And about that lady just driving away. As if I was nothing. Just kept on driving down the street while I lay there.
And I’m angry at Henry. Because he made things better, and now he’s gone. And because he made me feel stupid. Because I thought he cared about me. I thought that maybe I meant something to him.
And I’m angry that I don’t.
I’m angry that I ended up pregnant with Michael’s baby.
I’m angry at myself for falling in love with him.
I’m angry that my parents come and go out of my life.
Right now, in this moment, it feels as if I’m angry at the whole goddamn world.
So I scream into the pillow.
When I’m done, I take the pillow away from my face, put it back on the bed, and turn to Dr. Winters.
“Are you ready?” she says.
“For what?” I ask her.
“To move forward,” she says. “To accept that you cannot walk right now. And to be patient with yourself and with us as you learn how to do it again.”
I’m not sure. So I take the pillow, and I put it up to my face. I scream one last time. But my heart’s not in it. I don’t have anything left to yell about. I mean, I’m still angry. But it’s no longer boiling to the surface. It’s a simmer. And you can control a simmer.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
She stands in front of me. She helps me stand up. She calls Ted into the room.
And the two of them stand with me, help me, coach me, walk me through the art of balancing on two feet.
When I get home, Charlemagne runs toward me, and I hear Gabby get out of her bed.
She comes down the stairs and looks at me. She can see from my face that it didn’t go well. I can tell from hers that she’s been crying.
“You’re home early.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You told him?”
“Yeah.”
She gestures to the sofa, and we both walk over and sit down. “What did he say?”
“Nothing? Everything? He’s going to think about it.” Then I ask about her. “Did Mark call again?” Mark has called at least ten times since he left. Gabby hasn’t answered any of them.
“Yeah,” she says. “But I didn’t answer again. It’s not time to talk right now. I have to get myself together and get ready for it. I’ll hear him out. I’m not writing him off entirely, I suppose.”
“Got it,” I say.
“But I’m also being realistic. He was having an affair for a long time. I can’t think of an explanation he could have that would change my mind about getting a divorce.”
“You’re not tempted to answer the phone and scream at him?”
She laughs. “Definitely. I am definitely tempted to do that. I will probably do that soon.”
“But not right now.”
“What does it get me?” she says, shrugging. “At the end of the conversation, I’ll still be me. He’ll still be him. He’ll still have cheated on me. I have to accept that.”
“So at least we’re facing our problems head-on,” I tell her.
She looks at me and smiles sadly. “At least we have that.”
“We make quite a pair, don’t we?”
Gabby huffs. “I’ll say.”
“I couldn’t do any of this without you.”
“Ditto,” she says.
“I kind of want to just feel sorry for myself and cry,” I tell her. “Maybe for the foreseeable future.”
She nods. “Honestly, that sounds great.”
We both slump down on the couch. Charlemagne joins us.
The two of us quietly cry on and off for the rest of the night, taking turns being the one crying and the one consoling.
I think that through our wallowing, we are able to release some of our fear and pain, because when we wake up the next day, we both feel stronger, better, more ready to take on the world, no matter what it throws at us.
We go out for breakfast and try to make jokes. Gabby reminds me to take my prenatal vitamins. We walk Charlemagne and then go buy her a dog bed and some chew toys. We begin to potty train her by bringing her to the front door when she pees. Every time she looks as if she has to pee, we pick her up and bring her to the front door, where we have a wee-wee pad. Gabby and I high-five each other with an unmatched level of excitement when Charlemagne goes straight to the wee-wee pad on her own.
When Mark calls that night, Gabby answers. She calmly listens to what he has to say. I don’t eavesdrop. I try to give her space.
It’s hours until she comes to find me in my room.
“He apologized a million times. He says he never meant to hurt me. He says he hates himself for what he’s done.”
“OK,” I say.
“He says he was going to tell me. That he was working up the courage to tell me.”
“OK . . .” Her voice is shaky, and it’s making me nervous.
“He loves her. And he wants a divorce.”
I sit up straight in bed. “He wants a divorce?”
She nods her head, just as stunned as I am. “He says I can keep the house. He won’t fight me on a settlement. He says I deserve everything he can give me. He says he loves me, but he’s not sure he was ever in love with me. And that he’s sorry he wasn’t brave enough to face that fact earlier.”
My mouth is agape.
“He says, looking back on it, he should have handled it differently, but he knows this is right for both of us.”
“I’m going to kill him,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’m kind of OK.”
“What?”
“Well, I think I’m in shock, first of all,” she says. “So take this with a grain of salt.”
“OK . . .”
“But I always just had this feeling that maybe there was someone better out there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, we’ve been together since we were in college, and then we both went on to more school, and who has time to really focus on dating then? Right? So I stayed with him because . . . I didn’t really see a reason not to. We were comfortable around each other. We were happy enough. And then, you know, I got to the age where I felt I should get married. And things have been fine between us. Always fine.”
“But just fine?”
“Right,” she says.
“I mean, I don’t know,” she says. “I just sometimes hoped that I could have something more than just fine. Someone who made me feel like I hung the moon. But I sort of stopped believing that existed, I think. And I figured, why not marry a guy like Mark? He’s a nice guy.”
“Questionable.”
She laughs. “Right. Now it’s questionable. But at the time, I didn’t think twice about it. You know? I was in a good relationship with a stable man who wanted to marry me and buy a house and do all the things you’re supposed to do. I didn’t see any reason not to take him up on that just because I felt like he was a B-plus. And I was perfectly happy. I mean, I doubt, if this hadn’t happened, that I ever would have verbalized any of this. It just wasn’t on my mind. I was happy enough. I really was.” She starts crying again.
“Are you OK?” I ask.
“No,” she says, getting hold of herself. “I’m absolutely devastated. But—”
“But what?”
“When he told me, I just kept thinking that if I met someone out there who was better for me, who I felt passionately for, I’d want to leave Mark. That’s the truth. I’d want to leave. I don’t think I would have done what he did. But I’d have wanted to.”
Charlemagne comes into the room and curls up in a ball.
“So what now?” I ask.
“Now?” Gabby says. “I don’t know. It’s too hard to think long-term. I’m heartbroken and miserable and sort of relieved and embarrassed and sick to my stomach.”
“So maybe we take it one step at a time,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“I’m really craving cinnamon rolls,” I tell her.