On This Day (4 page)

O
h brother, was it something I said? I try to replay the trivial conversation just before Suzette threw down her napkin and burst out of here. Now I see my sister looking at me from the head table. It’s obvious she’s noticed something amiss over here. I give her my best innocent look, but she sends me a pointed glance in return. And her look is meant to inform me that it’s suddenly become my responsibility to go and find out what’s wrong with Suzette Burke, the wife of my niece’s fiancé’s boss. Like I need this today. Oh, the varied and many complications of life!

So I excuse myself to no one in particular and set off to see if I can help the poor woman. Or, worst-case scenario, to discover whether unthinkingly I said something to unnerve her like this.
Heaven knows, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth.
What were we talking about anyway?

I replay the last scraps of conversation as I hike toward the main lodge, where I assume she has headed since I don’t see her anywhere near the lake or the trails. Besides, she didn’t exactly have on hiking boots. What possesses a woman to wear shoes like that to an outdoor luncheon on a lawn? Not only are they inappropriate, I’m guessing they cost a small fortune as well.

Then it hits me. “What do you do?” was what I had asked her. No big deal, really. Just making small talk in order to avoid conversation with my husband since I feel certain I’d have told him to go jump in the lake.

“Do?”
she shot back as if I were subjecting her to the Spanish Inquisition.

Then I distinctly remember restating my question, I thought in an inoffensive way, since I fully realize that lots of women choose to stay at home, and this by no means is a reflection on their value as human beings. “I mean, do you work
outside
the home?” I asked in a polite tone. But when she didn’t answer me and instead stared blankly across the table, I continued, stupidly perhaps. “I mean, do you have a career or children or hobbies?”

“No,” was all she said. And shortly after that she stood up, threw down her napkin, and struggled to march off in those four-inch heels. It was actually a rather amazing feat that she managed to stay upright at all, especially after consuming a glass and a half
of wine. Not that I was counting exactly. I guess I was just distracting myself from obsessing over what was going on between Phil and me. I felt relieved that I’d managed to avoid him for most of the morning–well, until this luncheon began.

“Suzette,” I call. It turns out she’s heading to the ladies’ room inside the lodge. She doesn’t even look back at me, and suddenly I wonder what on earth I am doing, following her into the bathroom like this. She’ll probably think I’m stalking her. But actually I’m fairly worried about her. My imagination has gone into overdrive, and I have already conjured up images of poor Suzette. Perhaps she’s experienced some sort of heartbreak. Maybe she lost her only child and is barely over her grief, then someone as insensitive as I am throws it all back in her face by asking what she does. I am so tactless sometimes.

“Suzette?” I say in my most gentle voice when I find her standing over the sink, crying even harder now. “Are you okay?”

She reaches for a tissue to blot her wet face. “I-I don’t know.”

I put my hand on her arm. “Did I say something—”

This causes her to burst into fresh tears, and the next thing I know, she throws her arms around me and begins sobbing uncontrollably on my shoulder. I try to soothe her in the way I would comfort my sister or niece. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Go ahead and have a good cry if it makes you feel better.”

Finally she seems to be pulling herself together. She steps back and goes for a fresh tissue, then examines her ruined makeup in the
mirror. “Ugh!” she says. “I look horrifying.” Then she opens up a lovely handbag that looks like authentic crocodile or something reptilian and attempts to repair her damaged face.

“Are you going to be okay?” I say as I watch her, suddenly feeling useless.

She turns and looks at me. One eye looks fairly normal, but the other still has a raccoonlike ring of smeared mascara. “Okay?” she echoes in an unsteady voice.

Oh dear, here we go again
. “I mean, are you feeling a little better? I know it can be therapeutic to have a good cry. Are you feeling a little—”

“I feel totally miserable,” she says with a sniff. “I’ve never felt worse.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Is it anything I said … I mean, is there anything I can do to help?”

She looks at me with a surprised expression, almost as if she’s not even sure who I am or why I’m here. “No, no … of course not. It wasn’t you … Uh, what is your name again?”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Anderson. I’m Jenny’s aunt on her mother’s side.” All right, I feel incredibly stupid and a bit irritated that she can’t even recall my name. What on earth made me think I was the cause of this, anyway? And why am I still standing here?

