The Replacement Wife (53 page)

“Do I have a choice?” Edward muttered.

Hugh’s next words were like a punch in the gut. “In order to make this work, you have to be clear on one thing: Is Camille the one you want?”

EDWARD WAS STILL
pondering the question when he returned to work. The answer was at once simple and complex, a chambered nautilus that looped and spiraled, leading nowhere except in on itself:
I want it all.
He missed his old life, so much at times it was like a hole in his gut. He missed coming home after work. He missed seeing the kids each and every day. He missed the familiar shape of his wife’s body spooned against his in bed at night, and the little rituals that had made up the fabric of their daily lives, a life that felt more like a mass of pulled threads these days.

At the same time he wanted . . . he needed . . .

Angie.

He could see her in his mind’s eye, a petite figure in chef whites and green Crocs, her molasses-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and her cheeks flecked with more than freckles, darting about her stainless-steel prep kitchen, a marvel of efficiency as she alternated between chopping, mixing, tending to pans sizzling on the stove, or pulling pans from the oven. All without breaking a sweat or losing her cool. “Controlled chaos,” she called it. She would cringe with embarrassment at so unglamorous an image being the one making him smile now, he knew.

It was agony not being able to see her, touch her, or even hear the sound of her voice over the phone. But he knew if he contacted her, there would be no chance of making things right with Camille. A chain was only as strong as its weakest link, and he didn’t dare test the strength of this one, lest the chain snap. He wasn’t ready to give up on his marriage. He still loved his wife. And if that love was more complicated, with more moving parts—some in need of fixing—he’d just have to work that much harder at repairing it.

He was glad for the distraction work provided. It was a relief, when he stepped out of the elevator on the seventh floor of the Harkness Pavilion, to find his interns clustered outside his office, awaiting his arrival. It was always slower going when he had interns, but he didn’t mind. Their energy and enthusiasm was infectious. It reminded him of when he was an intern, in the Precambrian era of his own youthful enthusiasm.

He chose the most earnest of the bunch—a thin, intense woman named Lauren, who back in his day would have been labeled a “grind” but who, in these more enlightened times, was respected by and even looked up to by her peers—to assist with the first of his afternoon patients, a middle-aged woman who’d presented with a case of spastic hemiplegia. While Lauren carefully threaded the plastic tubing through the patient’s nasal passage, under Dev’s guidance, in preparation for the endoscopic evaluation, Edward lectured, “The area of the brainstem involved in the control of swallowing is located in the dorsal region, adjacent to the nucleus of the tractus solitarius and in the ventral area in and around the nucleus ambiguus . . .”

The rest of the day went by in a blur, though he remembered to check his watch frequently so as not to lose track of time. He was expecting his children that night for supper—they came twice a week—and wanted to be at home when they arrived, even though Kyra, who as the eldest was in charge, had her own set of keys. At five p.m. on the dot, he rode the elevator to the lobby, where the security guard at the front desk, a beefy ex-cop named Joe Rinaldo, called to him as he passed by on his way out, “Night, Doc. You take care now.” Edward contemplated this as he pushed his way out the plate-glass door onto the sidewalk, pulling up the collar of his overcoat at the blast of cold air that met him.
Take care?
Wasn’t it a little late for that?

He stopped at the Lucky Dragon on his way home to pick up the order he’d called in. It wasn’t the best the neighborhood had to offer in terms of Chinese takeout, but it was only a block from his building and service was speedy. Besides, Zach never wanted anything more adventurous than barbecued spareribs and fried rice, and lately it seemed Kyra was always on a diet. Next time, he would have to stock up on groceries so he could fix them a proper meal.
Right,
said the cynical voice in his head. Didn’t he say that each time?

