For most of the year, I’d worked punishing hours on the Spannerman account, and it was far and away the most miserable year of my life. I dreaded heading into work, but because Peters and Spannerman were buddies, I kept my feelings to myself. Eventually, the account was handed off to another executive at the agency – Spannerman decided that he wanted a female executive, which surprised no one – and I breathed a sigh of relief. Had I been forced to continue with Spannerman, I probably would have ended up quitting.
Jesse Peters believed in bonuses as a way to keep employees motivated, and despite the never-ending stress associated with the Spannerman account, I was nonetheless able to maximize every bonus. I had to. I’ve never been comfortable unless I was able to put money into savings and our investment account, but the bonuses also helped to keep the balances on our credit cards at zero. Instead of shrinking over the past year, our monthly expenses had grown larger, despite Vivian’s promise to cut back on “running errands,” which was how she’d begun to refer to shopping. Vivian seemed incapable of entering Target or Walmart without spending at least a couple of hundred dollars, even if she’d gone to pick up laundry detergent. I couldn’t understand it – I speculated that it filled a sort of unknown emptiness inside her – and when particularly exhausted, I sometimes felt resentful and used. Yet, when I tried to discuss the matter with her, it often led to an argument. Even when tempers didn’t flare, however, little seemed to change. She would always assure me that she only bought what we needed, or that I was lucky because she’d taken advantage of a sale.
But on that Friday night those concerns seemed distant, and when I entered the living room, I saw London in the playpen, and she offered me the kind of smile that never ceased to move me. Vivian, as beautiful as ever, was on the couch flipping through a house and garden magazine. I kissed London and then Vivian, enveloped in the scent of baby powder and perfume.
We had dinner, talk running to what each of us had done that day, and then began the process of getting London ready for bed. Vivian went first, bathing her and dressing London in her pajamas; I read to her and tucked her in bed, knowing she’d fall asleep within a few minutes.
Downstairs, I poured myself a glass of wine, and noticed that the bottle was getting close to empty, which meant that Vivian was probably on her second glass. Glass one was a maybe when it came to fooling around; glass two made it likely, and as tired as I was, I felt my mood lift.
Vivian was still thumbing through the magazine when I sat beside her. In time, Vivian angled the magazine toward me.
“What do you think of this kitchen?” she asked.
The kitchen displayed in the photograph had cream cabinets topped with brown granite countertops, the color palette matched by the detailing on the cabinets. An island stood amidst gleaming state-of-the-art appliances, a suburban fantasy.
“It’s gorgeous,” I admitted.
“It is, isn’t it? Everything about the kitchen speaks to class. And I just love the lighting. The chandelier is breathtaking.”
I hadn’t even noticed the lighting and leaned closer. “Wow. That is something.”
“The article said that remodeling a kitchen almost always adds value to a house. If we ever decide to sell.”
“Why would we sell? I love it here.”
“I’m not talking about selling it now. But we’re not going to live here forever.”
Oddly, the thought that we wouldn’t live here forever had never crossed my mind. My parents, after all, still lived in the same house where I’d grown up, but that’s not what Vivian really wanted to talk about.
“You’re probably right about it adding value,” I said, “but I’m not sure we can afford to remodel our kitchen right now.”
“We have money in savings, don’t we?”
“Yes, but that’s our rainy-day fund. For emergencies.”
“Okay,” she said. I could the disappointment in her tone. “I was just wondering.”
I watched as she carefully folded the corner of the page down, so she could find the photo later, and I felt like a failure. I hated to disappoint her.
Life as a stay-at-home mother was good for Vivian.
Despite having a child, Vivian could still pass for a woman ten years younger, and even after London was born, she was occasionally carded when ordering a cocktail. Time had little effect on her, yet it was other qualities that made her particularly unusual. Vivian had always struck me as mature and confident, self-assured in her thoughts and opinions, and unlike me, she’s always had the courage to speak her mind. If she wanted something, she’d let me know; if something was bothering her, she never held her feelings in reserve, even if I might be upset by what she said. The strength to be who you are without fear of rejection from others was something I respected, if only because it was something I aspired to myself.
She was strong, too. Vivian didn’t whine or complain in the face of adversity; if anything, she became almost stoic. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve seen her cry only once, and that was when Harvey, her cat, passed away. At the time, she was pregnant with London and Harvey had been with her since she was a sophomore in college; even with her hormones in overdrive, it was less like sobbing than a couple of tears leaking onto her cheeks.
People can read whatever they want into the fact that she wasn’t prone to weeping, but the fact was, there hasn’t been much for Vivian to cry about. To that point, we’d been spared any major tragedies and if there was anything at all that might have been a cause for disappointment, it was that Vivian hadn’t been able to become pregnant a second time. We’d begun trying when London was eighteen months old, but month after month passed without success, and though I was willing to see a specialist, Vivian seemed content to let nature take its course.