Chapter 36
I GRAPPLE WITH HOW TO HELP the love of my life understand me better. “As you know, these past few years have been incredible. I mean, beyond the obvious success, I’ve learned a ton.”
Clint rests his shoulder against his chest of drawers. He knows I’m circling the building trying to find my way into what needs to be said. Instead of pounding on the front door, I decide to climb up to an attic window and squeeze inside.
“I always thought sales was about getting someone to buy from you or do something you really needed. Like the guy at the car lot that needs to get rid of the clunker that’s been sitting by the back dumpsters for too long.
Not the case at Garman Straub. I’ve learned a whole new side of sales.
In mutual funds and ETFs, it’s about building relationships. ”
Clint sucks in his lips as if waiting for me to get to the point—for me to finally say that I’ve betrayed him. And maybe I have, but not in the way that he thinks.
“Sure, there’s banter, but with few exceptions, sales is professional and mutually beneficial.” I rub my upper arm remembering a late night a month ago.
“With few exceptions?” Clint asks this clear-eyed, like he really wants to know.
“I’ve been propositioned, of course. And had moments of awkwardness, occasionally, but I’ve never been overpowered.” I taste the word overpowered only after it has left my tongue. Unfortunate phrasing.
“I would hope not!” He furrows his brow at me.
He will never truly know what it is like to be a woman in the career I love.
Most days it’s worth every hassle. Some days, those hassles are harder to shake free from.
I was coming back from a late dinner at the Impact Conference when, in the hotel lobby, an advisor with a loose tie and even looser tongue grabbed my arm and playfully dragged me to his table to introduce me to his very drunk colleagues.
He held me there, asking questions about my childhood, my husband, and the color of panties I was wearing.
At that point I yanked and spun. The pressure on my arm increased.
His eyes grew dark. I would not be the one to decide when our conversation was over.
I gritted my teeth and pulled away. It came right up to the moment when he would’ve had to physically and obviously force me to stay.
He burst out laughing instead. The table joined him.
I marched off. Late nights, flowing alcohol, and lack of diversity are bad combinations.
Clint walks to the bed and partially sits, partially droops up against the headboard.
I join him but keep space between us. “I’m known for being able to take care of myself.
” I wonder if this is true. “Anyway, relationships. We—quote, unquote—sell our new funds to advisors, who are organized into teams, at firms like Meymack, and are managed by Wealth Management leaders. Forming a partnership is key. If I can get Wealth Management excited about our funds, maybe even before their competitors, doors open to the advisor teams. That’s what happened with Lucas. He was my doorman.”
Clint shifts toward me with his shoulder against the headboard. “Lucas?”
“He’s on Meymack’s senior leadership team, head of Wealth Management.
He’s been there for a couple of years after spending the last decade out in San Diego at a large independent broker-dealer, doing about the same job.
He has a wife, no kids, but does a lot of work with St. Jude Children’s Hospital. ”
“Meredith, why are we talking about this Lucas guy?”
“Because he’s your Lucas,” I say.
Clint stares at me. He doesn’t move a muscle.
“Lucas Anderson. He changed his name from Hansel years ago. He’s a good—”
“No.” He lurches off the bed. “Better if you were having an affair.”
“Don’t say that.” As I crawl across the comforter to try to get closer to him, my foot gets caught in a fold, and I wrestle for a moment to free myself. This was not how I planned to tell Clint about his brother.
But that’s not true. I never did have a plan. Which has been the problem all along.
“This is the ultimate betrayal.” Clint glares at me. “You know what Lucas did to me, to my mother.”
“I know. I know.” I finally shake myself free and stand. “But, honey, she had pancreatic cancer. Back then, all the money in the world wouldn’t—”
“No. You don’t get to defend him. I was seventeen years old.
Who had to figure out Medicaid and get doctors to accept her?
I did. Lucas abandoned us. More than that.
He took everything.” Clint glares at the ceiling.
“I was forced to move out of the house while she was in the hospital.” His fingers claw at his face.
I want so badly to pull his fingers away, to absorb the hurt.
