Two by Two

CHAPTER 15: One Day at a Time

Unlike my friend Danny, I was around to experience my mom’s angst as one by one, she lost the family with whom she’d grown up. I was thirteen when my grandfather died, eighteen when my grandmother died, twenty-one when the first of her brothers passed away, and twenty-eight when the last one slipped from this world to the next.

In each case, my mom bore the heaviest burden. All four were lingering deaths, with frequent trips to the hospital while poison was administered in the hopes of killing the cancer before it killed them. There was hair loss and nausea, weakness and memory loss. And pain. Always, there was too much pain. Toward the end, there were occasional days and nights spent in the ICU, with my relatives sometimes crying out in agony. My mom was there for all of it. Every night, after work, she would head to their homes or to hospital, and she would stay with them for hours. She would wipe their faces with damp cloths and feed them through straws; she came to know the doctors and nurses in three different hospitals on a first-name basis. When the time came, it was she who helped with funeral arrangements, and I always knew that despite our presence she felt very much alone.

In the weeks and months following that fourth funeral, I suppose that I thought she would rebound in the way she always had before. On the surface, she hadn’t changed-she still wore aprons and spent most of her time in the kitchen when Vivian and I visited-but she was quieter than I remembered and every once in a while, I would catch her staring out the window above the sink, isolated from the sounds of those of us nearby. I thought it had to do with the most recent loss; it was Vivian who finally suggested that my mom’s grief was cumulative, and her comment struck me as exactly right.

What would it be like to lose one’s family? I suppose it’s inevitable in everyone’s family-there is always a last survivor, after all-but, Vivian’s comment made me ache for my mom whenever I would see her. I felt as though her loss had become my loss, and I began swinging by more frequently. I’d drop by after work two or three times a week and spend time with my mom, and though we didn’t talk about what she-and I-was going through, it was always there with us, an all-encompassing sadness.

One night, a couple of months into my new routine, I dropped by the house and saw my dad trimming the hedges while my mom waited on the porch. My dad pretended not to have noticed my arrival and didn’t turn around.

“Let’s take a drive,” my mom announced. “And by that, I mean that you’re driving.”

She marched toward my car and after opening the passenger door, she took a seat and closed the door behind her.

“What’s going on, Dad?”

He stopped trimming but didn’t turn to face me. “Just get in the car. It’s important to your mom.”

I did as I was told and when I asked where we were going, my mom told me to head toward the fire station.

Still confused, I did as I was told and when we were getting close, she suddenly told me to turn right; two blocks later, she directed me to take a left. By then, even I knew where she wanted me to go, and we pulled to a stop next to a gate that was bordered on either side by wooded lots. Before us stood the water tower, and when my mom got out of the car, I followed her.

For a while, she said nothing to me.

“Why are we here, Mom?”

She tilted her head, her eyes seeming to follow the ladder that led to the landing near the top.

“I know what happened,” she said. “When Tracey and Marge broke up. I know she was brokenhearted and that you met her here. You were still a child, but somehow, you talked her down and brought her back to the dorms.”

I swallowed my denials, something easier said than done. Nothing I could say would matter; this was my mom’s show.

“Do you know what it’s like to think that my daughter might have died here? When she told me, I remember wondering to myself why she hadn’t called me or your dad. But I know the answer to that, too. You two share something wonderful, and I can’t tell you how proud that makes me. We may not have been the best parents, but at least we raised you both right.”

She continued to stare at the water tower. “You were in so much trouble, but you never said anything to us. About where you’d been that night. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

I saw a deep sadness in her expression as she turned toward me. “You have a gift,” she said. “You feel so deeply and you care so much. And that’s a wonderful thing. That’s why you knew exactly what to do with Marge. You took her pain and made it your own, and now you’re trying to do the same thing with me.”

Though she trailed off, I knew that more was coming.

“I know you think you’re helping, but no matter what you do, you can’t take my sadness away. But you are making yourself miserable. And that breaks my heart, and I don’t want you to do that. I’m getting through this one day at a time, but I don’t have the strength to have to worry about you, too.”

