Nobody’s Perfect

Chapter 5

Once I d googled all I could google while keeping my sanity-really, it was a lot like looking up your symptoms and having the internet declare you were dying from a hangnail-I paced and cleaned surfaces that were already clean and made a batch of zucchini bread, of all things. Finally, I got a text from Mitch:

Just landed. Be home in about an hour.

As interminable as an hour felt, at least I now knew when to expect him. There I was in the kitchen whirling from the fridge to the pantry to the oven to make sure I really had turned it off. Should I change clothes? Put on makeup? Dress myself up in nothing but Saran Wrap and meet him at the door?

On the one hand, the plastic had to be uncomfortable. On the other, maybe if I wound it tight enough, I could get some lift in certain areas.

I had a French maid costume somewhere in the bedroom, but I d last worn it ten years and twenty pounds ago, so . . .

The doorbell rang, and I froze in place.

Could that be Mitch already?

Someone knocked, and I walked to the door, glad I hadn t given in to my plastic-wrap impulses because it couldn t possibly be Mitch on the other side. No, it was a deliveryman from the florist. He held a beautiful arrangement of cut flowers in a round bowl: sunflowers, orchids, daisies, tulips, and blooms I didn t even recognize.

For Vivian? he said.

That s me.

Odd. It doesn t have a last name. Can you sign here? As he juggled the clipboard, Lucky ran outside, causing him to bobble the flowers, sloshing some water on the ground. Sorry, ma am.

That s okay. She does that. I wanted to read the card on the flowers, but I also had to retrieve the cat. I took the flowers from him and put them down on the dining room table. By the time I stepped outside, the burly deliveryman had chased Lucky to the edge of the landscaping and was bending over to retrieve her.

Thank you, I said as he handed me the cat. Lucky wriggled, but I tightened my hold on her.

Not a problem, he said with a grin before returning to his truck.

Once inside, I had to put Lucky down because she was squirming and liable to scratch me at any moment. She gingerly settled into a sitting position, wrapping her tail around her feet and looking up at me with her most innocent one-eyed stare.

You re a toddler, I said. A furry velociraptor toddler.

She blinked at me, the kitty sign for I love you .

I sighed and blinked back. Fine. I love you, too. Even if you are a furry pain in the butt.

I turned to the flower arrangement and took the tiny envelope from the top. A note inside said:

Thanks for saving my bacon the other night. Parker

How sweet!

I didn t realize I d said the words out loud until Lucky meowed in response.

I leaned over to smell the flowers, enamored of how colorful they were. I d have to move them or else a certain cat with a penchant for escape would chew on them. With a sigh, I escorted the bouquet to our bedroom, closing the door behind me.

So kind of Parker to send flowers. I couldn t remember the last time Mitch had sent flowers. Now I got a bouquet after making Parker do all the work? I inwardly bloomed at his thoughtfulness.

Either that or he thought you were hitting on him.

I froze at the thought.

Mitch accused me of flirting with other men all the time. I d done my best to convince him I was just being nice to all the waiters and busboys and salesclerks of the world, but he didn t seem to believe me. But if he was jealous of my flirting, then why would he want to leave me?

It made no sense.

That said, he had been going to the gym more. He d bragged about losing ten pounds, something I d done my best to forget so I wouldn t accidentally smother him with a pillow in the middle of the night because he d said, Come on, Viv, it s easy! All you have to do is cut out bread and wine for a couple of weeks.

As if. Bread and wine were essential. Jesus told me so.

Someone was on the other side of the front door. Someone with a key. Someone who forgot which way to turn that key in order to move the dead bolt.

I sucked in a breath.

I hadn t had time. I was wearing yoga pants and a baggy shirt, no makeup. I wasn t ready.

The door opened.

Dylan walked in.

My tall baby who wasn t a baby anymore grinned at me, but that grin faded. Mom, are you okay? You look as though you ve seen a ghost.

I had seen a ghost. Every time I looked at my son, I saw the ghost of who my husband had once been. Not only was Dylan lanky with those same blue eyes and that same cleft in his chin, but he was also kind and funny and just a little shy. I would think he wasn t my son at all if I hadn t been in the delivery room. And if he didn t have a thick shock of dirty-blond hair that was the exact same color as mine.

I just thought it might be your father, I said, forcing a smile to my lips. And I have a few more things I wanted to get done before he got home.

Like figure out what the heck I m going to tell you about his divorce plan.

Cool. I m supposed to catch up with some of the guys later tonight. Do you mind doing my laundry?

Sure. I mean, not at all, I said. I didn t know you were coming home this weekend.

He walked over and wrapped his arms around me. I love you and missed you, too, Mom.

That doesn t answer my question.

It was a last-minute decision. Tomorrow s the Georgia-Tennessee game. I transferred my ticket to a friend of mine.

That doesn t really answer my question, either.

He shrugged. For half a second he reminded me of a certain four-year-old who couldn t explain why he d kicked the screen out of his bedroom window. I thought I d come home. That s all.