“Right. Jenny’s aunt. No, no, it wasn’t your fault. The truth is, I’ve just discovered that my husband is … is having an affair.” Her face twists up, and I’m afraid she’s about to start crying again. “With his secretary!”

I blink. “His secretary? Goodness, are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know … But
with his secretary?
I guess it just seems so, well, cliché … and I wonder … I mean, I didn’t know that bosses and secretaries, well … Aren’t there sexual-harassment policies to prevent that sort of thing?”

She sniffs, then blots her nose. “She’s not actually a secretary. She’s Jim’s
legal assistant
At least I think that’s what he calls her. And policies? Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But he does have a marriage license. That’s a bit like a policy, don’t you think?”

Well, I’m not sure what to think. Most of all I’m wondering how I got myself into this situation. Furthermore, how can I get myself out? “Yes,” I tell her, “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Are
you
married?”

“Well, yes,” I say with what I hope doesn’t sound like impatience. “I introduced you to my husband. Remember?”

“Right. The good-looking man with you.”

I consider this but don’t offer my opinion. I realize that Phil’s an attractive guy. But then looks are only skin deep.

“How long have you been married?” she asks.

“Oh …” Why are we talking about me now? Despite myself, I answer. “Almost twenty-five years.”

“So you’ve probably never been through something like this. You’re probably perfectly happy and—”

“Don’t be so sure.”

She looks more closely at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean looks can be deceiving.” Now why did I confess this to Suzette? She’s the kind of woman I might best describe as a flibbertigibbet. Although I’m not entirely sure what that is, it seems to fit her.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” she says suddenly and passionately. “I can tell you’re an understanding person. I can tell you’ve got a big heart. Oh, please, come and let me buy you a drink.”

“But I … uh … What about the lunch?”

“They’ll never miss us,” she assures me as she closes her purse and grabs me by the hand. “Come on. I desperately need someone to talk to. And I’m sure you’re the one. It’s like fate or providence or maybe just good luck. Come on, Elizabeth. We girls need to stick together.”

And so I find myself sitting in a darkened bar tucked off in the corner of the lodge as I listen to Suzette confessing about how she “literally stole” her husband from his first wife and how the exact same thing is happening to her today. “Just like karma,” she says finally.

I shrug. “They say what goes around comes around.”

“That’s what scares me …” She sighs and shakes her head. “But, seriously, do you have any idea how it feels to discover that the man you love with all your heart is cheating on you?” She polishes off her martini.

I nod and take another obligatory sip of the red wine she purchased for me after she assured me it would do me good.

“You do?” She looks incredulous now and almost happy. “You
really do, Elizabeth? Tell me the truth, is your handsome husband having an affair too?”

I sigh and consider her question. Is he? I wonder.
Is he?
Then I shrug again. “Maybe … Who knows?”

“Tell me everything.”

Everything? Like the way he got down on one knee to propose to me in college? Or the way he cried when our first son was born? Or the way he used to bring me flowers for no special reason? Or the way he promised that he would love me forever, for better or for worse? I feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

“What do you mean by
everything?
” I finally say as she waves the waiter over to refill our drinks.

“I mean how did you find out?” she says with what feels like far too much interest. “When did you first suspect he was having an affair? What did you say to him?”

I hold up my hand to stop the flow of questions. “The truth is, I don’t really know anything for certain. I just have this feeling.”

“But where there’s smoke, there’s fire, right?”

“Maybe …”

“Come on, Elizabeth. I told you my story. It’s your turn now.”

So I begin. And perhaps the truth is that I’m relieved to actually say it out loud, to get these doubts I’ve hidden into the open. Is it a mistake to tell someone like Suzette? Who can be sure? Perhaps it doesn’t matter, since the truth always comes out in the end anyway.

“There’s a young woman who moved into our neighborhood
about a year ago. Delia Underwood. Very pretty and friendly. She bought a house down the street with the settlement she received from a bad divorce. I heard the husband was abusive. Anyway, we’ve been friendly to her, and I’ve even watched her cat when she’s been gone.”

“And?” Suzette looks hungry for something more.

“Well, Delia took up running as a form of therapy. And not long after that, Phil took up running too.”

“Aha,” says Suzette in a tone I find slightly offensive.

“But Phil
used
to run,” I say quickly. “He did cross-country in high school and college. And he ran for exercise for years. He’d just gotten out of the habit the past ten years or so. But in January he decided to take it up again.”