“I don’t know if I can stop worrying about you.”

She touched my cheek. “I know. But I want you to try. Just remember that I’ve made it through one hundred percent of the worst days of my life so far. Just like your dad, and Marge. And, of course, you have, too. And how we get through them is one day at a time.”

Later that night, I thought about what my mom had told me. She was right, of course, but what I didn’t know was that as challenging as life had sometimes been, the worst days were still yet to come, and they would be the worst of all.

Nine thousand, three hundred and sixty minutes.

That was how long it had been-well, approximately, anyway-since my world turned upside down, and to me, it felt as though I’d been hyperaware of the passage of every single one of them. Every one of these minutes in the past week had passed with agonizing slowness, as I seemed to be experiencing them with every cell in my body, every tick of the clock.

It was Monday, September fourteenth. A week ago, Vivian had left me. I continued to dwell on her obsessively, and the night before, I’d had trouble sleeping. Going for a run helped, but by the time I’d returned, I’d lost my appetite. In the last week, I’d dropped another seven pounds.

Stress. The ultimate diet.

Even as I made the phone call, I think I already knew what I was going to do. I told myself I simply wanted to know where Vivian would be traveling this week, but that wasn’t true. When the receptionist at Spannerman answered, I asked to be connected to Vivian and reached a woman named Melanie who identified herself as Vivian’s assistant. I didn’t know my wife even had an assistant, but apparently there was much I didn’t know about her, or maybe, had never known at all.

I was told that Vivian was in a meeting and when Melanie asked my name, I lied. I told her that I was a local reporter and wanted to know whether she would be around this week to speak. Melanie informed me that Vivian would be in the office today and tomorrow, but after that, she would be out of the office.

I then called Marge and asked if she would pick up London from school and later, bring her to dance. I told her that I was going to see my wife, but that I would be home later tonight.

Atlanta was four hours away.

I’m not sure how I imagined my surprise visit might go. In the car, one prediction replaced the next. All I knew was that I had to see Vivian; there was a part of me that hoped the hard-edged exterior she offered to me on the phone would melt away in my presence and we would find a way to salvage our relationship, our family, the life I still wanted to live.

My stomach clenched in knots as I drove, evidence of a simmering anxiety that made the drive more difficult than it should have been. Thankfully, traffic was relatively light, and I reached the outskirts of Atlanta at a quarter to twelve. Fifteen minutes later, with my nerves jangling hard, I found the new Spannerman building and pulled into the parking lot.

I found a space in the visitor section but hesitated before getting out of the car. I didn’t know what to do. Should I call her and tell her I was downstairs? Should I enter the building and show up at the reception desk? Or storm past the reception and confront her in the office? The countless variations on our conversation that I had imagined on the drive always began with me sitting across from her at a table in a restaurant, not with the steps that led up to that point.

My mind, I knew, wasn’t quite up to par these days.

Vivian would certainly prefer that I call; that way she could perhaps put me off entirely. For that reason, showing up inside seemed preferable, but what if she was in a meeting? Would I leave my name and sit in the waiting room, like a kid who’d been called in to meet the school principal? I wanted to head straight for her office, but I had no idea where it was, and something like that would cause a scene, which might even be worse.

I forced myself from the car as I continued to ponder my choices. All I knew for sure was that I needed to stretch my legs and use the restroom. Spotting a coffee shop across the street, I jaywalked through the stalled traffic to reach the other side. When I left the coffee shop and crossed the street again, I made the decision to call Vivian from the building lobby. That’s when I saw them-Spannerman and Vivian in a brown Bentley, getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, onto the street. Not wanting them to see me, I edged closer to the building and ducked my head. I heard the roar of the engine as it finally pulled out, inching its way into traffic.

Even though I didn’t have much of a plan in the first place, the little I did have was going up in smoke. Despite the lack of appetite, I supposed I could grab a bite to eat and try to catch up with her in an hour or so, which seemed preferable to waiting around, and I started back to my car.

