CHAPTER
TWELVE
“Were you at Saks?” Aunt Charlotte asks when I arrive home. “For some reason I thought you had the day off. . . . Anyway, a package came from FedEx. I put it in your room.”
“Really?” I say, feigning interest as I skim past her question. I wasn’t at work today. “I didn’t order anything.”
Aunt Charlotte is standing on a stool in the kitchen, reorganizing the cabinets. She steps down, leaving the bowls and mugs she has been sorting through lined up on the counter. “It’s from Richard. I saw his name on the return address when I signed for it.” She is staring at me, waiting for my reaction.
I keep my expression calm. “Probably just some things I left behind.” She can’t know how I feel about Richard and his engagement. I don’t want her to blame herself later for not doing more to help me.
“I picked us up some salads for dinner.” I hold up a white paper bag decorated with black letters and dancing greens. I’ve vowed to pitch in more. Besides, Chop’t was a convenient stop. “I’ll just stick these in the fridge and then go change.” I’m desperate to open the box.
The package is waiting on my bed. My hands begin to tremble when I see the neatly printed numbers and letters written in all capitals. Richard used to leave me notes in that handwriting nearly every day before he left for work: You are so beautiful when you’re asleep. Or, I can’t wait to make love to you tonight.
The tenor of the notes changed as time passed. Try to get some exercise today, sweetheart. It’ll make you feel better. And near the end of our marriage, the notes were replaced by emails: I just phoned and you didn’t answer. Are you sleeping again? We need to talk about this tonight.
I use scissors to slice through the masking tape and open up my past.
Our wedding album is on top. I lift the heavy satin keepsake. Beneath it I see some of my clothes, neatly folded. When I left, I took mostly cold-weather outfits. Richard has sent ensembles suitable for summertime. He has selected the pieces that always looked the best on me.
At the bottom is a padded black jewelry box. I open it and see a diamond choker. It’s the necklace I could never bear to wear because Richard gave it to me after one of our worst fights.
This isn’t all I’ve left behind, of course. Richard probably donated the rest of my things to charity.
He knows I never cared much about clothes. What he really wanted me to have is the album and the necklace. But why?
There’s no note in the box.
But he is sending me a message with its contents, I realize.
I open the album and stare at a young woman in a lacy gown with a full skirt, smiling up at Richard. I barely recognize myself; it’s like looking at an image of a different person.
I wonder if his new fiancée will take his last name: Thompson. It is still my name, too.
I see her turning her face up to Richard as the minister unites them. She is beaming. Will he think of me briefly and remember how I looked in that moment, before he pushes the memory away? Does he ever call her my name by accident? Do they talk about me, the two of them, when they’re cuddling in bed?
I pick up the album and hurl it across the room. It leaves a mark on the wall before it falls to the floor with a thud. My entire body is shaking now.
I’ve been putting on an act for Aunt Charlotte. But my costume can no longer camouflage what I’ve become.
I think of the liquor store down the street. I could buy a bottle or two. A drink might help douse the rage inside me.
I shove the box into my wardrobe, but now I’m imagining Richard lifting her chin and clasping a diamond choker around her neck, then leaning in to kiss her. I can’t bear the image of his lips on her mouth, of his hands on her.
My time is running out.
I need to see her. I waited outside of her apartment for hours today, but she never appeared.
Is she scared? I wonder. Does she sense what is coming?
I elect to allow myself a final bottle of wine. I’ll drink it and go over my plan again. But I choose to do one thing before going to the liquor store. And miraculously, because of that simple act, an unexpected chance drops into my lap.
I decide to call Maureen. Even after all these years, she is the person with whom Richard is the closest.
We haven’t talked in a while. Our relationship began pleasantly enough, but during my marriage to her brother, her feelings toward me seemed to shift. She grew distant. I’m sure Richard confided in her. No wonder she was wary of me.
But early on, I tried to form an independent relationship with her. It seemed important to Richard that we be close. So I called her every week or two. But we quickly ran out of things to talk about. Maureen had a Ph.D. and ran the Boston Marathon each spring. She rarely drank, other than a single glass of champagne on special occasions, and she rose at five A.M. to practice the piano, an instrument she’d taken up as an adult.
Shortly after my wedding, I accompanied Maureen and Richard on the annual ski trip they took for her birthday. They whipped down black diamonds with ease, and I only held them up. I ended up leaving the slopes at lunchtime and curling up by the fireplace with a hot toddy until they returned, pink cheeked and exhilarated, to collect me for dinner. They always invited me to come, but I never joined them after that first trip, staying home while they went to Aspen or Vail, and on their week-long trip to Switzerland.
Now I dial her cell number.
She answers on the third ring: “Hang on a sec.” Then I hear a muffled “Ninety-second and Lexington, please.”
So she is in town already; she comes here in the summer to teach a course at Columbia.
“Vanessa? How are you?” Her tone is measured. Neutral.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “How about you?”
“Fine.”
One of my podcasts recounted a psychology experiment in which a researcher flashed different faces from a projector and students had to quickly identify the emotions portrayed. It was astonishing. In less than a second, with no clues but a subtle shifting of features, almost everyone could accurately differentiate between disgust and fear and surprise and joy. But I’ve always thought voices reveal just as much expression, that our brains are capable of deciphering and categorizing almost imperceptible nuances in tone.
Maureen wants nothing to do with me. She is going to end the call quickly.
“I was just wondering . . . could we meet for lunch tomorrow? Or coffee?”
Maureen exhales. “I’m a little busy now.”
“I can come to you. I was wondering . . . the wedding. Is Richard—”
“Vanessa. Richard has moved on. You need to do the same.”
I try again. “I just need to—”
“Please stop. Just stop. Richard told me you’ve been calling all the time. . . . Look, you’re upset things ended between you two. But he’s my brother.”
“Have you met her?” I blurt. “He can’t marry her. He doesn’t love her—he can’t—”
“I agree it’s very sudden.” Maureen’s voice is kinder when she speaks again. “And I know it’s hard to see him with another woman. To think of him with anyone but you. But Richard has moved on.”
Then the last, frayed thread tying me to Richard is severed with the click of the phone.
I stand there, feeling numb. Maureen was always protective of Richard. I wonder if she’ll befriend his new bride, if the two of them will go to lunch . . .
Then clarity sweeps through my cloudy brain like an arcing windshield wiper. Ninety-second and Lexington. That’s where Sfoglia is. Richard used to love that restaurant. It’s almost seven o’clock—dinnertime.
Maureen must have been giving the address to a cabdriver. The restaurant is a long way from Columbia, but it’s close to Richard’s apartment. Could she be going to meet him—them—there?
I have to get her alone, where Richard can’t see.
If I leave now, maybe I can be waiting on the corner when she arrives. If not, I can ask for a table by the ladies’ room and follow her if she uses it.
Two minutes is all I require.
I glance at my reflection in the beveled glass mirror beside my armoire. Although I must get there quickly, I need to appear presentable so I blend in. I take a moment to brush my hair and apply my lipstick, belatedly realizing the shade is too dark for my chalky complexion. I dab concealer under my eyes and smooth on blush.
As I locate my keys, I call out to tell Aunt Charlotte that I need to dash out for an errand. I don’t wait for her response before I hurry out the door. The elevator is too slow, so I spiral down the stairs, my purse banging against my side. Inside it is everything I need.
The streets are clogged with traffic. It’s rush hour. No buses are in sight. Maybe a cab? As I head toward the East Side, I scan the yellow vehicles, but they all seem full. It’s a twenty-minute walk. So I break into a run.