The children showed up within minutes of his arrival. Kyra, slouching through the doorway with her backpack slung over one shoulder, Zach trailing after her wearing a glum look, a green rubber tail poking from a pocket of his North Face parka. “Whatcha got there, buddy?” Edward bent to catch the tip of the rubber tail between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s that stupid lizard of his,” Kyra sneered. “I told him not to bring it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

The toy reptile in question was a souvenir from a trip to Cancún that Edward and Camille had taken years ago; they’d brought it back for then five-year-old Zach, who’d been inconsolable at their leaving. Zach treated the rubber lizard as if it were a live pet; he named it Chico and carried it with him everywhere, even taking it to bed with him each night. He stopped bringing it to school only after some of the other kids teased him about it. In recent years, Chico had lived in the closet in Zach’s room, in a box with all the other toys Zach had outgrown but didn’t have the heart to give away. The fact that Chico had been brought out of retirement must mean Zach was feeling insecure. Edward felt a stab of guilt, knowing he was partly to blame.

Zach glared at his sister. “You’re not the boss of me!”

Kyra gave their father a look that said,
You see what I have to put up with?

Edward hugged his son. “Hey, how about you, me, and Chico get dinner on the table? Okay, buddy?”

Zach nodded glumly, muttering, “I hate her. She’s mean.”

“Come on, let’s not have that kind of talk. What’s with you guys, anyway? You used to get along,” Edward said as he led the way into the galley kitchen off the living room. The takeout was being kept warm in the oven; all that was left to do was set the table and make the salad. Edward made it a point to serve fresh greens at every meal; it was the least he could do.

While Zach was in the bathroom washing up, Kyra took the opportunity to inform her father, “He’s started wetting the bed again, too. Mom had to put a rubber sheet on his mattress.”

Zach had been a bed wetter as a small child. One day, when he was six, he’d stopped and they’d all breathed a sigh of relief, thinking he’d outgrown it. Then after Camille was diagnosed with cancer the first time, he started again. It had been on and off ever since. Edward felt a pang of sympathy for his son. “You used to wet the bed, too,” he reminded his daughter.

“Yeah, when I was
two.
”

“Your brother’s having a hard time right now. Try to be a little more understanding.” He pulled a head of lettuce, half a cucumber, a red pepper, and a slightly shriveled tomato from the fridge.

“I
do
try, Dad, but why does he have to act like such a baby?”

Edward turned to face his daughter, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Honey, I know you’re upset, but don’t take it out on your brother. It’s not his fault that I can’t be with you all the time.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks reddening. “Whose fault
is
it then?”

He felt another pang.
Mine,
he thought.
My fault
. If he hadn’t moved out, this wouldn’t be happening—his daughter wouldn’t be acting like a brat or his son wetting the bed. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed so readily when Camille suggested it. He took Kyra’s mutinous face in his hands. “Your mom and I are doing the best we can. It’s not easy for us, either.”

“Whatever.” Kyra jerked free, and stomped off to set the table.

Edward decided to let it go. He didn’t want these precious hours with his children to be just an endless cycle of them acting out and him scolding them. He was the adult; he needed to set the tone. Fortunately, Kyra and Zach had ceased their squabbling by the time they sat down to eat.

“What’s this?” Zach poked suspiciously with his fork at the helping of cashew chicken on his plate.

“Try it. You’ll like it,” Edward coaxed.

“It has nuts in it.” Zach pouted.

“You like nuts.”

“Not
in
things.”

“What do you think peanut butter’s made of, butthead?” Kyra weighed in. She informed Edward, “That’s practically all he eats at home—peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Sometimes he even puts marshmallows in them.” She made a face. Then, in the lofty tone of a duchess deploring the crude manners of the peasantry, she said, “He really is the most disgusting child.”

“You’re just saying that ’cause all you eat is lettuce and stuff,” Zach shot back. “It’s true, Dad. She thinks she’s fat.” He sang out, “
Fatty, fatty two-by-four can’t fit through the bathroom door!
”

Kyra’s face reddened and her eyes welled with tears. She was the same healthy weight she’d always been, which probably wasn’t thin enough to compete with the razor-bodied fashion models who set such unrealistic standards for girls these days. “You’re not the least bit fat,” he assured her.

She gave him a withering look. “That’s what parents always say.”

“Well, it happens to be true in your case.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she told him. “It’s different than it was when you were my age. The boys at my school are . . .” She bit her lip and looked down.

“They’re what?” he prompted.