Pulling out of the lot, I noticed that the traffic had barely moved and I could still see the Bentley about eight cars ahead of me. Beyond it, I saw there was some construction going on; an eighteen-wheeler loaded with steel girders was backing onto a work site and the traffic on the street had ground to a halt.

When the truck cleared the road, traffic started moving again. I followed along, conscious of the Bentley in front of me, watching as it made a right turn. I felt like a spy-or rather, a creepy private investigator-when I took the turn as well, but I told myself that since I wasn’t going to confront them at lunch or do anything crazy, it wasn’t a big deal. I just wanted to know where they were eating-I wanted to know something about the new life my wife was leading-and that was normal, something anyone would do.

Right?

Nonetheless I could feel my anger growing. Now there was only a single car between us, and I could see them up ahead. I imagined Walter talking and Vivian responding; I pictured the same joyful expression she’d worn when on the phone with him after her argument with London and my anger transformed into feelings of disappointment and sadness at all I had lost.

Why didn’t she love me?

They weren’t on the road long. They took a left, and then quickly turned into a parking garage beneath a splashy high-rise called Belmont Tower. It had a doorman out front, the kind you see in New York, and I drove on, finally pulling into a restaurant parking lot just up the block.

I killed the engine, wondering if there was a restaurant inside the high-rise. I wondered if it was the location of the corporate apartments. I wondered if this was where Walter Spannerman lived.

Using my phone, I found the information: Belmont Tower was a Spannerman project, and there was also a video link. I clicked it and saw Walter Spannerman boasting about the building amenities; as his final selling point, he proudly announced to viewers that he’d chosen to live on the top floor.

I stopped the video, but like a man choosing to march unassisted to his own execution, I stepped out of the car and made for Belmont Tower. I signaled to the doorman when I was close and he approached.

“It’s a beautiful building,” I said.

“Yes, sir. It really is.”

“I was wondering if there’s a restaurant in the building? Or a dining club for the tenants?” I said.

“No, there isn’t. However, the building has a relationship with La Cerna next door. It’s a five-star restaurant.”

“Are there any apartments for rent?”

“No, sir.”

I put a hand in my pocket. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

A few minutes later, dazed at the idea that Vivian had most likely gone with Spannerman to his penthouse, I was in my car and on my way back to Charlotte.

I arrived half an hour after London got back from school and when I opened the door, she came running.

“Daddy! Where were you?”

“I had to work,” I said. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up.”

“That’s okay. Auntie Marge was there. She drove me home.” She put her arms around me. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, baby.”

“I love you.”

“Ditto,” I said.

“What does ditto mean?”

“You say ‘ditto’ when you want to say the same thing. You said I love you, so I said ditto, meaning I love you.”

“That’s neat,” she said. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“It’s just a crazy world, isn’t it? Did you learn anything fun in school?”

“I learned that spiders aren’t insects. They’re called arachmids.”

“You mean arachnid?”

“No, Daddy. Arachmid. With an M.”

I was pretty sure she was wrong, but she’d figure it out eventually. “That’s cool.”

“It’s because insects have six legs and spiders have eight legs.”

“Wow… you’re pretty smart, you know that?”

“But I still don’t like spiders. I don’t like bees anymore either. Even though they make honey. But butterflies are pretty.”

“Just like you. You’re pretty, too. Prettier than any butterfly,” I said. “Can I go say hi to Auntie Marge for a minute?”

“Okay. I have to check on Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. Did you remember to give them water?”

Oops.

“No, I didn’t. But they had plenty yesterday. I’m sure they’re okay.”

“I’ll go make sure.”

I kissed her cheek and put her down. She ran toward the steps and vanished from sight. Marge, I noticed, had been watching us from the kitchen.

“You’re a good dad, you know that?” she said when I reached her.

“I try. How was she?”

“You mean in the hour I’ve had her? I had to drive her home and get her a Popsicle. And then, Mom showed up with a ton of food and I had to deal with that, too. I put some in the refrigerator and some in the freezer, by the way. Let’s just say that you really owe me for this one. I’m exhausted. What a day! I’m not sure I can take any more.”

