Two by Two(56)

"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.





CHAPTER 16





The Sun Also Rises


I liked Liz as soon as I met her, but I'll admit that I was amazed that  my parents felt the same way. While they accepted the fact that Marge  was gay, I often sensed that they weren't exactly comfortable with the  women Marge dated. There was a generational aspect to it-they'd both  grown up in an era in which alternative lifestyles were typically kept  in the closet-but it also had to do with the kind of women that Marge  originally seemed to favor. They struck me as a bit on the rough side  and were often prone to profanity in casual conversation, which had a  tendency to make both my mom and dad go red in the face.         

     



 

Marge told me that she'd met Liz at work. Accounting offices, I think  most would agree, aren't your usual pickup joints, but Liz had recently  joined a new practice and was in need of an accountant. Marge happened  to have an opening in her afternoon schedule, and by the time Liz left  the office, they'd made arrangements to meet for a glass of wine before  dropping by an art opening in Asheville.

"You're going to an art gallery?" I remember asking Marge. We'd met at a  bar after work, the kind of place with neon beer signs and the slightly  rancid smell of too many spilled drinks. At the time, it was one of  Marge's favorite watering holes.

"Why wouldn't I go to an art gallery?"

"Maybe because you don't like art?"

"Who says I don't like art?"

"You did. When I tried to show you some pictures of Emily's art, you said-and I quote-‘I don't like art.'"

"Maybe I've matured in the past few years."

"Or maybe Liz just blew your socks off."

"She's interesting," Marge admitted. "Very smart, too."

"Is she pretty?"

"What does that matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"Yes. She's very pretty."