Well, your timing is impeccable as always.

I d gone into labor in the middle of my baby shower, and the kid had been surprising me ever since.

Okay. Well, bring me your laundry.

A snide inner voice that sounded a lot like my mother said, You mean you haven t taught this kid how to do his own laundry yet? I ignored it. I liked feeling useful, and I would gladly do Dylan s laundry if it meant he would come home to see me.

But what were the odds that Mitch and I could have a discussion while Dylan was out with his friends and get everything patched up before we had to admit to him that anything was wrong?

Even if Mitch wanted to leave me, how could anyone want to leave Dylan?

The child in question placed one laundry basket in the dining room just inside the front door, then went back for another. I d seen him less than a month ago. Was he hiring someone to wear his clothes so they wouldn t get lonely? How could one kid have two overflowing baskets full of laundry?

Thanks, Mom! He gave me a peck on the cheek and bounced out the door. I started to ask him where he was going, but he was eighteen, and we were still navigating that awkward you-are-an-adult-but-you-still-live-under-my-roof-dammit stage.

Although it would ve been helpful to know when he was coming back, because the last thing I needed was for him to walk in on the discussion I was about to have with his father. With a sigh I grabbed the first basket of clothes and headed to the laundry room.

So much for being caught up on laundry.

The front door opened. Please tell me that child doesn t have a third basket.

I yelled over my shoulder. Just a minute!

I put the last of the first load into the washer and turned to run smack-dab into . . . Mitch.

He smiled at me, and I studied his blue eyes for treachery and betrayal. He d gotten hair implants a couple of years ago, so he looked younger than his impending fifty years. He leaned in for a kiss, but I stepped back.

What s this all about? he asked.

Of all the godforsaken places in which to have this conversation, I would not have it in the laundry room. You just surprised me, that s all.

I brushed past him into the kitchen. He followed me, frowning at all the containers of brownies and cookies and bread and cake. You gearing up for a bake sale?

I laughed, but the sound came out a rusty bark. Something like that.

You all right there, Viv? he asked in an annoyingly calm voice. He even had the audacity to smile at me.

Now the smile was sliding downward. Vivian?

You want to divorce me, yet there you are standing and smiling as if nothing is wrong.

I had to say something. I had to ask the hard question. I had to recoup my ability to string words into sentences.

Since that last thing simply wasn t happening, I retreated to the bedroom for the folder and brought it into the kitchen. I handed it to Mitch. His expression mutated from curiosity to surprise to realization.

So, he said.

So.

My hands clenched into fists. No way was I going to start this conversation. He d started it when he put together those worksheets.

Vivian, I would like to get a divorce.

Such a civil tone for such warlike words.

My knees buckled. I told them to buck up. Why?

Why?

Yes, Mitchell, why? What exactly have I done so wrong that you feel the need to skulk behind my back and start doing the paperwork for a divorce without even talking to me?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Rage snapped behind my eyes, and I grabbed the counter to keep from reaching into the knife drawer.

There s nothing wrong with you.

Oh, that s comforting. If sarcasm were cash, I d be richer than Oprah. So it s not me. It s you.

Something like that. He reached into the fridge and took out the CorningWare container of chicken salad I d made for him.

Mitch, I need answers.

I m not sure I have any. You weren t supposed to know yet. Now he crossed the kitchen to the pantry to get the bread.

And when were you going to tell me?

He shrugged. I don t know.

Are you seriously going to eat while we re having this conversation?

Yes, he said, then finished making his sandwich and put the chicken salad back into the fridge. He left the bread bag on the counter and open because he, apparently, liked stale bread. I came behind him, like I always did, and used the handy-dandy twist tie to seal up the bread because I preferred mine to be as fresh as possible. Like a normal, responsible person.

When did you start thinking about this? I asked while I put the bread back into the pantry.

When Dylan was a freshman in high school.

Four years? He d been thinking about leaving me for four years ?

A wave of dizziness passed through me, and I allowed my knees to give this time as I grabbed the counter again.

Who was this coward sitting in the breakfast room somehow managing to eat a sandwich while we talked about the dissolution of our marriage? He looked like an older, plumper version of the man I d married back when I was supposed to be a junior in college. He wore a blue polo just like that man always had. Same tasseled loafers.

And it never crossed your mind to say, Vivian, I ve lost that loving feeling ?

No.

What about counseling?

His face screwed up into a horrible contortion. God, no. Could you pass me the chips?

No, I said. So this is it? I don t have a say in this matter?

Vivian, I just don t love you anymore. At least not like that.

Not. Like. That.

He put his sandwich down and began lecturing. He was saying words, but he might as well have been speaking in German, because my mind was stuck on not like that, repeating it over and over again.

Not like that. Not like what?

You know . . . like that , Mitch was saying, an indication that I d been talking out loud again. I ll always love you as the mother of my child, and I d like for us to be friends, but-

Stop right there. We promised to love each other forever. Why in the blue hell would I want to be your friend if you re the kind of person who can t keep his promises?