“In the middle of winter?”

I sigh. “He was worried that he’d put on weight during the holidays.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Right. Anyway, I didn’t think a thing of it. But then he started getting more into it …” I pause to take a sip of wine. “And he started buying new running clothes and shoes and things, like he was getting really serious, you know? Sometimes I catch him looking at himself in the mirror, sort of like he’s admiring his improved physique. You know what I mean?”

Suzette nods as if she really does, and maybe it’s the wine or the day or the mountain air, but like an idiot I just keep on talking, going on and on until I am almost completely convinced that
my suspicions are right—that my husband is indeed having an affair with the beautiful young woman who lives down the street.

“And why wouldn’t he be attracted to her?” I say in conclusion. “She’s young and gorgeous, and I’ve seen them talk. When he says something—anything—she opens her eyes wide and really seems to listen, like she thinks he’s God or something!”

Suzette nods and pats my hand. “I do understand, Elizabeth. Trust me, I totally understand.”

And now I am crying. It’s as if the tables have suddenly turned, and it’s my chance to blubber and sob. And to my surprise, Suzette proves an empathetic listener.

“All men are alike,” she finally says.

I wipe my wet cheeks with my soggy cocktail napkin. “Yes, you may be right.”

H
ow I wish I were anywhere but here! I realize that David had to come since it’s his own brother who’s getting married today, but I would’ve done absolutely anything to get out of this weekend. I even tried to convince David that Amy was coming down with a bug yesterday. Unfortunately, he didn’t fall for it. Our little Amy, who turns two months old next week, is the picture of health. You’d think I’d at least be happy about that, but I felt so desperate that I actually wished she were running a slight fever. Nothing serious, mind you, but maybe a result of teething since I’ve heard that sometimes happens, although this is pretty young. But, no, Amy was perfectly fine.

What kind of mother am I, anyway? Wishing ill health on my only child just to avoid David’s brother’s wedding? I am truly pathetic. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s knowing how most of the
people here really do consider us to be pathetic, pitiful, clueless—whatever adjectives they use to describe us behind our backs. And not only behind our backs, because I’ve heard them say things—things like, “Too bad David hasn’t done as well as Michael,” or, “You’d think that David, being the older brother, would’ve followed his father’s example and …” Blah-blah-blah, off they go, discussing our personal lives as if we were germs under a microscope. I have no doubt that most of the guests here are convinced that David and I are second-class citizens or less. Something to be pitied by the “upper” class—and only because David opted to follow his heart instead of his daddy’s checkbook.

“I saw your baby this morning,” says Jennifer’s friend Ingrid, dredging me out of my depressing thoughts. “She’s absolutely adorable.”

“Thanks,” I say, attempting a feeble smile.

“You have a baby?” asks the older woman, who I believe is Jennifer’s grandmother. I haven’t been paying close attention, but I think I heard Ingrid calling her Mrs. Simpson, and that’s Jennifer’s last name.

I nod and set down my fork. “Her name is Amy. She’s almost two months old.”

“That’s such a sweet age. I hope you’re taking time to thoroughly enjoy her. Goodness knows, you barely turn your back, and the next thing, they’re heading down the aisle themselves.”

I give her the blank look that I give every older woman who says something like that to me. Honestly, it’s almost a daily thing.
“Well …,” I begin slowly, “it’s a little hard to
take the time
when you barely have any time to begin with.”

Mrs. Simpson nods. “Yes, I understand completely. You’re very busy when you’re caring for an infant. So much to be done, and they require a great deal of attention. But, trust me, she’ll grow up much faster than you expect.”

I sigh, knowing that on some level this woman is probably right. “I suppose so,” I say, but to be honest, I guess I do hope it goes fast. I’m so tired most of the time that I can barely see straight. I’m probably dangerous on the road, and I know that my performance on the job has been less than marginal, and I question my mental state for agreeing to teach summer school this year. Oh, I know we can use the money, but it’s making a complete basket case of me. And poor David. I either grump at him or totally ignore him. I’m wondering if our marriage can actually survive a baby. I feel as if I’m failing at everything right now. And some days I get up and feel so completely helpless—and hopeless—that I’m not even sure I can go on. But I do.