Instead, I watch my husband suffer.
“I’ve told you how she had to come home to that dirty, ugly apartment to die.” He shakes his head slowly as if he’s back there. “And she still asked for him.”
I stand in front of him. The kindest, cleverest, coolest man I’ve ever met, but I’ve never been able to help him heal these wounds that he reopens every year. How can we finally suture him up? I’ve tried so many ways. He has to be the one to hold the needle.
He speaks slowly. “I don’t want that man within a mile of you, of my family. I’ll get a restraining order if that’s what it takes.”
Another thing I haven’t told him. The suffocating “protection” that urged me to sign the legal order against Betsey continues to constrict.
I’ve strangled my family in the same way.
Without knowing the truth of what I’ve hidden, the invisible weight must have been bearing down on Clint. I take a deep breath and try one more time. “He wants to apologize. He wants to explain.”
“How, Meredith? How can you take his side?” The sadness in his eyes pulls at the sorrow consuming my chest.
“Not for him. For you. I want this for you.” I force myself not to reach out to him. “Your pain is eating you alive. You’ve chained yourself to unforgiveness.”
He blinks at me, but the misery remains.
The doorbell rings.
We both take a step back like we’ve been roused from delirium. We stand for what feels like hours but is maybe only minutes—caught in the space between his past and two desperate futures. Only one of which will allow us to heal.
“I’ll go,” he finally grumbles as he opens our bedroom door.
Erika shuffles down the hall, sliding in her stocking feet. “Delivery for Mom.”
I eye the white and blue bubble mailer in her hands as I stumble back against the bed.
Clint takes the package. “You know what this is?” He eyes me with suspicion.
“No, and I don’t think now is the right time to—”
“Open it,” Clint almost barks.
I glance toward Erika, and she must see the fear in my face because she charges forward. “What’s going on?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say automatically.
“No, it’s not,” she fires back. “I want to know what’s happening. I heard you guys yelling. You never yell.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Is this about me? It’s about me. I’m not leaving.”
Clint folds his arms too. They look the same. Both glaring at me but also, almost comically exasperated. Suddenly I feel a giggle bubbling inside me. Probably insanity. I’m losing my mind.
No more hiding. No more protection. “Hand me the scissors from the hall closet.”
As Erika leaves, I check the return address. DCP from the Bronx.
I know it’s from Betsey. Tomorrow is Friday. It’s more than just instructions on where to meet her. It’s a threat. But what more can she have over me? Lucas and I met only a handful of times. The last few to talk about Clint and his mom and for him to try to explain.
“Here.” Erika hands me the scissors as I’m palpating the package. Feels like a small thin book.
I cut off the top of the mailer and slide out a white envelope with Dranker Clive Photography embossed on the flap.
Air empties from my lungs.
DCP, of course. These are the proofs from the bell ringing. I forgot. They told me they would overnight me the images. They wanted me to see the quality of their prints so I can decide on framed images as gifts. My knees quiver. I want to crumple onto my bed in relief.
“What is it?” Erika asks, leaning around her dad’s arm.
“Pictures.” The crackle in my voice sounds like a ligature around my neck has loosened, because of course it has. But the invisible noose hangs stiffly down my chest. “They’re from the closing bell.” I slide out the images.
“Oh, cool.” Erika’s tone indicates the opposite.
I turn and, after smoothing the comforter, start laying out the glossies.
Suddenly, I desperately want to see our celebration, to be reminded of the joy.
There’s one with me clapping next to Phil as he presses down on the controller.
There’s also one of us after we switched—he’s smiling at me as I look down at the podium with a huge grin on my own face.
I love this image. I will definitely be ordering a larger print for my office.
Hard to see my features, but the joy on everyone’s faces is unmistakable.
I pick up the next one. I must have just noticed Betsey. My face betrays me. I thought I’d kept up the facade, but it’s easy to tell in my tight smile that something is very wrong.
Clint suddenly bolts forward and swears.
“Dad.” Erika swats at his arm.
Clint’s face is white as he points to the final image.