The Push

On the way out, I asked her to thank you for the gift. And then I said something I shouldn’t have—that I’d love to meet you and Jet and Violet sometime. This wasn’t possible, of course, but I wanted to talk about you somehow. Gemma nodded and said she’d like that, too, that maybe I could come over for pizza, with Sam, like she’d suggested before.

“And how are things going with Violet?”

“Violet? She’s good. Everyone’s good.” She was distracted, texting someone on her phone.

But I wondered if she was lying to me. I wondered if she ever looked at my daughter and had a feeling that something was wrong. I wondered if she ever suspected her son was in danger.

She kissed my cheek good-bye and I touched her arm, like she always touched mine.

We were getting far too close. I promised myself I would skip next week. I took the blocks home and put them in Sam’s room.



71



I wasn’t going to go. I texted her to say I wasn’t feeling great—that Sam had had a restless night and I hadn’t slept much the night before either. She texted back a sad face, and then again to say she’d miss seeing me. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

We sat near the back and exchanged updates from the week in low voices, hers, a series of inconsequential problems that worried her, mine, sweet things Sam had said or done.

We’d been seeing each other at the Wednesday night gathering for nearly a year and knew most of the regulars, although Gemma and I had established ourselves as a pair at some point. The other women held two spots for us if the seating was tight, and asked one of us where the other was if we were late. I wondered why Gemma had taken an interest in me, of all the women there. The answer, I’m sure, was that I’d sought her out with such intention that I’d given her no choice. Still, I wanted to believe there was something about me that she was drawn to—she thought of me as a wonderful mother, capable and loving and committed, and befriending me gave her great comfort as she navigated that first year with your new son. It made me feel like I was a clandestine part of the new family you had built, one step removed from the clutches of your judgments at last.

We said good-bye to the others and I wrapped my scarf around my neck.

“My husband’s here.” Gemma pointed to the door. There you were. Standing outside, staring at me. I clutched the wool in my hands and caught my breath. Slowly I turned so that my back faced you. You’d been watching us.

“Come. I’ll introduce you.” She put her hands on my shoulders and guided me to the door. I didn’t know what to do.

“Gemma, I—I have to use the bathroom—”

“Oh, just come out quickly. We’re going to catch a late movie, but I want you to meet him while he’s here.”

I lowered my eyes and tried to think. What could I do? I pulled my scarf up high around my chin and yanked my hat low over my forehead. I fished the long, brown strands of hair out from under my coat and spread them over my shoulders. As if you wouldn’t have recognized me. The woman you loved for twenty years. The mother of your children. I stood there in front of you, as naked as I had ever been. She kissed you. She didn’t have to reach up like I did. Your eyes felt like bullets. I swallowed and tears pooled on the lids of my eyes, although it could have been from the bitter cold for all Gemma knew.

“Fox, this is Anne. Anne, this is Fox.”

My head floated away like a candlelit paper lantern into the night sky—I was no longer standing there, no longer locked in your stare, waiting to be massacred by whatever you would say next. It’s the only way I could survive the shame, the fear, the regret of you knowing what I’d done. I left myself. I watched from above.

“Nice to meet you.” I offered my gloved hand to you. You looked at Gemma. And then looked back at me. You didn’t take your hands from your pockets. I’d bought that coat for your birthday.

She turned to you with genuine concern, as though the only reason you could have been so rude is if you’d had an aneurysm. You slowly pulled your hand from your coat pocket and took mine in yours. We hadn’t spoken in a year and a half. We hadn’t touched in even longer. The skin on your face was red from the cold and you looked older. Maybe less sleep with the baby, maybe the stress of the job you had now. Or maybe I had just lost track of time—despite everything, in the memories that came to me the easiest, you were still the man I was in love with years ago.

“You, too.” You glanced over my head as you spoke and I knew then you were going to spare us all the humiliation. I doubted you were doing it for me.

Gemma looked uncomfortable. Her usual soft, fluid mannerisms disappeared, and she tensed. I could see it even under her thick down coat. I think she understood that something wasn’t right, but it was too cold to stand still for long, and there were other women catching her eye to say good-bye. The three of us turned away from the perilousness of one another. I slipped through the crowd that lingered on the sidewalk and then began to run. I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to be as far away from you as I could be.



72



I don’t know if Gemma told you what happened next.

I imagine you waited until after the theater to tell her. Or maybe it was days. Maybe you had wanted to spare her the disappointment as long as you could, until you felt too dishonest keeping quiet any longer. Or maybe you didn’t want to admit that you’d been married for so long to a woman who would do something as unthinkable as I had. As unhinged. Shame by association. I didn’t hear from Gemma that week and I didn’t dare reach out. Her unusual silence was proof that you’d told her who I was. I stopped going to the Wednesday night group.