My sister had a flair for sarcastic melodrama, obviously. “I didn’t think I’d be back so soon.”

“Neither did I. And when you did get home, I thought you’d resemble a pile of mashed potatoes. What happened? Was she even there?”

“I saw her,” I said. “Well, kind of.” I told her what had happened. While I spoke, she poured two glasses of ice water and handed one to me.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why didn’t you just wait for her?”

“After they went to Spannerman’s place, I realized I didn’t want to see her after that.”

“Because?”

“She was… with him. Probably at his penthouse or whatever. And…”

“And what? She left you. She told you she was in love with him. You do know she’s sleeping with him, right?”

“I know that,” I said. “I just don’t like to think about it… I don’t want to think about it.”

Marge offered a sympathetic expression. “That makes you perfectly sane.”

I hesitated, realizing I was utterly exhausted. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to take care of yourself. And you’re going to continue to be a good father to London.”

“I mean about Vivian.”

“For now, let’s just worry about you and your daughter, okay?”

I never should have gone to Atlanta.

On Tuesday, I tried to bury myself in work on Taglieri’s commercial, but it was hard to stay focused and I thought endlessly of Vivian. I would see her in the Bentley, Spannerman in the seat beside her; whenever I imagined her expression, it was the same one I’d seen on the patio.

Those images haunted me, bringing with them a sense of inadequacy. Of inferiority. I hadn’t simply been rejected; I’d been replaced by someone wealthier and more powerful, someone who had the ability to make Vivian laugh and smile in a way that I could not.

She had left me, not for reasons of her own, but because of me.

I said as much to Marge on the phone the following day, and when she wasn’t able to talk me out of funk, she and Liz showed up at my home after work. It was Tuesday night and I’d fed London one of the meals my mom had made; as soon as they walked in the door, Marge and London headed off to watch a movie in the family room while Liz and I sat on the back patio.

I recounted everything that had happened and the way I’d been feeling. When I was finished, Liz brought her hands together.

“What did you think would happen if you talked to Vivian?”

“I guess I was hoping that she’d make the decision to come back. Or at the very least, we’d discuss how we could work it out.”

“Why? Has she given you any indication that she wants to come back? Or try to work it out?”

“No,” I admitted. “But she’s my wife. We’ve barely spoken since she left.”

“I’m sure that the two of you will have a sit-down when she’s ready. But I can’t promise that you’ll like what she tells you.”

It wasn’t that hard to read between the lines. “You don’t think she’ll come back, do you?”

“I’m not sure my opinion is any better than anyone else’s. Or that it’s even relevant.”

“You’re right. It’s not relevant. But you’ve seen situations like this before, and you know Vivian. I’d still like to know what you think.”

She exhaled. “No,” she finally said. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

I wanted numbness; I didn’t want to feel or think about Vivian, but it seemed that the only time I could find oblivion was in the hours that London was in school, when I buried myself in work. On Wednesday, I continued to bury myself in Taglieri’s second commercial before finally sending it off to the editor for polishing and finalizing. After that, I worked on the presentation for the surgeon on Thursday afternoon. I was proposing a different campaign than I’d recommended for Taglieri-a much higher online presence and user-friendly website, a heavy emphasis on patient testimonials on video, direct mail, social media, and billboards-and even though I was far less than a hundred percent during the presentation, I left the meeting the following day with a handshake agreement knowing I’d landed my second client. Like Taglieri, he’d committed to a year of services.

With those two clients, I realized that I’d replaced nearly half of my previous salary, not counting bonuses. It was enough to meet my monthly obligations with a few trims here and there, and made it significantly easier when I picked up the phone and canceled our joint credit cards.

I let Vivian know via text.