Like this weekend. I was certain I couldn’t possibly pull it together to come, yet here I am. I suppose it was the promise of a baby-sitter (provided by David’s parents) that finally lured me here. Of course, this baby-sitter is hired to watch Amy only during scheduled activities. The rest of the time she is mine, all mine.

So despite my little “breaks,” it still feels like a slow and hideous form of torture to be stuck with these people. Everyone is focused on money, careers, success, designer clothes, expensive
cars, dream vacations—it’s like being on another planet. Well, except perhaps for Jennifer’s grandmother. I suspect she’s an earth-ling, and she actually seems fairly well grounded. On a good day I might even like her. I suppose this should give me some hope about my sister-in-law-to-be. But I have to admit, my first impression was that she’s little Miss Perfect. And who else would be good enough for Michael Fairbanks—heir to the throne that my David declined?

Okay, maybe she’s not as bad as I thought. I look up at the head table to see her smiling for the photographer. There’s no denying that she’s exceptionally pretty. The Fairbankses must be pleased at such a prize. At the moment David is standing next to his brother, the happy groom, but you’d hardly know the two were related. Michael is a tall, blue-eyed blond, just like his mother, whereas David is a little shorter and stouter and dark enough to pass as Italian (just like his maternal grandfather, I’ve been told). David is grinning and, I suspect, cracking lame jokes that Michael is, I suspect, pretending to laugh at.

It’s hard to believe this was David and me only three years ago. Can that be? Certainly our wedding wasn’t anything as grand as this. Despite the pressure from David’s parents to go all out, we opted for a simple wedding in my family’s church. I’m sure David’s mother still hasn’t forgiven me for having our reception in the church basement. But David and I believed we should focus more on the marriage than the wedding. After all, a wedding lasts a day, but a marriage is supposed to last a lifetime—right?

Oh my, sometimes I wonder if I can last that long. Right now I am so tired I can’t imagine making it through this long, wearying day only to end up having to get Amy to sleep in that flimsy portacrib that’s set up in our room. Last night it squeaked and creaked, keeping both Amy and me mostly awake. When I’d barely drift off to sleep, it would be time to get up and nurse her again, and again, and again. Amy still eats every two hours at night. It’s thoroughly exhausting.

I gaze at the wedding party members. They all look so fresh and lovely, every hair in place. I, on the other hand, feel wilted and faded and tired and old—and I’m only twenty-seven. Oh, how I wish I were anywhere but here.

“Do you plan on having other children?” asks Mrs. Simpson.

At first I assume she’s just been making polite small talk, taking pity on me since I’m sitting here pretty much by myself after a couple of the other women from our table made a quick exit. But when I look at her more closely, I see kindness in her eyes, and I sense she’s actually interested.

“We always thought we’d have more children,” I admit. “But right now it doesn’t sound terribly appealing to me.”

She nods. “It’s always hardest with the first one. So many new things to learn, and you want to do everything just right. But, trust me, it gets much easier with the second one.” She smiles, as if remembering. “And by the time the third one comes, why, it’s old hat, like rolling off a log.”

“You mean, instead of having the log rolling onto you?”

She laughs. “Yes, I’m sure it seems like that to you now.”

I sigh again. “I just wonder when I’ll stop feeling so tired.”

“Are you going to take a nap today?”

I consider this. “Well, the baby-sitter is only set up to watch Amy during the times when activities are planned. So I’m not sure if I can—”

“Why don’t you let me watch her?” she says suddenly. “I simply love babies. I could have her in my room, and you could get a little rest.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose on you—”

She waves her hand. “No imposition. And if you don’t believe I’m good with babies, you can just ask your sister-in-law-to-be.” She nods toward the front table. They’re all laughing at something, maybe one of my husband’s jokes.

“But you probably need your rest too.”

“Oh, I can rest anytime. It’s you young mothers who need a hand. How does two o’clock sound? I could keep her for an hour or so.”

A nap sounds like heaven, so I agree. We make a plan for Mrs. Simpson to return to her own room after lunch. Then I’ll go and fetch Amy for her. And just as I’m feeling this tiny sliver of relief or maybe even hope, I feel something else too—
breast milk
. I’m suddenly leaking out of both sides, and before I can do a thing to stop it, I have these two conspicuous dark marks spoiling my orange silk dress. It figures. Oh, if I could be anywhere but here.