“They say things,” she choked out.

“What things?”

“You know. Stuff about girls.”

“Any girls in particular?”

“Peter Karlinsky called Cassie Meyers a fat pig.”

“Oh, I see. So, is Cassie Meyers a friend of yours?”

Kyra’s head jerked up. “No, but she’s the same size as me!”

Edward felt suddenly furious at this Peter Karlinsky, whom he’d never even met. “Boys are stupid,” he said. At the indignant look Zach shot him, he reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Present company excluded.” If only he could shield his daughter from the agonies of adolescence! “Don’t pay any attention. Boys only talk that way to cover up their own insecurities.”

“What does he have to be insecure about? All the girls think he’s hot.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, recalling his own teenage years.

His daughter gave him a pitying look. “Dad,” she said in the kindly tone she would use with someone who was dull-witted. “I know you’re trying, but seriously, you
so
don’t get it.”

Edward decided she was right in one sense. There was a lot he didn’t “get” when it came to his children. But he was making progress, if only in fits and bursts. He said a little prayer now.
Lord, is it too much to ask that we get through this one meal without tears?
Last time, it had been Zach crying because he’d burned his tongue on the moo shu pork that had been in the microwave too long.

“Eat,” he ordered. If he didn’t have all the answers, he could exercise his parental prerogative, at least. “You are
not
fat. You’re beautiful, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Kyra rolled her eyes but took a small a bite of her food.

“I don’t think you’re fat. I only said it to get back at you,” Zach told his sister, giving her a smile of such transcendent sweetness, it brought tears to Edward’s eyes. Kyra wasn’t unmoved, either, though her way of showing it was to ball up her napkin and toss it at Zach, grinning.

After they’d finished eating and had washed up, Zach took a plate of reheated leftovers down to Henry, the doorman at the front desk that evening. Zach had gotten to know all the doormen in the building, but Henry, a young Jamaican with a smile for everyone and an infectious laugh, was his favorite. Henry always took time at the end of his shift, on the evenings the kids visited, to hang out with Zach in the break room for fifteen or twenty minutes before heading home.

Edward helped Kyra with her homework in the meantime, an assignment for algebra that was due the following day. They were sitting on the sofa in the living room, going over the equations, when she looked up at him and said, “Dad? Did you mean it when you said I was pretty?”

“I most certainly did.” He bestowed a kiss to her forehead. “You don’t believe me?” At the dubious look she gave him, he adopted a mysterious expression and waved his hands in the air like a fortune teller over a crystal ball. “I see boys . . . dozens of boys . . . all flocking around you. And you’re . . . ah, yes, it’s getting clearer now . . .
you’re smiling.
” He grinned at her. “Now that is something I can’t wait to see. You smiling again,” he was quick to add. “The boys, not so much.”

“Oh, Daddy.” She dropped her head onto his shoulder. “I miss you,” she said in the soft, little-girl voice he hadn’t heard in a while. “I wish you could come home. It’s not the same without you.”

He swallowed hard. “I know, baby.”

“Mom misses you, too.”

“She told you that?”

“No, but I can tell.”

Edward put a finger under his daughter’s chin, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “Listen, honey, I don’t want you worrying about your mom and me. We’re doing our best to work this out, but whatever happens, one thing will never change. We’ll always be there for you and your brother.”

Kyra’s expression remained clouded. “Yeah, but why does it have to be this way? When Nicole Gerber’s parents split up, it was because they fought all the time. You and Mom don’t fight.”

“Not fighting isn’t always a good thing. Sometimes it helps to clear the air.”

“So it was just about you and mom not fighting?” Kyra looked confused.

“What I meant to say was, we didn’t talk things out the way we should have.”

“But now that you know what went wrong, you can fix it, right?” Kyra eyed him hopefully.

“It’s not that simple,” he said with a sigh.

Kyra dropped her gaze, staring unseeingly at the algebra book that lay open on her lap. “Yeah, but Dad?” She looked up at him with her big, brown eyes, which would one day break hearts and which right now were breaking his. “Just so you know, it totally sucks that Zach and I don’t get a vote.”