Vivian called me later that night. Since my ill-advised adventure in Atlanta on Monday, I’d allowed London to answer the phone as soon as I saw Vivian’s image pop up on the screen. London let me know that Vivian would be calling me back later. As she headed up the stairs to get ready for bed, I wondered whether she’d figured out that things had changed between her mother and me, or that we were no longer going to be a family.

While I waited for her call, I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help it. I would imagine hearing her apologize or say that she was coming home, and yet, like the turbulence of my emotions, those thoughts would be replaced with the memory of what Liz had told me, or that the only reason Vivian was calling was because I’d canceled the credit cards, and she wanted to let me know how angry she was.

The push and pull left me exhausted, and by the time the phone finally did ring, I had little emotional energy to expend, no matter what she might say.

I let the phone ring four times before finally connecting the call.

“Hi,” I said. “London said you’d be calling.”

“Hi, Russ,” she said. Her voice was calm, as if nothing had changed between us at all. “How are you?”

I wondered if she really cared or was simply being polite; I wondered why I felt the need to try to read her, instead of letting the call simply unfold.

“I’m fine,” I forced out. “You?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “London sounds like she might be coming down with a cold.”

“She didn’t say anything to me.”

“She didn’t to me, either. I could hear it in her voice, though. Make sure she’s taking her vitamins and maybe get her some orange juice in the morning. She’ll probably need some children’s cold medicine, too.”

“How can she get a cold? It’s almost ninety degrees outside.”

“She’s in school. New kids, new germs. It happens in every school at the beginning of the year.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll have to run out to get some orange juice and the medicine, but she’s been taking her vitamins.”

“Don’t forget,” she said. “And anyway, I was calling for a couple of reasons. First, I’m coming to Charlotte this weekend. I really miss London and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to spend some uninterrupted time with her.”

But not me.

“Of course,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “She’d love that. She misses you, too.”

“Good. Thank you.” I could hear her relief and wondered why she’d anticipated any other reaction. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me stay in a hotel. I think that would be very strange for her.”

I frowned. “Why would you stay at a hotel? You can stay at the house. We have a guest room.”

“I think she’d notice if I slept in the guest room. Even if she doesn’t notice, I don’t think we should put her in the position where she asks the three of us to do things together. I would really like it to be just the two of us, for her sake. So she doesn’t get confused.”

“What are you saying?”

“Would you mind staying with your parents? Or maybe with Marge and Liz? On Friday and Saturday night?”

I could feel my blood pressure spike.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, Russ. I’m not. Please. I know I’m asking a lot, but I don’t want to make things any harder on London than they already are.”

Or maybe, I thought, you’d rather it not be any harder on you.

I let the silence crackle between us.

“Yeah,” I finally said. “I guess I can ask Marge. My parents are going to be out of town.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Remember that London has dance on Friday night, and then art class on Saturday morning, so you probably won’t have time to do yoga.”

“I’ve always put my daughter first, Russ. You know that.”

“You’ve been a great mom,” I conceded. “Oh, for art class, you’ll need to bring the vase she made last week. This weekend, she’ll be painting it.”

“Where is it?”

“I put it in the pantry. Top shelf, on the right.”

“Got it,” she said. “Oh, one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you had time for a late lunch tomorrow. Around one thirty? We need to talk before I have to pick up London from school.”

Despite everything, I felt my heart skip a beat at the thought of sitting across the table from her. Of seeing her.

“Of course,” I said. “Where?”

She named a place we both knew, a place we’d eaten many times before. Including, once, on our anniversary.

I hung up the phone, wondering if it was an omen.

“Of course you can stay with us,” Marge said into the receiver. I’d just returned from the grocery store and was putting the orange juice into the refrigerator before calling her. “You’ll have to promise not to walk around in your droopy underwear or drink your coffee at the table without a shirt on, though. In fact, don’t even pack any droopy underwear, okay?”

“Do you even know me?”

“Of course. Why do you think I’m pointing these things out?”

“I promise.”

“We won’t be around on Saturday, though. You’ll be on your own. A friend of ours is having a housewarming party.”

No wife, no London, no parents, and now, no sister to see on the weekend. I wondered when the last time was that I was utterly on my own, figuring it had been years since something like that had happened.

