Triangles (30 page)

“Want some lunch?” His negative reply is anticipated. Oh well. At least I offered.

I’m not hungry either, but a cup of tea sounds pretty good. I put on the kettle, and I’m choosing my tea when the phone rings. It’s Christian’s work number. He made it.

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Hey. His voice is surprisingly clear.

Sorry about what happened. An apology?

Uh … I don’t know if you planned
on washing or not, but don’t bother
with the stuff on the floor in my room.

I’ll pick them up when I get home.

I shouldn’t have left them there.

That was a slovenly thing to do.

I’m not even sure how to respond

except to say, “No problem. Be safe.” The kettle whistles and I pour my

tea—blackberry green—and while

it steeps, Christian’s words percolate.

Something’s wrong about the call.

First of all, he never says he’s sorry.

And second, he leaves clothes

heaped on the floor all the time.

A little voice nags,
Better go see
what he doesn’t want you to see.

That’s it, isn’t it? There’s something …

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I don’t hurry to look, because now

that tiny voice says,
You don’t want
to know. Wish it would make up its
mind. Do I want to know or don’t I?

IT’S A SMALL PILE

At the foot of the bed. One chambray shirt. One pair of boxers. One pair of jeans, all smelling of scotch. I pick up the shirt. Nothing unusual but

the spreading stain. Ditto the underwear.

Ah, but in the front pocket of the jeans, there is an unfamiliar cell phone. Christian’s?

I hold it in one hand, stare at the dark screen while the minuscule voice whispers fiercely,
Turn it on. Why are you waiting?

If I were the type to talk to myself, I’d say,

“I’m waiting because I’m afraid if I look, what’s left standing will collapse

completely, crushing me beneath it.” But I really have no choice, do I?

I push the button. Slide the arrow

to unlock. Look at the apps lined up on the screen. Messages. Calendar.

Games. Notes. Utilities. Camera.

Photos. My eyes stop there. Photos.

I tap and up comes the Albums screen.

Las Vegas. New Orleans. Atlantic City.

Paris. Rome. Venice. London. Istanbul.

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Hawaii. St. Thomas. Puerto Rico. Trips Christian has taken over the past five years.

TRIPS

Ostensibly for business.

Trips when I was pregnant.

Trips when I had a new baby.

Trips when there was no choice

but to leave me home, caring

for our chronically ill daughter

and sexuality-searching son.

Trips without me.

Trips with her.

Skye Sheridan, a rising star

at ITV. But whether her sun

began to climb before or after

she started sleeping with Christian, I don’t know. That she is sleeping

with him is clear in the photos.

Photos that show a couple in love.

A couple posing for the camera.

A couple kissing. Laughing.

Eating. Drinking. Being way too merry across the country, around the globe.

A couple, doing those things

while I was home, pregnant.

Home, caring for Shelby and Shane.

Home, while my husband,

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Christian Trask, took his heart away from me and gave it to Skye Sheridan,

“just a coworker,” who also happened to be a rising star in the falling night

of his life.

A STAR RISES

Pale. Frail. A stitch

of embroidered light

upon the dark forever

fabric of space. And

somewhere

beneath the spreading

embellishment, night

creatures begin their opera

of croaks and hoots and

humming, unaware

that elsewhere

a sun

has risen into a parallel

plane. And what sound

mind could possibly claim

such precision is random?

As every alpha wave

begins

its forward flow,

an equivalent tide starts

its omega journey, fated

to die.

ANDREA

FATE HAS DECREED

I am to remain single. I knew

that years ago. So why the hell

did I think Fate had changed

her mind? I am an idiot. Men lie.

I know that. Men cheat. I know

that too. They cheat
on
me.

They cheat
with
me. And what’s messed up is that it isn’t any better to be the cheated-with than it is

to be the cheated-on, because

the outcome is the same. I am

at home, alone, on Saturday.

No date. No dinner out. No sex

to come. No daughter, even. She’s still at Brianna’s. Holly’s surprise party included a sleepover. Surprise!

Holly knew all about it, of course, though she faked surprise pretty

well. I think what shocked her

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the most was that her in-laws

were there. Jace’s mom even gave

her a present—a live orchid. Uh,

okay. Holly is to plants what Raid

is to ants. A thing of beauty, doomed.

MORE THAN SURPRISED

Holly seemed majorly distracted

pretty much all evening. She picked at her cake—a fabulously lopsided

chocolate-on-chocolate affair, baked by Brianna and Harley. I tried to help, but they wanted to do it all themselves.

The kids insisted on karaoke, and Holly did do a pretty good rendition of
Material
Girl
before retreating into her obvious desire to be engaged somewhere else.

As the evening progressed, I pulled her off to one side, hoping to talk about Robin.

She allowed me a few minutes of

complaint before offering weak advice.

First of all, you don’t even know who
that was. Why don’t you call back and
talk to him? Maybe it was his sister
or something. And if it wasn’t, forget him.

You deserve someone better.
That’s right.

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Because they’re lining up on my doorstep.

