he’s the one who insists we drink champagne while we watch, and he’s the one who asks me to dance during Marc Cohn’s “True Companion,” our wedding song.
“Why did Daddy get you flowers, Mommy?” James asks, his teeth covered with chocolate.
“I’m not sure, James, let’s ask Daddy, okay?” I say, handing him his glass of water. I don’t trust myself not to start crying, so I focus on washing the dishes.
“Okay. Daddy, why did you get flowers for Mommy?”
Darren sets down his fork, and I can feel his eyes on me as I squirt more soap on the sponge. “Because I love Mommy very much. And sometimes daddies do things that aren’t so nice to mommies and giving flowers is part of how we try to say we’re sorry.”
“What did you do?” Henry asks, and I imagine Darren regrets his second sentence. Saying things like that used to be okay when Henry was little, but this stuff doesn’t go over his head anymore. Thankfully, it still does for James.
“Something real dumb, Hen. I said something to Mommy that wasn’t real nice.” And here, he starts to cover his tracks so the boys don’t have to think there’s really something wrong. “I was really tired, and I got a little angry at Mommy for something that wasn’t her fault. Mommy wasn’t too mad because she knew I was just cranky, but I still feel really badly for hurting her feelings.”
“Last year at my school, when you hurt someone’s feelings you had to draw a picture for the person. Maybe you should draw a picture for Mommy,” James sweetly suggests.
“Maybe I should,” Darren says, kissing James. “But maybe what I should do is chase you boys up to bed because you are both silly heads,” and he proceeds to make funny faces at them, tickle them, and then chase them up the stairs while they squeal in delight. He’ll get them ready for bed while I finish in the kitchen. It was a good save. I’ll give him that.
After I’ve finished cleaning up downstairs and checked that the oven’s off, for the third time, I ready the backpacks for tomorrow. When I eventually get upstairs, Darren is in our bathroom washing up.
“Do you feel up to talking for a little while?” Darren asks carefully as he rinses his toothbrush and sets it back on the charger next to his sink.
“Sure,” I say quietly. I pull my hair back in a ponytail and run my toothbrush under the sink. “Let me just wash up. I’ll be in in a minute.”
What a pleasant state of ignorant bliss I was in when I stood here just forty-eight hours ago about to find out my husband cheated on me. That calm-before-the-storm feeling. It’s a shame not to have known the storm was coming so I could have better enjoyed the calm.
This happens to me sometimes when I’m driving. I’ll be singing along to a great song on the radio, feeling the warm wind through the open windows, and I’ll wonder if this is just a blissful moment before I’m about to get killed by some idiot driver not paying attention. I realize this is a horrible way to think, a horrible way to go through life always imagining the worst. But having a relatively blessed life means my number may come up soon. Maybe losing the prospect of a job and the security of a marriage on the same day will count. Maybe now I can relax in the car. Hopefully some force out there believes I’ve received my due.
I brush my teeth and wash my face. I even floss, and put on moisturizer and eye cream just to stall a bit. I’m still so utterly confused. I’m not sure I’m prepared to talk.
Darren is sitting on the bed, and the television is off. I know this is big for him because the Yankees are playing the Red Sox, a monumental event in the lives of sports-obsessed men up and down the Eastern Seaboard. As I get under the covers, hoping the warmth of the white, silky duvet will calm me, Darren looks at me and smiles cautiously.
“Do you want to start or do you want me to?” He’s clearly tiptoeing here, uncertain of where I stand,
“Why did Daddy get you flowers, Mommy?” James asks, his teeth covered with chocolate.
“I’m not sure, James, let’s ask Daddy, okay?” I say, handing him his glass of water. I don’t trust myself not to start crying, so I focus on washing the dishes.
“Okay. Daddy, why did you get flowers for Mommy?”
Darren sets down his fork, and I can feel his eyes on me as I squirt more soap on the sponge. “Because I love Mommy very much. And sometimes daddies do things that aren’t so nice to mommies and giving flowers is part of how we try to say we’re sorry.”
“What did you do?” Henry asks, and I imagine Darren regrets his second sentence. Saying things like that used to be okay when Henry was little, but this stuff doesn’t go over his head anymore. Thankfully, it still does for James.
“Something real dumb, Hen. I said something to Mommy that wasn’t real nice.” And here, he starts to cover his tracks so the boys don’t have to think there’s really something wrong. “I was really tired, and I got a little angry at Mommy for something that wasn’t her fault. Mommy wasn’t too mad because she knew I was just cranky, but I still feel really badly for hurting her feelings.”
“Last year at my school, when you hurt someone’s feelings you had to draw a picture for the person. Maybe you should draw a picture for Mommy,” James sweetly suggests.
“Maybe I should,” Darren says, kissing James. “But maybe what I should do is chase you boys up to bed because you are both silly heads,” and he proceeds to make funny faces at them, tickle them, and then chase them up the stairs while they squeal in delight. He’ll get them ready for bed while I finish in the kitchen. It was a good save. I’ll give him that.
After I’ve finished cleaning up downstairs and checked that the oven’s off, for the third time, I ready the backpacks for tomorrow. When I eventually get upstairs, Darren is in our bathroom washing up.
“Do you feel up to talking for a little while?” Darren asks carefully as he rinses his toothbrush and sets it back on the charger next to his sink.
“Sure,” I say quietly. I pull my hair back in a ponytail and run my toothbrush under the sink. “Let me just wash up. I’ll be in in a minute.”
What a pleasant state of ignorant bliss I was in when I stood here just forty-eight hours ago about to find out my husband cheated on me. That calm-before-the-storm feeling. It’s a shame not to have known the storm was coming so I could have better enjoyed the calm.
This happens to me sometimes when I’m driving. I’ll be singing along to a great song on the radio, feeling the warm wind through the open windows, and I’ll wonder if this is just a blissful moment before I’m about to get killed by some idiot driver not paying attention. I realize this is a horrible way to think, a horrible way to go through life always imagining the worst. But having a relatively blessed life means my number may come up soon. Maybe losing the prospect of a job and the security of a marriage on the same day will count. Maybe now I can relax in the car. Hopefully some force out there believes I’ve received my due.
I brush my teeth and wash my face. I even floss, and put on moisturizer and eye cream just to stall a bit. I’m still so utterly confused. I’m not sure I’m prepared to talk.
Darren is sitting on the bed, and the television is off. I know this is big for him because the Yankees are playing the Red Sox, a monumental event in the lives of sports-obsessed men up and down the Eastern Seaboard. As I get under the covers, hoping the warmth of the white, silky duvet will calm me, Darren looks at me and smiles cautiously.
“Do you want to start or do you want me to?” He’s clearly tiptoeing here, uncertain of where I stand,
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