“No worries. I have work.”

“I’ll still call you, just to make sure you’re okay. But back to Vivian. Are you sure lunch is such a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Whenever someone says ‘we need to talk,’ it’s never a good thing.”

“Believe me when I say I’m not expecting much.”

“I’m glad,” she said. “You remember what Liz said, right? She’s not going to tell you that she wants to come back.”

“Liz told you what we talked about?”

“Of course not,” she said. “But I know you, and it’s not too hard to figure out what you might ask her. And because I know her, I also know what she told you. It’s not as though the two of us haven’t had a million discussions about what’s going on. It’s been a hot topic around the old homestead these days.”

“There are better things for the two of you to discuss than my marriage.”

“And you’d be right ninety-nine percent of the time,” she said. “But lately? We’re definitely in that pesky one percent.”

“What else are you saying to each other?”

“We talk about how much you’re hurting, and that we don’t know what to say or do to make it better. You’re such a good man, such a good father. It isn’t fair.”

I couldn’t help but choke up a bit. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Of course I do. Big sister, remember?”

I hesitated. “Do you think Vivian is struggling?”

“I’m sure she is. You can’t do what she did and not feel at least a little bit of guilt. But I’m not sure she dwells on her feelings the way you do. My sense is that you two are just wired differently.”

That made sense. But… “I still care about her,” I offered. “She’s been a wonderful wife.”

Marge breathed into the receiver. “Are you sure about that?”

Vivian had been right about London; when she woke Friday morning, her voice had a raspy edge to it and on our way out the door, she began wiping at her nose. I wondered how long it would take for the medicine to kick in.

After drop-off, I tossed some clothes in a duffel bag and drove to the office. Still no phone calls for the Phoenix Agency, but on the upside, the receptionist was getting used to my presence and had even started saying, “Good morning, Mr. Green.”

I spent most of the morning working with my tech guy. Together, we discussed and made decisions on the overall plan, then moved toward discussions of Internet prioritization, targeted banner ads, and a social media campaign. We spent almost three hours together and by the end, I felt like he had more than enough work to keep him busy for a couple of weeks, as did I.

Once that was done, I sent confirmation emails regarding the third commercial I’d film for Taglieri the following Friday, then left a message for the surgeon asking for the names of patients who might be willing to provide on-camera testimonials.

As I worked, I noticed the tension in my shoulders and back seemed to be intensifying, and it dawned on me that I was nervous at the thought of seeing Vivian. Despite her betrayal, despite asking me to make myself scarce all weekend, I wondered if I would meet with a Vivian who was willing to try to work things out. While I knew that Marge and Liz were trying to keep me grounded in reality with what to expect, the heart wants what it wants. Hope might leave me crushed in the end, but losing all hope somehow seemed even worse.

I ended up leaving the office at half past noon, and arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. I’d made reservations and the waiter led me to a table near the window. Most of the other tables were already occupied. I ordered a cocktail, hoping that it would keep me calm. I wanted to approach the lunch in the same way I had the phone call, but as soon as Vivian entered the restaurant, I held my breath, releasing it only when she approached the table.

Dressed in jeans and a red blouse that accentuated her figure, she looked effortlessly chic as always. She propped her sunglasses on her head and offered a quick smile as I stood. When she was close, I wondered whether or not to kiss her on the cheek, but she didn’t give me the opportunity.

“Sorry for being late,” she said as she sat down. “I had trouble finding a place to park.”

“Friday at lunch is always busy here. I think a lot of people are getting an early start to the weekend.”

“I’m sure,” she said. She pointed to my cocktail, which was nearly finished. “I see you’re doing the same thing.”

“Why not? I’m a free man this weekend.”

“Maybe so, but you still have to drive.”

“I know.”

She deliberately unfolded her napkin, taking her time, and avoiding my gaze. “How’s work?”

“Better. I landed another client. Plastic surgeon.”

“I’m glad it’s working out for you. Oh, by the way, did you remember to give London some medicine?”