He started to answer me several times, but he couldn t find the words. Finally, he sighed and said, I don t know.

If you don t have the answers, then where the heck am I supposed to find them?

I don t know! His voice echoed off the walls.

Anger twisted behind my eyes. Figure it out! There has to be some reason why you re ready to give up on this marriage.

Vivian, he said softly. He pushed his plate away, stood, and walked over until only a foot separated us. He reached-

Don t touch me.

He put his hands back down to his sides. I m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.

Then why are you? What are you going to tell Dylan?

He winced. I thought you could do that. You re so much better with breaking bad news to him than I am.

Oh, no. My days of doing your dirty work are over. You want a divorce, you can have that divorce. But I m not washing another piece of underwear or putting another supper on the table. I m sure as heck not playing bad cop to your good cop anymore.

My fingers traveled to my lips. How had my parents argument escaped my lips?

Mitch walked back to the table. His eyes never leaving mine, he took his half-eaten sandwich and tossed it in the trash. Fine. I hate your chicken salad anyway.

Slapping me in the face would ve hurt less than his words did. I made that just for you so you would have something homemade when you got home from traveling.

Well, don t. And I ll wash my own underwear, thank you very much. He brushed past me.

Where are you going? I asked as I followed him down the hall.

To bed.

It s only five in the evening.

I m tired.

Well, you re not sleeping in there.

Vivian, he said in his dangerously soft voice, the one that usually made me think twice. I am tired. I am going to bed. We can discuss this tomorrow.

You can sleep in the guest room.

I will do no such thing. You can sleep in the guest room if you don t want to sleep in . . . there. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the primary bedroom behind him. Already he couldn t say our room.

If you sleep in there tonight, then you can pack up your shit and find a new house tomorrow.

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. Fine. Because I can t live like this.

Live like what?

Live with all your nagging and questions!

Oh, silly me. I just wanted to figure out why my husband of almost twenty-five years decided to study divorces on the sly. How unreasonable of me to be angry in the face of his betrayal!

Betrayal? His face screwed up into an expression between confused and angry.

Yes, betrayal. What did you think you were doing?

I just want to be happy, he bellowed. Why can t I be happy?

Why does your being happy mean I have to be unhappy?

He paused, his mouth agape. He d honestly never thought about it quite like that. Well, I was thinking you couldn t possibly be happy if I wasn t happy, so it would be better for you, too, if I left.

What kind of self-centered logic was that?

Funny, I thought I d dedicated my life to making sure that you and Dylan were happy.

Then dedicate your life to making yourself happy, because whatever you ve been doing isn t working for me.

His acid tone ran through my chest like a hot sword. How was I supposed to know you weren t happy?

How could you not?

We engaged in a staring contest. I willed him to answer that question, to admit that he really didn t care whether or not I was happy. He looked away first, and a cold chill of realization ran down my back. Is this about sex?

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes again, they were flat, but they met mine in that direct way that indicated he was telling me his deepest truth. What sex?

I gasped, then forced myself to recover. You haven t asked!

I shouldn t have to ask!

I threw my shirt over my head and shimmied out of my yoga pants. Well, if it s a question of sex, then we can remedy the situation right now.

Remedy the situation?

Yes. I was already reaching for the back hook on my bra.

Vulnerability hit me along with a chill from standing there in my underwear. What was I doing?

Can you even hear yourself talk? And what are you going to do anyway? Go in there and be a cold, dead fish? Maybe flop around just a little?

I gulped. A dead fish?

Was that what he thought I was?

Vivian, he s trying to get under your skin.

A bomb of nausea and understanding exploded in my stomach. You re seeing another woman.

The words came out as a statement rather than a question. Mitch s pause, however, was even more telling.

What? No.

Just tell me now.

There s not another woman.

I arched one eyebrow and skewered him with my best mom look, the tell-me-the-truth-now-so-I-don t-have-to-dole-out-twice-the-punishment-later one.

There s no other woman, he said, but, rather than meet my gaze, he looked out into the living room, a sure sign he was lying. How had this man ever beaten me at poker?

There s another woman. The statement came straight from my subconscious. Suddenly, I knew that, as sure as God made little green apples, my husband was having an affair.

My statement hung in the air too long.

He spoke because he knew silence could be an answer, too. If there were another woman, would that make you happy?

No.

Well, I guess I can t win here.

Maybe if you had told me things, like how unhappy you were, then-

Then what? You d have been depressed, and I would ve gotten laid even less. That s what would ve happened.

You would ve gotten laid even less ? Do you even hear yourself talk?

Well, it s the damn truth. You would ve pouted for a month, then done nothing.

Not true! I would ve bought a book or looked for a sex therapist or-

The bedroom door slammed behind him, and a chill fell over me. I tossed away my bra and put my shirt back on.

Inside out.

Because why the hell not?

Mom?