The shift was so subtle as to barely be noticeable. In the first year of London’s life, I accepted Vivian’s occasional moodiness and irritation as something normal and expected, a phase that would pass. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I grew used to it, even when it seemed to border on contempt. But the phase never seemed to end. Over the next few years, Vivian seemed to grow more angry, more disappointed, and more dismissive of my concerns. She frequently grew angry over even minor things, hurling insults I could never imagine even whispering aloud. Her aggression was swift and pointed, usually aimed at getting me to apologize and back down. As someone who disliked conflict, I eventually reached the point where I nearly always retreated as soon as she raised her voice, no matter what grievances I might have held.
The aftermath of her anger was often worse than the attack itself. Forgiveness seemed unobtainable, and instead of continuing to discuss things or simply putting them behind her, Vivian would withdraw. She would say little or nothing to me at all, sometimes for days, answering questions with one or two words. Instead, she would focus her attention on London, and retreat to the bedroom as soon as our daughter was tucked in, leaving me alone in the family room. On those days she radiated contempt, leaving me to wonder whether my wife still loved me at all.
And yet there was an unpredictability to all of these things, rules suddenly changing and then changing again. Vivian would be in her anger forthright, then passive-aggressive, whichever seemed to fit her mood. Her expectations of me became increasingly fuzzy and half the time, I wasn’t sure what to do or not to do, rehashing events in the wake of a blowout, trying to figure out what I might have done to upset her. Nor would she tell me; instead, she’d deny that anything was wrong or accuse me of overreacting. I often felt as if I were walking through a minefield, with both my emotional state and the marriage on the line… and then suddenly, for reasons that were equally mysterious to me, our relationship would revert to something approaching normal. She’d ask about my day or whether there was anything special I wanted for dinner; and after London went to bed, we would make love – the ultimate signal that I’d been forgiven. Afterward, I’d breathe a sigh of relief, hopeful that things were finally returning to the way they used to be.
Vivian would deny my version of these events, or at least my interpretation of them. Angrily. Or she’d cast her actions and behaviors as responses to things I’d done. She would say that I had an unrealistic view of marriage, and that I’d somehow expected the honeymoon to last forever, which just wasn’t possible. She claimed that I brought work stress home, and that I was the one who was moody, not her; that I resented the fact that she’d been able to stay at home and that I often took my resentment out on her.
Whatever version of events was objectively true, in my heart what I wanted more than anything was for Vivian to be happy. Or, more specifically, happy with me. I still loved Vivian, after all, and I missed how she used to smile and laugh when we were together; I missed our rambling conversations and the way we used to hold hands. I missed the Vivian who’d made me believe that I was a man worthy of her love.
Yet, with the exception of our Friday evening date nights, our relationship continued its gradual evolution into something I didn’t always recognize, or even want. Vivian’s contempt began to hurt me. I spent most of those years being disappointed in myself for constantly letting her down, and vowing to try even harder to please her.
Now, fast-forward back to the night of the Christmas party again.
“Get over it,” she’d said to me, and the words continued to play in my mind, even as I dressed. They were sharp, dismissive of my concern and devoid of empathy, but even so, what I remember most about that evening was that Vivian looked even more stunning than usual. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, pumps, and the diamond pendant necklace I’d given her on her last birthday. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and when she emerged from the bathroom, all I could do was stare.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said, clutching her handbag.
In the car, things were still tense between us. We stumbled through some small talk, and when she discerned I wasn’t going to bring up Peters again, her mood began to thaw. By the time we arrived at the party, it was almost as though she and I had come to an unspoken agreement to pretend that my comment and her response had never been uttered at all.
Yet, she’d heard me. As annoyed as she’d been, Vivian stayed by my side virtually the entire evening. Peters chatted with us on three separate occasions and twice asked Vivian if she wanted to get something to drink – it was clear he wanted her to join him at the bar – and on both occasions, she shook her head, telling him that she’d already ordered from one of the waiters. She was polite and friendly as she said it, and I found myself wondering whether I’d been making too much of the whole Peters situation after all. He could flirt with her all he wanted, but at the end of the night she would head home with me, and that was all that really mattered, right?
The party itself was largely forgettable – it was no better or worse or even all that different from any other office Christmas party – but after we got home and let our teenage babysitter go, Vivian asked me to pour her a glass of wine and check in on London. By the time I finally made it to the bedroom, there were candles lit and she was wearing lingerie… and…
That was the thing about Vivian; trying to guess what she was going to do next was often pointless; even after seven years, she could still amaze me, sometimes in blissfully tender ways.