SHE MIGHT BE RIGHT

About calling Robin back.

Ascertaining whether or not

the sleepy-voiced woman

with access to his cell phone

while he was snoring nearby

was, in fact, his sister.

But logic rarely lies.

The real problem, of course,

is I am a coward. I hate

confrontation and validation

of my logical suspicions

would most certainly lead

to that. I’m tired of fighting.

My dukes are dropped.

I don’t have much vested

in the relationship. I’m not

freaked-out in love with him.

All that breathless anticipation

was, realistically, a lot more

like adolescent crushing.

Like, totally doomed to fail.

MY CEREBRAL MEANDERINGS

Are interrupted by the telephone.

Robin?

Ah, come on, Andrea.

Just look at you.

No, not Robin. Marissa.

Leave it. She hardly ever

calls unless there’s a problem.

I seriously consider leaving

it, and it goes to voicemail.

Hi. It’s me…
wavering.

Can you come over …?

Damn it. Not today. Too busy

feeling sorry for myself to—

I really need someone

to talk to.

Someone to talk to? Me? Like,

sister to sister or something?

Wow. That’s different, isn’t it?

Probably shouldn’t leave it.

I probably shouldn’t. Whatever

it is sounds important.

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Anyway, talking to her has to be

better than talking to yourself.

THEN AGAIN, MAYBE NOT

When I call to let her know

I’m on my way, her single-word

acknowledgment sounds shaky.

By the time I get there, she is

trembling. Pacing like a caged

panther. I imagine the worst.

But Shelby is not the source

of her distress. And what I see

on the cell phone screen makes

me ashamed of myself for moping

around about Robin. Holy, as some

people might say, fucking crapola!

When Marissa first hooked up

with Christian, I liked him well

enough, though I found him cool.

As the years progressed, and their

shared difficulties pushed him ever further away from Missy, my opinion of him retreated to the remotest

reaches of family connection. But I wouldn’t have called it active dislike.

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At this moment, I despise him.

Infidelity is never a good thing.

But what I see here is adoration.

MARISSA AND I

Haven’t been very close lately,

but a fierce swell of sisterly love makes me wrap my arms around

her. Her first reaction is to tense, but when I say, “Oh, Miss, I’m so

sorry,” every muscle seems to liquefy.

I’ve rarely seen her cry, and she

fights it now.
I knew something
was wrong. Maybe even suspected
he was sleeping around. But I never
expected anything like … this.

They’re completely in love. Aren’t they?

Rage jerks her from my arms, fires

up her tears, and suddenly I become an impotent bystander. I want to

help. Have no clue how to. Guess

I’ll just ask a ridiculous question.

“Who is she? Do you have any idea?”
Yes, I do.
The words seethe from between taut lips.
She works with him.

Travels with him, as you can see.

According to the company newsletter,

“Skye Sheridan is a rising star at ITV.”
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Wonder who else there knows why.

SURELY NOBODY ELSE KNOWS

But when I suggest that, she tells me about seeing Chris and this Skye person, sitting across a table, looking into each other’s eyes as lovers do,

in unencumbered view by the window.

How he saw Missy, Claire, and Shelby.

How he jumped up to say hello, but returned to his window-side seat unapologetically.

If he’s that open about their relationship, it is most probably assumed at work, if not admitted to. Men are such dogs.

“Does Chris know you know?”

She shakes her head.
Not yet.
Now she tells me about his argument

with Shane. How he left for work.

Phoned to divert her from his booze-soaked clothes.
It’s not his regular
cell phone. I’ve never seen it before.

God, why would … how could …

I just can’t believe all the lies!

I can but don’t say so. Cheating

prick! A bloat of indignation

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escapes in the belch of a single

question, “What are you going to do?”
THE OBVIOUS ANSWER

Would be to head straight to divorce court. Take the bastard for all he’s got.

Offer up the evidence, ask a judge

for alimony and child support. Make Chris’s bank account suffer so at

the very least he can’t afford luxury trips for himself and Ms. Sheridan.

Of course, that would free them to

get married. But who knows? Minus

the money, he might be less attractive.

Missy says none of that, however.

I’m not sure yet. And until I am,
please don’t tell anyone. Not Mom
and Dad. And especially not Shane.

“Why not? Don’t you think Shane

needs to know that his father is a—”
No! Shane and Chris barely speak now.

I don’t want that rift to grow any wider.

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To tell you the truth, I’m surprised
Shane doesn’t already suspect. He’s—

I DON’T GET TO HEAR

What she thinks Shane is because

Chris’s arrival curtly cuts her off.

He breezes through the door, wearing a clearly manufactured smile,

unaware that his figurative skeleton has been outed, bones snapping, from its closet. All it takes is the look we give him to make his eyes start searching for a clue. They find it on the coffee table, in the form of a cell phone.

The grin falls away, and he starts to sputter, but there is no lie that can cover this, nor any explanation to

prevent the coming earthquake.

Should I stay and shore up my sister?

Should I go, allow a private collapse?

Chris ignores me as he half stumbles toward Missy, right hand reaching,