Chapter 6
Brett was humming while he packed, and that should have been my first clue that something was seriously wrong.
I stood in our bedroom doorway watching him fold shirts with the sort of care usually reserved for newborns or museum artifacts.
Each crease perfectly aligned, each collar smoothed just so.
He looked happy. Actually happy, not the polite contentment he'd perfected for family dinners and social events.
"Need help?" I asked, though we both knew Brett had been packing his own suitcases since college. He had systems for everything. Toiletries arranged by size, ties rolled to prevent wrinkles, shoes wrapped in cloth bags like precious relics.
"Almost done," he said, holding up two suits like they were artifacts that would determine world peace. "Just trying to decide between navy and charcoal for tomorrow's dinner. You know how these European partners can be about first impressions."
Right. The European partners. The expansion deal that required intimate dinners with legal experts who happened to be blonde and Harvard-educated and named Alison.
I watched him study those suits with more concentration than he'd given me in months. The navy brought out his eyes, made him look younger. The charcoal was more serious, more executive.
"Navy," I said, because he was waiting for my opinion even though he'd already decided. "Less intimidating."
His face lit up like I'd just solved climate change. "Exactly what I was thinking. You always were better at reading people than me."
A compliment. An actual compliment about my judgment, my instincts, my usefulness for something other than managing his calendar and organizing his life.
I couldn't remember the last time Brett had acknowledged I was good at anything besides keeping his world running smoothly.
"I wish I could come with you to Cape Cod," he said, folding the navy jacket. "I feel terrible about missing your mom's birthday again."
He didn't feel terrible. I could tell by the way he said it, like reciting lines from a play about being a dutiful son-in-law. But there was something almost convincing about the performance this time, like he was actually trying to seem sorry instead of just going through the motions.
"She understands," I said, which was true. My mother had stopped expecting Brett to show up for family events years ago. She'd learned to work around his schedule the same way we all had.
Brett reached into his dresser and pulled out a small wrapped package, the type of elegant gift wrapping that screamed expensive store with personal shoppers who remembered your wife's mother's perfume preferences.
"For your mom," he said, handing it to me. "Chanel No. 5. The one she mentioned at Christmas."
I stared at the package, genuinely shocked. Brett remembered my mother's perfume? Brett, who couldn't remember our anniversary without calendar reminders, had noticed what fragrance my seventy eight year old mother preferred?
"She'll love this," I said, and meant it. "Thank you."
"Of course. She matters to you, so she matters to me."
I studied his face, looking for the catch. The guilt or manipulation or whatever was driving this sudden burst of thoughtfulness. But he just looked pleased with himself, like a man who'd remembered to do something kind for someone he cared about.
Too little, too late, I thought. But I didn't say it.
"Flight's at noon," he said, closing his suitcase and testing the zippers. "Car's picking me up at the office around ten-thirty. I'll probably be in meetings until late Saturday night, but I'll call when I can."
I nodded like this was normal married-couple coordination instead of the scheduling of separate lives that occasionally intersected. Brett would fly to Dallas and spend the weekend with her.
I'd drive to Cape Cod with our son and pretend my marriage wasn't falling apart at my mother's birthday party.
"Have a safe trip," I said, leaning in for the automatic cheek kiss married people do when they're going through the motions.
But Brett turned at the last second, and my lips brushed his mouth instead. For just a moment, he kissed me back like he meant it. Like I was someone worth kissing instead of just the person who happened to be married to him.
When he pulled away, something almost sad flickered in his eyes.
"Take care of yourself, Lauren."
Really. It sounded like goodbye.
"Please tell me we're still on for tomorrow night," I said when Robin and Amy both picked up my conference call.
I was curled up at the kitchen island with coffee and the strange lightness that came from having the house to myself. "I need wine and completely inappropriate conversation and friends who understand why I'm slowly losing my mind."
"God, yes," Amy said, and she sounded different. Stronger. Like she'd made some decision that was giving her backbone. "I'm bringing that Pinot Noir you loved, plus backup bottles in case we need to get seriously drunk and solve all our problems."
