beautiful, rain dripping off his lashes, his skin shining wet. “I learned, growing up, that things can fall apart. My parents were together and then it was over. I learned to mistrust my heart. But when I look at you and when I see the way you look at me, I know that I'm right to love you. I trust myself again.” He wiped the rain from his face. “I love you,” he said loudly over the rain. “It's simple.”

I stood up, feeling breathless, ran my hand down his soaking shirt, and gripped it for a second. This was anything but simple. Then I loosened my fist, letting go.

I
HOPED THAT THE GOOD-BYES
would be as quick as I could make them. I walked into the living room. Vivian was staring at the bookshelves. I sat in the chair beside the bed. “I'm taking off now,” I said.

Her eyes drifted around my face. She said, “Come and see me again soon.” I wasn't sure if she knew exactly who I was now or if she was being automatically polite. But then she patted my hand. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Doing what?” I said, feigning ignorance.

“You know,” she said. “You didn't have to.”

I leaned down and kissed her cheek, but I couldn't say a word. My voice was lost in my throat.

Elliot was holding Porcupine, waiting for me on the lawn. I could see him through the window in quiet conversation with the baby. I couldn't erase the image of his face in the pouring rain, the way his shirt felt in my fist, the wind, the lightning, and how he'd been the one to leave first. He'd turned and trudged back to the house, his black hair shiny and wet.

“I don't know how to be good to him,” I said to Vivian. “And still be a good person.”

“You are good,” she said. “You
are.
” She sighed. “The person who took the photograph I gave you—it was my sister. I love the photograph because I think, in that very moment, she loved us. She loved us too much and didn't know how to tell us, how to express it. She ended up trying to destroy us. But I've always wondered what would have happened if she'd been able to just say how she felt and really listen. There's more to all of that than people think.”

“Did you love him?” I asked.

“I did,” she said. “I still do.” She smiled then and touched my cheek with the back of one hand. “You
are
good,” she said. “You hear me?”

I closed my eyes and gave a nod. I knew that I had changed, and that I would go home and change the life I'd built around me—a life of breezy conversation and idle banter. I wasn't sure if Elliot Hull would fit into this new way of life—this new construction—or not. But I knew I had no choice. I was different now. I hoped only that I wouldn't lose my nerve, that Vivian had given me enough of her own precious strength to see me through. Would I be able to stand in a field with a rake and not make decisions based on fear? “Thank you,” I said. “For everything. For more than you can imagine.”

“You're welcome,” she said.

I stood up feeling strong and sure, but also with a whirring sadness in my chest. I wanted to say that I would see her again soon, but I couldn't make that kind of promise and neither could she. And so I picked up my bag, paused for a moment in the doorway, and walked out of the room, the house.

Bib was running across the yard. She got her foot hooked in one of the wickets and fell hard to the ground,
which was still wet from the rain. She called for her mother, who appeared from the driveway where she'd been talking to a hospice nurse who'd just arrived.

Jennifer was walking the hospice nurse to the house, Bib clinging to her side. Jennifer looked at my bags. “Oh, no! It's really true.” She grabbed me and hugged me. “Don't go!” she said and then immediately added, “I know, I know. I'm just being selfish!”

Bib hugged me too around my hips. “You're going to come back!” she said. “So I won't get sad about it.”

I patted her back and mussed her hair.

Elliot handed the baby to Jennifer. “So, we're off,” he said, and he picked up my bag. I followed him to the car.

 

On the way to the train station, it was still overcast so Elliot kept the top of the convertible up. The air felt trapped and dry.

“How are you going to handle this? You have your own life waiting for you too,” I said. “Don't you have to teach still?”

“I had some people covering for me. My colleagues have been great. But I'll have to start commuting. Monday through Wednesdays there, and the long weekends here. Jennifer's husband will be coming in soon. His band's tour is coming to an end. They'll be local for a while and he's a huge help. You'd like him. A wild man but a sweetheart too.”

The car was quiet. It seemed like there were so many things to say that we couldn't possibly make a dent. When he pulled up to the train station, I told him not to walk me to the platform. I sat in the car with him for a moment though. How was I going to carry this time here with
Elliot and Vivian, Jennifer and the kids with me into my life?

Finally Elliot said, “Everyone thinks that I can't settle down, that I can't commit. I thought that was my problem too. But the fact is, when I saw you in the ice-cream shop, I realized that I hadn't been able to commit because I was already committed—to you. And that doesn't have to make sense either to anyone but me.”

What if I stayed here with Elliot? What if I never went home? Eila would hire someone else within a week. Would Faith and Helen tell me that I was crazy? Would my father drive out to give me some awkward counsel? Would Peter show up and try to get me back? I'd never seen him in any kind of real crisis. I had no idea how he'd react. I thought of the fireflies that Bib and I had translated:
stay, stay, stay.
It was a fleeting fantasy. There was no reality in it. I knew that I was going home. “You know, we can't see each other anymore. It would be excruciating. I couldn't … I have to fix my own life.” I felt a lump rise in my throat. I didn't want to cry in front of him.

“Are you asking me for a divorce? We didn't even open all the presents yet.” He was trying to sound light.

“I'm only asking for a pretend divorce,” I said. “They're less barbaric.”

“I refuse to sign the papers.”

I looked at him. “This is serious.”

“You don't have to tell me it's serious,” Elliot said. “I want the overflowing grocery cart with the snot-nosed kids, and you, forever.”

I picked up my bag from the foot well, unzipped it, and reached inside, feeling for the edges of the photograph his mother had given me. I picked it up, stared at it for a moment—the family that was the three of them, the
ghostly ribbon of the curtain, the rippling water at their backs. It wasn't mine. I handed it to him.

“No,” he said. “She gave it to you.”

“But it doesn't really belong to me.”

“Yes, it does.”

“You'll want it,” I said, “later, after she's …”

“It's yours,” he said with finality. “She wanted you to have it.”

I sat the photograph in my lap. What would I do with it? Where would I put it? Could I set it up in the living room next to the photograph of my mother wearing the spaghetti-strapped dress and holding her beaded purse? What would Peter think of that? For now, I simply put it back in my bag. The truth was that I wanted to keep it. I'd hoped he'd refuse to take it back.

“I want to know … I want you to give me a call when the time comes … when your mother passes. I need to know.” I wanted to tell him that she'd told me to stand in the field with a rake and not make decisions based on fear. But I couldn't.

He nodded.

I climbed out, shut the car door, and walked quickly to the train station—its bank of windows fogged by the mix of humidity and air-conditioning—and there I saw a reflection of myself walking in fog.