“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I led him back to the table. Despite the alcohol he’d consumed, he didn’t seem affected at all. Instead, he sat quietly, adding nothing to the conversation. He didn’t mention the death of his father to anyone else at the table, and an hour later, I drove him back to his apartment.

He went home on Sunday, just as he’d told me he would. And though we were friends, I never saw or heard from him again.

“Hold on,” Marge said. After I dropped London off at school on Tuesday morning, she’d come straight to my house, where we sat at the kitchen table. “So she just… left?”

“Last night,” I said.

“Did she at least say she was sorry?”

“I don’t remember.” I shook my head. “I can’t even… um… I mean… I…”

I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight; my roiling emotions – shock and fear, disbelief and anger – had me veering from one extreme to the next. Though I knew I’d done it, I couldn’t remember driving London to school only a few minutes earlier; the drive had been consigned to nothingness.

“Your hands are shaking,” Marge said.

“Yeah… I’m okay.” Trailing off, I took a long breath. “Shouldn’t you be at work? I can scramble up some eggs.”

Marge would tell me later that I got up from the table and went to the fridge; as soon as I pulled it open, I must have decided I needed coffee instead. I went to the coffee cabinet and then realized I should probably get cups out for Marge and me first. But I must have thought I still needed coffee so I set the cups beside the coffeemaker. She watched as I went to the fridge and pulled out the eggs before returning them to the same location. She said I then wandered to the pantry and came out with a bowl and…

“How about I make breakfast?” she suggested, rising from the table.

“Huh?”

“Have a seat.”

“Don’t you need to go to work?”

“I’ve decided that I’m taking the day off.” She reached for her cell phone. “Sit down. I’ll be back in minute. I just have to tell my boss.”

As I took my seat, I was struck anew by the realization that Vivian had left me. That she was in love with her boss. She was gone. I watched Marge open the door to the back patio.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to call my boss.”

“Why are you calling your boss?”

Marge stayed with me all day. She picked up London from school and also brought her to and from her piano lesson. Liz came by after her last appointment, and together they not only made dinner, but kept London entertained and helped her get ready for bed. It wasn’t often that her aunties came by to play, and London was over the moon from the extra attention.

Again, it would be Marge who would tell me this. Like the drive to school, I wouldn’t be able to remember it. The only thing I really remember was watching the clock and waiting for Vivian to call, something she never did.

The next morning, after sleeping less than three hours, I crawled out of bed feeling almost hungover, with all my nerves on edge. It was a monumental effort to shower and shave, something I’d neglected the day before. Nor had I eaten much – only a few bites at breakfast and dinner – but the thought of food was inconceivable.

Marge handed me a cup of coffee as soon as soon as I entered the kitchen, then started loading a plate. “Take a seat,” she said. “You need something in your stomach.”

“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.