"I'm shopping in Manhattan today," Robin added, and I could hear traffic noise in the background. "Buying something ridiculously expensive that David will absolutely hate. But I'll be back tonight even though I'd planned to stay in the city. This is more important."
"What kind of something expensive?"
"Shoes. Beautiful, impractical, fuck-you shoes," she laughed. "If I'm going to have a breakdown, I might as well look fabulous."
We talked for a few more minutes about wine selection and whether I should cook or just order pizza. The logistics of female friendship that made everything else feel manageable. These women had been my lifeline through twenty years of suburban motherhood.
"I'm actually leaving for Cape Cod around noon," I said. "Devin and I are driving up for my mom's birthday. Family weekend at some beach house Cheryl rented."
"That sounds perfect," Amy said. "How's she doing?"
"Good, considering. Still sharp, just more fragile than she used to be." I looked out at our backyard. "Kimberly can't make it because of school, which is killing her. She adores my mom."
"College kids want independence and family connection at the same time," Robin said. "It's exhausting for everyone."
"Kimberly promised to visit the next chance she gets. She's probably the only one who calls my mom just to chat, not because it's a holiday."
"Smart girl. She gets that from you."
The compliment made me smile despite everything else falling apart. At least I'd raised kids who knew how to love people properly.
Right at noon, my phone rang. Brett's name, perfectly timed like everything else in his organized life.
"Boarding in a few minutes," he said, and I could hear Bradley Airport's chaos in the background. Gate announcements, rolling luggage, people traveling somewhere more interesting than where they'd started. "Just wanted to check in."
"Safe flight," I said, loading the last bag into my car.
"Give everyone my love, especially your mom. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't make it."
"I will," I said.
"Lauren." Something in his voice made me stop walking. "Thank you. For understanding about this trip, for handling everything with your family. I know I'm not always the easiest person to be married to."
Brett never acknowledged that his choices affected other people, never apologized for the inconvenience of loving someone who put work before everything else. This sudden self-awareness felt like a gift I wasn't sure I wanted.
"It's fine," I said, because that's what I always said.
"Enjoy Cape Cod. Take some pictures."
After he hung up, I sat in my car trying to process what had just happened. Brett being thoughtful about my mother's gift. Acknowledging he was difficult to live with. Telling me to take pictures like he actually cared about my photography.
It felt like he was trying to be a better husband. Which should have made me happy but instead made me feel empty.
Too little, too late. And probably motivated by guilt over whatever he was planning to do in Dallas.
Devin bounced out of school looking like he'd grown another inch since breakfast, all limbs and energy and confidence that came from knowing college scouts wanted you.
"Thanks for the jailbreak," he said, throwing his bag in the back and folding himself into the passenger seat. "Mrs. Carter was about to torture us with sentence diagrams, which is basically cruel and unusual punishment when you're trying to focus on actually important things."
"Like what?" I asked, pulling out of the parking lot toward Route 6.
"College stuff. Coach Phelps wants me to call the UConn recruiter next week about my official visit. And Boston College sent another letter asking about my summer training schedule." He found music that sounded like organized chaos to my middle-aged ears. "It's insane, Mom."
I looked at this beautiful, hardworking kid who'd inherited my stubbornness and his father's drive, and felt a surge of fierce pride.
"Have you thought about what you want to study? Besides baseball, I mean."
He stared out the window at strip malls and office parks rolling past. "Business, maybe.
Communications. Something practical that'll help me get a real job if I blow out my shoulder and can't play anymore.
" He glanced at me, suddenly vulnerable underneath all that teenage confidence.
"Is that boring? Dad always talks about having backup plans and being realistic about athletic careers. "
Of course, Brett had filled our son's head with warnings about dreams and the importance of practical choices. Of course, he'd managed to inject his own fears into Devin's moment of triumph.
"There's nothing wrong with practical," I said carefully. "But there's also nothing wrong with pursuing something you're passionate about, especially when you're as talented as you are. You don't have to choose between dreams and security."
"Did you? Get to pursue what you were passionate about when you were my age?"
I thought about my journal, about the woman who'd wanted to travel and take pictures and tell stories that mattered.