“What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? I came by this morning to make sure you had something to eat.”
“I didn’t hear you knock.”
“I didn’t,” she said. “After you went to bed, I borrowed your house key. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s fine,” I said. Raising the mug, I took a sip but the coffee tasted wrong, off somehow. Despite the tantalizing aromas, my stomach remained knotted. Nonetheless I pulled out my chair at the table and plopped down. She set a plate in front of me, piled high with eggs, bacon, and toast.
“I don’t think I can eat,” I offered.
“Too bad,” she said. “You’re going to eat, even if I have to tie you to the chair and feed you myself.”
Too worn out to argue, I forced down a few bites; strangely, every bite seemed a little easier than the last, but I still finished less than half of it.
“She left me.”
“I know,” Marge said.
“She didn’t want to try to work it out.”
“I know.”
“Why? What did I do wrong?”
Marge took a puff from her inhaler, buying time, and fully aware that casting blame or heaping criticism on Vivian would only heighten my emotional turmoil.
“I don’t think you did anything wrong. It’s just that relationships are hard, and both people have to want them to work.”
As true as the statement was, I felt no relief when she said it.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you today?” Marge asked.
“I can’t ask you to take another day off,” I said. Eating seemed to have had a mildly stabilizing effect on my emotional state. I still wasn’t great, mind you. Not even close. The emotional surges may not have been the tidal waves of yesterday, but they were still in the rogue wave category, the kind that sank the Andrea Gail in the film The Perfect Storm. I felt wildly off balance, but hoped that I could still handle the basics. Get London to school and back. Dance class. Order pizza for dinner. I knew I wouldn’t have the mental or emotional energy for anything else; even reading the paper or vacuuming were way beyond my capabilities. My goal was simply to stay upright and take care of my daughter.
Marge didn’t seem convinced. “I’m going to call and check on you today. More than once.”
“Okay,” I agreed, but I knew there was part of me that was afraid to be alone. What if I simply broke into pieces as soon as she left? Or shattered, like the rest of my world.
Vivian had left me.
She was in love with someone else.
I was a terrible husband, worthless, and I had failed.
I disappointed her one too many times, and now I was alone.
Oh, my God, I thought, as soon as Marge closed the door behind her. I’m alone.
I’m going to end up dying alone.
While London was at school, I walked. I paced from one end of the house to the other and back again; I walked the streets of my neighborhood for hours. Questions about Vivian smashed into one another like endless battering rams. Was she in Atlanta or in another city? Was she taking the day off to set up the apartment or at the office? I wondered what she was doing – I imagined her using an earpiece as she spoke on the phone in a corner office, or hurrying down the hall carrying a stack of papers, the office I envisioned shifting from sleek and modern to stuffy and formal. I wondered whether Spannerman was with her; I wondered whether she was laughing beside him or at her desk with her head in her hands. I checked my cell phone constantly, hoping to hear from her, watching for texts or missed calls. I brought the phone everywhere. I wanted to hear her voice telling me that she’d made a mistake and that she wanted to come home. I wanted her to tell me that she still loved me. I wanted her to ask me to forgive her, and in my heart, I knew that I wouldn’t hesitate. I still loved her; the thought of life without her was incomprehensible.
All the while, I continued to wonder what I had done wrong. Was it quitting my job? Was it that I’d gained a little weight? Was it that I had worked too much, prior to quitting my job? And when did things start going wrong? When did I become disposable? How could she leave us? How could she leave London? Did Vivian intend to take her to Atlanta?
The final question was the worst of all, too much to contemplate, and after finally returning to the house, I was exhausted. I knew I should nap, but as soon as I lay down, my mind began to race. Marge called three times, and I realized I had yet to tell my parents what had happened, but I still didn’t want to believe it.
I wanted this to be a dream.
In midafternoon, I picked up London while my internal storm continued to rage. She asked for ice cream, and though the request felt impossibly taxing, I somehow made it to Dairy Queen. I also, somehow, got her to dance class on time.
I went for a walk while London was at class. I’m not a strong man. I paced to the end of the strip mall. When I reached it, tears had begun to blur my vision and all at once, I was standing by myself with shoulders heaving, my face in my hands.
“When’s Mommy coming home?” London asked me. There was a box of pizza on the table and I set my slice of pizza aside. I’d finished half of it. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I haven’t talked to her,” I said. “But as soon as I find out, I’ll let you know.”
If she thought my answer odd, she didn’t show it. “Did I tell you that Bodhi and me found a baby turtle at recess?”
“A baby turtle?”
“We were playing freeze tag and I found it over by the fence and he was so cute. And then Bodhi came over and he thought it was really cute, too. We tried to feed it grass, but it wasn’t hungry, and then all the other kids came over and the teacher came over, too. And we asked if we could put it in a box and bring it into the classroom and the teacher said yes!”