Eighteen Months Earlier
“We can’t accept this!”
We were sitting at our kitchen table, Kat’s now slightly wrinkled check lying between us. Todd was eyeing it with a mixture of suspicion and fear, as though it weren’t an overly generous and life-saving gift but instead an undetonated bomb.
It was late, well past dinnertime. Both children had gone to bed, smelling of raspberry shower gel and mint shampoo. Liam was reading a volume of Calvin & Hobbes comic strips, which was as far as he was willing to exert himself on any book not assigned by a teacher. Bridget was on a Laura Ingalls Wilder kick and was currently reading my personal favorite, Farmer Boy, with its wonderful descriptions of the wallpaper in the parlor and golden buckwheat cakes covered in maple syrup. No one in Farmer Boy ever discovered her husband had been spending the hours he was supposed to be at work knocking back overpriced lattes and probably flirting with the tattooed baristas.
“It’s too late,” I said. “I already accepted it.”
“But it’s ridiculous,” Todd said. His lip was curled, causing him to speak in an unflattering sneer. I had never disliked him more than I did in that moment.
“How is it ridiculous?”
“It’s more than we even owe the school.”
“That’s the point.” I took a sip from my water glass, grateful for the cold, clear liquid. I’d had wine earlier with Kat, reasoning at the time that it was a crisis and any alcohol consumed was medicinal. Now my mouth tasted dry and stale, and I could feel a tension headache coming on. “It’s supposed to give us some breathing room while we figure everything else out.”
“It isn’t Kat’s responsibility to pay our children’s tuition,” Todd argued.
“No,” I agreed. “It’s our responsibility to do that. But you lost your job and didn’t pay the school and then lied about it for months, which is how we ended up in this position. And I’ll be damned if the kids are the ones left to deal with the consequences.”
This, unsurprisingly, silenced Todd. He was naturally pale, possessing the sort of skin that never tanned but instead turned red and blotchy when he was out in the sun for too long. Tonight, however, what color he normally possessed had drained from his face, leaving him pasty and drawn.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I lied.”
I stared down at my glass of water. It wasn’t. I didn’t—couldn’t—forgive him. Not yet, at least, and maybe I never would.
Every marriage had its ups and downs, and ours was no different. Todd and I had even been to see a marriage therapist several times over the past few months to work on our communication skills. Dr. Ian Keller, who was a master of the empathetic head nod, had advocated that we use “I” statements with one another. For example, at this moment, he’d urge me to say, “I feel sad when you’re not truthful with me about our finances.”
But I wasn’t in the mood for “I” statements, especially now that I knew we couldn’t afford what we’d paid out of pocket for those sessions with Dr. Keller.
It was the first time I had ever seriously contemplated leaving Todd. I was surprised by how empty and tired I felt at the idea. I had assumed marriages in trouble spiraled downward among shouting and dramatic scenes. That was certainly how my parents’ divorce had played out, with dishes being thrown, locks changed. I was only eight when they divorced, but I had a very clear memory of finding my mother sitting on the living room floor, cutting up their wedding photos with a pair of scissors, the shreds of my relatives lying in scrap heaps around her.
No, I didn’t feel like yelling or cutting up our wedding photos. I felt like crawling into bed and going to sleep for a long, long time. Maybe that meant Todd and I would make it, after all. Maybe you needed the rage to gain the necessary momentum to propel yourself through the drama of divorce.
“We could ask my parents for a loan. Or your parents,” Todd offered meekly.
I nodded. We could. And they would probably help, if they were in a position to do so. But it would mean coming clean about our myriad financial problems, which neither of us wanted to do. Besides, I wasn’t sure how flush either set of parents were. My dad and stepmother were retired, and Todd’s father was in poor health.
My mother, Ebbie, and I had never been close. She had decamped to an ashram shortly after her divorce from my father, leaving me confused and scared at her sudden departure. When she returned six months later, she’d cycled through a few bohemian career choices, all of which failed, while dating a series of aging hippies, all of whom I disliked. I’d always assumed that my interest in math and logic problems was at least in part a reaction to her chaotic parenting.
Now Ebbie was married to Robert, a potter, and they lived in Asheville, North Carolina. She managed the store where they sold the mugs and platters he threw. We didn’t see her very often. I had no idea how wealthy she and her husband were, but I’d certainly never ask to borrow money from them. My mother and I didn’t have that sort of a relationship.
“We could just enroll the kids in public school,” Todd suggested. “It isn’t that terrible an option. We know people who send their kids there.”