“I did. And orange juice.”

“And she knows I’m picking her up today, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “And the guest room is ready to go, too.”

“Would you care if I slept in the master bedroom? I’ll change the sheets first, obviously.”

“No, I don’t mind. We’re still married.”

I thought I saw a flash of exasperation but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

“Thanks,” she said. “I just want London to have a nice weekend.”

“I’m sure she will.”

She turned toward the window, taking in the street, then seemed to remember something. Reaching for her handbag, she pulled out her phone and tapped in the code. She tapped a button, used her finger to scroll, and tapped another couple of times. She scrolled some more. In the silence, I took another drink, finishing the cocktail. Finally, setting the phone aside, she offered a pinched smile.

“Sorry. Just checking up on work. I was on the phone for almost the entire drive to Charlotte.”

“How was the drive?”

“With the weekend on tap, traffic was heavy. And we didn’t get in until late last night. We flew in from Houston, and the night before that, we were in Savannah. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have a relaxing weekend on tap.”

I tried to ignore the word we. It was better than Walter, but it still stung. I said nothing and Vivian reached for the menu. I couldn’t remember a conversation with Vivian that ever felt more stilted.

“Have you decided what you’re going to have?” she asked.

“I’ll probably just order some soup. I’m not that hungry.”

She looked up and for the first time, she seemed to really see me. “You’ve lost weight,” she observed. “Are you still jogging?”

“Every morning. And I’m down almost fifteen pounds.” I didn’t tell her that much of the weight loss was both recent and due to her, since my appetite was largely nonexistent.

“You can see it in your face,” she said. “You were getting some jowls, but they’re almost gone now.”

It was odd, I thought, how she could offer a compliment while still getting in a dig at the same time. I wondered whether she was still working out with Spannerman, and whether she ever mentioned to him that he had jowls. Probably not.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do this weekend with London?” I asked.

“Not really. It’s kind of up to her, obviously. I want to spend a lot of time doing what she wants to do.” She perused the menu. It didn’t take long; even I knew she was going to order a salad and the only question was which one she’d want. Soon after she set the menu aside, the waiter appeared at the table. She ordered an unsweetened iced tea and an Asian salad; I ordered a bowl of the vegetable beef. When the waiter left, Vivian took a sip from her water, then traced her finger through the condensation. Like me, she seemed to be at a loss for words, the elephant in the room being what it was.

“So,” I said, finally. “You said you needed to talk to me?”

“It’s mainly about London,” she said. “I’ve been worried about her. She isn’t used to me being gone so much. I know it’s been hard for her.”

“She’s doing okay.”

“She doesn’t tell you everything. I just wish there was a way I could be with her more.”

I could have pointed out that she could come home, but she probably already knew that. “I can imagine,” I offered.

“I’ve been talking to Walter and given the amount of travel I have ahead of me in the next few months, there’s just no way that I can bring her to Atlanta just yet. I’m still out of town three or four nights a week and I haven’t even had time to get her room set up or even begin looking for a nanny.”

I felt a surge of relief but wanted to make sure I’d heard her right. “So you’re saying that you think it’s best if London stays with me?”

“Only for a while. I’m not abandoning my daughter. And you and I both know that daughters need their moms.”

“They need their dads, too.”

“You’ll still be able to see her. I’m not the kind of mother who would keep her child from seeing the father. And you and I both know that I was the one who raised her. She’s used to me.”

Her child. Not, I noticed, our child.

“It’s different now. She’s in school and you’re working.”

“Be that as it may,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you about what’s going on right now, okay? And even though I’m traveling a lot, I still want to be able to see her as much as I possibly can. I wanted to make sure that you didn’t have a problem with that.”

“Of course not. Why would you think I’d have a problem with it?”

“Because you’re angry and hurt, and you might want to try to hurt me back. I mean, you didn’t even call to talk to me about canceling the credit cards. You just up and did it. You do know you should have called first, right? So we could discuss it?”

