mother she is, she cleaned up around her daughter, but she wore a surgical mask and rubber gloves, and even so she herself threw up after every cleanup.
If you had told me two days ago that I would be lying to my wife in order to get out of having sex, I would have said you were deranged on both counts. But there I was, in the shower, water scalding my neckand shoulders, lying and alone. And in no mood anymore to sing along with the music.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, DOWNSTAIRS, Claire was at her writing table flipping through a magazine. She frowned when I entered wearing a suit and leaned away when I approached her. “What are you doing?” she asked.
What I was doing was getting out of the house. My head ached from the vodka and the confusion. I knew I had decisions to make and questions to ask, but I wasn’t in any condition to ask them.
“Jonathan,” she said when I didn’t reply quickly enough, “get back into bed.”
“I can’t.”
“Are you kidding? You’re sick ! Don’t even think about going anywhere except to bed. I’ll bring you up something to eat if you want.”
“I have a meeting I absolutely cannot miss,” I said. “If I was shot in the leg I would have to hop into the office, that’s how important it is.”
Lying, again. So easily, in fact, that I felt unnerved; breaking lifelong promises shouldn’t be quite so unmonumental.
Claire still looked skeptical. “I don’t think I like this.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “A little run-down and too much vodka at the party, but the sleep helped and now I actually feel hungry.”
Claire looked me up and down, then nodded slowly. “Okay, I’ll make you some toast,” she said. “That’s what you need, dry toast and a banana.”
“And coffee.”
“I’m making you tea, ” she said, and smiled faintly. “I need you better.”
I sat down at the table and took out my iPhone. So many e-mails. “How were the kids this morning?” I asked.
Claire was watching the toaster. We have the world’s slowest toaster, but she insists the quality of the toast is worth the patience. “Adorable,” she said. “They were so excited to look at all the pictures from the party.”
I felt a pang in my side, the rueful mourning of something fun that I missed. I am acutely aware that Phoebe will only be nine for so long, and Andrew six. Every day that passes, every laugh I miss, is gone forever. “Where’s your phone?” I asked.
Claire turned away from the toaster with a puzzled expression. “What?”
“I want to look at the pictures.”
Her expression did not change. It was difficult to describe the look. I wouldn’t call it panic and I wouldn’t call it guilt, but I’m not sure there is a better word either.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “I’m not allowed to see your phone?”
The toast popped. “You know I just can’t handle how sick you were last night,” Claire said, lifting the bread with her fingertips and dropping it onto a plate. “I’ll e-mail you the pictures. What time is your meeting?”
“One this morning, another late in the afternoon.”
“I think if you absolutely have to go then you should spend the night in the city.”
A chill ran down my spine. The city . I forgot all about the phone.
“You need to rest,” Claire continued. “When you’re done with your meeting just get a hotel room, order room service, and go to bed. You don’t need to be on the train surrounded by all those people or in a car in ridiculous traffic.”
“Maybe I will,” I said, picking my iPhone up from the table. “Maybe I will.”
I opened an e-mail, typed in Bruce’s name. You in the city tonight??
His reply came in less than a minute. Can be. You in?
I took a bite of the toast. Can be. You up for it?
This time it wasn’t fifteen seconds. You bet your ass .
“WHY CAN’T YOUR DAD clean his own windshield?”
That was the seminal question of my childhood. At least, it is the first of its
If you had told me two days ago that I would be lying to my wife in order to get out of having sex, I would have said you were deranged on both counts. But there I was, in the shower, water scalding my neckand shoulders, lying and alone. And in no mood anymore to sing along with the music.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, DOWNSTAIRS, Claire was at her writing table flipping through a magazine. She frowned when I entered wearing a suit and leaned away when I approached her. “What are you doing?” she asked.
What I was doing was getting out of the house. My head ached from the vodka and the confusion. I knew I had decisions to make and questions to ask, but I wasn’t in any condition to ask them.
“Jonathan,” she said when I didn’t reply quickly enough, “get back into bed.”
“I can’t.”
“Are you kidding? You’re sick ! Don’t even think about going anywhere except to bed. I’ll bring you up something to eat if you want.”
“I have a meeting I absolutely cannot miss,” I said. “If I was shot in the leg I would have to hop into the office, that’s how important it is.”
Lying, again. So easily, in fact, that I felt unnerved; breaking lifelong promises shouldn’t be quite so unmonumental.
Claire still looked skeptical. “I don’t think I like this.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “A little run-down and too much vodka at the party, but the sleep helped and now I actually feel hungry.”
Claire looked me up and down, then nodded slowly. “Okay, I’ll make you some toast,” she said. “That’s what you need, dry toast and a banana.”
“And coffee.”
“I’m making you tea, ” she said, and smiled faintly. “I need you better.”
I sat down at the table and took out my iPhone. So many e-mails. “How were the kids this morning?” I asked.
Claire was watching the toaster. We have the world’s slowest toaster, but she insists the quality of the toast is worth the patience. “Adorable,” she said. “They were so excited to look at all the pictures from the party.”
I felt a pang in my side, the rueful mourning of something fun that I missed. I am acutely aware that Phoebe will only be nine for so long, and Andrew six. Every day that passes, every laugh I miss, is gone forever. “Where’s your phone?” I asked.
Claire turned away from the toaster with a puzzled expression. “What?”
“I want to look at the pictures.”
Her expression did not change. It was difficult to describe the look. I wouldn’t call it panic and I wouldn’t call it guilt, but I’m not sure there is a better word either.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “I’m not allowed to see your phone?”
The toast popped. “You know I just can’t handle how sick you were last night,” Claire said, lifting the bread with her fingertips and dropping it onto a plate. “I’ll e-mail you the pictures. What time is your meeting?”
“One this morning, another late in the afternoon.”
“I think if you absolutely have to go then you should spend the night in the city.”
A chill ran down my spine. The city . I forgot all about the phone.
“You need to rest,” Claire continued. “When you’re done with your meeting just get a hotel room, order room service, and go to bed. You don’t need to be on the train surrounded by all those people or in a car in ridiculous traffic.”
“Maybe I will,” I said, picking my iPhone up from the table. “Maybe I will.”
I opened an e-mail, typed in Bruce’s name. You in the city tonight??
His reply came in less than a minute. Can be. You in?
I took a bite of the toast. Can be. You up for it?
This time it wasn’t fifteen seconds. You bet your ass .
“WHY CAN’T YOUR DAD clean his own windshield?”
That was the seminal question of my childhood. At least, it is the first of its
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