The truth was, we hardly knew anyone who sent their kids to the local public schools. Our friends and acquaintances were the parents of our children’s friends, the people we’d met over the years at soccer games and dance practices and the volunteer shifts that were now mandatory at all private schools.
“I’ve heard that the trick to the public schools here is to get your kids placed on the honors track,” Todd continued rationalizing.
I had heard the same thing. Then again, I had read in the paper that the kid who had been stabbed the previous week had been an honors student. His assailant—not an honors student—had cornered him in the bathroom, brandishing a knife while he demanded the victim turn over his pocket money. The victim had only seven dollars. Several editorials had questioned how the perpetrator had been able to smuggle the weapon into the school in the first place, as the kids had to pass through metal detectors to get inside.
Todd looked at me inquiringly.
“No,” I said. “Liam’s not going to that middle school. The elementary schools aren’t as bad, I suppose, if only because the kids are too young to stab one another. But Bridget doesn’t handle change well. She had a near panic attack just last week when the new soccer schedule came out and she’d been put on a different team than last season. How do you think she’d handle a whole new school, a new teacher, new classmates? It’s in both the children’s best interests to keep them where they are.”
“Even if we can’t afford it?”
“We can afford it with this loan from Kat. Or at least, they can stay where they are for the rest of the year. We’ll worry about next year later. Maybe we’ll be in a better financial position by then. If not, maybe we can look into getting them scholarships.”
Todd perked up at this. “The school has scholarships? Can’t we apply for one now, for this year?”
I shook my head. “No. Not midyear. Anyway, you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“I have already accepted this money. I’m going to give the check to the school tomorrow,” I said flatly. I stood up to refill my water glass. My head was now throbbing. I rummaged around the kitchen junk drawer, looking for a bottle of ibuprofen.
Todd shook his head helplessly. “We’ll never be able to pay her back.”
“Yes, we will. You’ll find another job. I’ll get more tutoring students. I’ve heard that SAT prep pays well. We’ll make it work.”
I didn’t mention the telephone call I’d received that afternoon from a publisher in New York. I hadn’t picked up, but she’d left a message on my voice mail saying she’d read my book of logic puzzles and wanted to see if I was interested in taking on a similar project. I hadn’t called her back yet, but even so, I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell Todd about it. Perhaps I didn’t trust that anything would come of it. Or maybe I didn’t think Todd deserved to hear my good news when he had hidden so much from me.
“I’ve sent out résumés. No one in town is hiring.” Todd rumpled his hair with both hands. “I have a meeting set up for next week with a firm in Miami. They said they might be able to use me, although probably only on a contract basis. And it would mean a long commute.”
“Not ideal,” I agreed. “But it’s better than nothing.”
Todd shrugged and nodded. “I’ll get something. I’m good at what I do.”
I didn’t doubt that he was a good architect, and it wasn’t hard to believe that earnings were down so far at S+K Architects that they’d had to lay off Todd and two other junior architects. The real estate market had been in a slump for years. Todd’s now former bosses had promised him a good reference, and they might even be able to hire him back if business picked up.
At least, that was what he’d told me. The problem with learning that your spouse has lied to you, and done so repeatedly, is the complete loss of trust. Maybe Todd’s story of his dismissal was true. Or maybe he’d been caught slacking at his job or hitting on the receptionist or stealing office supplies.
Who knew what the truth really was?
* * *
The following day, I dropped off the check to the school bookkeeper, Patricia Davies, a middle-aged woman with a prematurely gray bob and oversize glasses. Ms. Davies held the check, blinking down at it, but refrained from commenting on the amount or signatory.
“I’ll apply this to your account, Mrs. Campbell,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied, feeling oddly hollow as her fingers began click-clacking on her keyboard.
I turned away, trying to shake the feeling that I had just done something very, very wrong. Did I? I wondered, but then I reminded myself, yet again, that I had not accepted this money on my own behalf. I was doing it for Liam and Bridget so they could stay at their school and not have their lives shaken up midyear.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Who had said that? I wondered. Ben Franklin? Dr. Seuss? I couldn’t remember, but it was stuck in my head and set on repeat.
When I got home, I tossed my handbag on the counter and headed straight for my laptop, which I’d left out on the kitchen table that morning. I’d been researching how to become qualified as an SAT prep tutor over a breakfast of Greek yogurt and stale granola.