I blinked, thinking about the secret bank account she’d set up.

“Seriously?”

“I’m just saying you could have handled it better.”

Her chutzpah was staggering and all I could do was stare at her. The waiter arrived with her iced tea, and as he set it on the table, her phone rang. Checking the screen, she stood from the table.

“I’ve got to take this.”

I watched her walk from the table and head outside; from my seat, I could see her, though I forced myself to look away. I munched a couple of ice cubes until the waiter came by with a basket of bread and some butter. I nibbled on that, absently listening to the drone of conversations around me. In time, Vivian returned to the table.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was work.”

Whatever, I thought. I didn’t bother responding.

The waiter brought our food, and she dressed her salad before dicing it into bite-sized portions. The aroma of the soup was tantalizing, but my stomach had locked down. The small amount of bread had taken up all the room. I nonetheless forced myself to take a bite.

“There’s something else I think we need to discuss,” she said finally.

“What’s that?”

“What we’re going to say to London. I was thinking that we should probably sit down with her on Sunday, before I leave.”

“Why?”

“Because she needs to know what’s going on, but in a way that she can understand. We need to keep it as simple as possible.”

“I don’t know what that even means.”

She sighed. “We tell her that because of my job, I’ll have to live in Atlanta and that she’s going to stay with you for a while. We explain that no matter what happens, we both love her. It’s not really necessary to go into long explanations, and I don’t think that’s a good idea anyway.”

You mean like explaining that you’re in love with another man?

“I can talk to Liz. She might be able to give me some dos and don’ts.”

“That’s fine, but be careful.”

“Why?”

“She’s not your therapist. She’s your sister’s partner. I assume she’s taken your side in all this, and wants you to believe that I’m the bad guy.”

But you are the bad guy!

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“Just make sure,” she warned. “I also don’t think it’s a good idea to tell her what’s happening between you and me. It would be better if she gets used to the two of us being apart first. Then it won’t come as such a shock when we do tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“That we’re getting divorced.”

I set my spoon aside. Though I suspected she’d say the word eventually, in the here and now, it still shocked me to hear it aloud.

“Before we start talking about divorce, don’t you think it might be a good idea for the two of us to talk to a therapist? To see if there’s any way to salvage what we have?”

“Keep your voice down. This isn’t the time or place to talk about this.”

“I am keeping my voice down,” I said.

“No you’re not. You can’t hear yourself when you get angry. You’re always loud.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. “All right,” I said, forcing myself to speak even more quietly. “Don’t you want to even try to make it work?” I could barely hear myself above the din of the lunch crowd.

“You don’t have to whisper,” she retorted. “I was just asking you to keep your voice down. People could hear you.”

“I got it,” I said. “Stop changing the subject.”

“Russ…”

“I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

“And I just told you that this isn’t the time or place for this! Right now, we’re here to talk about London and why she should probably stay here for the time being and what we are going to say to her on Sunday night. We’re not here to talk about us.”

“Don’t you want to talk about us?”

“I can see that trying to have a normal conversation with you wasn’t a good idea. Why can’t we discuss things like adults?”

“I am trying to talk to you.”

She took a bite of her salad-she’d barely eaten any to that point-and then placed her napkin on the table. “But you never listen! How many times do I have to tell you that this isn’t the time or place to talk about you and me? I said it nicely, I thought I was being clear, but I guess you had other ideas. So for now, I think it’s best if I probably leave before you start yelling at me, okay? I just want to have a pleasant weekend with my daughter.”

“Please,” I said. “You don’t have to leave. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

“I’m not the one who’s upset,” she said. “You are.”

With that, Vivian rose from the table and strode for the exit. When she was gone, I sat in shock for a couple of minutes before finally signaling for the waiter to bring the check. Rehashing the conversation, I wondered whether I really had been too loud, or whether it had been an easy excuse for Vivian to bring the lunch to an early conclusion.

There was, after all, no reason for her to stay.

Not only was she in love with another man, as far as the weekend went, she’d gotten everything she’d wanted from me.