Once my computer had whirred to life, I typed borrower nor lender into an internet search engine. The results popped up, and after a few simple clicks of the mouse, I learned it wasn’t a Ben Franklin quote after all, but a line from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. It was in a soliloquy by Polonius, offering advice to his son:
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
I felt a shiver of discomfort but kept reading. Polonius was later referred to in the text as a “tedious old fool” before being killed by Hamlet. This did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.
Would this money, this incredible gift Kat had given me, turn out to be a curse? No, I thought. Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t believe in curses.
My phone rang, or rather, barked, startling me. I glanced at it and saw that the call was from the 212 area code. New York City. I suddenly remembered the voice mail message I’d received the day before from the editor. I’d meant to call her back that morning but had been so distracted I’d forgotten.
“This is Alice Campbell,” I said, trying to sound professional.
“Hello, Alice, this is Lydia Rafferty. I’m an editor with Kidtastic Publishing,” the voice on the other end of the line said. She spoke quickly but enunciated every word.
“Yes, I got your message yesterday. I was just about to call you back,” I lied.
I quickly—and, I hoped, silently—typed Kidtastic into my friend Google. Google replied that in the world of publishing, Kidtastic was a Big Fucking Deal. Their real success came from direct-to-school marketing in the form of fund-raising book fairs and regular order forms. I had seen dozens of these over the years, crumpled up at the bottom of my children’s backpacks. We had actually ordered our fair share of books through this program, which offered competitive pricing and free books to the classroom teachers with enough parent purchases. The books sold were mostly paperbacks, with the occasional book set or merchandising add-on thrown in.
“First of all, I loved your book,” Lydia said. “The logic puzzles were great, it was easy to read, and best of all, it was educational. I think you’d be a great fit with Kidtastic.”
“You mean you want to reprint my book?” I asked doubtfully. I couldn’t remember the exact details of my publishing contract, but I was fairly sure I didn’t have the ability to sign it over to another publisher. “I’ll need to talk to my publisher. I didn’t retain the rights to resell it—”
“Oh, no, I’m sure you didn’t. And as wonderful as it was—as it is—” she corrected herself with an overemphasis on the word is “—we were hoping that you could do something slightly different for us.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’m so glad you asked that,” Lydia said excitedly. “Well, right now the supernatural is hot. Hot, hot, hot. Wizards, vampires, zombies, ghosts. Kids are clamoring for more fantasy books.”
I was confused. “You want me to write a fantasy novel?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as dubious as I felt. Fiction was hardly up my alley. I’d always preferred biographies and historical nonfiction to novels in my personal reading.
“No, no, nothing like that,” Lydia reassured me.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean, then.”
“We want you to write what you’ve already written—logic puzzles. But what we were thinking of—what I was envisioning—” Lydia paused to inhale “—is a series of books of logic puzzles with a magical background. Problem solving with wizards! Using logic to avoid the undead! It would be such a fabulous joining of the educational—and believe me, Alice, parents are only too happy to throw money at anything considered educational—while setting it in the fantasy worlds that kids love. I just know it will be a huge hit! And I want you—we at Kidtastic want you—to write this series. I can’t think of anyone better.”
I was speechless.
“Alice? Are you still there?” Lydia sounded concerned.
“I’m here. I’m just... Well, that sounds fantastic,” I said weakly, knowing that I wasn’t reaching the heights of appropriately enthusiastic. Ideally she’d chalk it up to my being overwhelmed, which was certainly true.
“I know! I think so, too,” Lydia said triumphantly. “I take it you’re interested?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m interested. Very, very, very interested.”
Lydia’s laugh was a low, deep rumble. “I thought you might be.”
Lydia and I continued to chat—or, more accurately, she talked at great length about her vision for the new series, while I mostly listened and made the occasional upbeat response as needed. She wanted me to agree to write three books for Kidtastic initially, and then more if they sold well. Lydia said they’d hire an artist to illustrate the books and asked how quickly I could write them, as they would like to release the books every two to three months.
“Kids have short attention spans,” she explained. “And if they get hooked on a series, they’ll want every book that comes out. Releasing them in quick succession helps keep the sales elevated.”
Her enthusiasm was catching, and I found myself growing more and more excited at the prospect. I had enjoyed writing the first book of logic puzzles but had never thought I could turn writing into a career. But now, listening to Lydia’s enthusiastic chatter, I started to believe that maybe I could make a success of this opportunity.
By the time we got off the phone, and I sat down to start sketching out my ideas for the first book in this new series, my worries about Kat’s loan ebbed away. I had made the right decision to accept the money, I decided, and with this new opportunity, I might even be able to pay her back faster than I’d ever imagined.
And anyway, Kat was right. It was just money.