Two by Two(6)

I watched as she carefully folded the corner of the page down, so she  could find the photo later, and I felt like a failure. I hated to  disappoint her.





Life as a stay-at-home mother was good for Vivian.

Despite having a child, Vivian could still pass for a woman ten years  younger, and even after London was born, she was occasionally carded  when ordering a cocktail. Time had little effect on her, yet it was  other qualities that made her particularly unusual. Vivian had always  struck me as mature and confident, self-assured in her thoughts and  opinions, and unlike me, she's always had the courage to speak her mind.  If she wanted something, she'd let me know; if something was bothering  her, she never held her feelings in reserve, even if I might be upset by  what she said. The strength to be who you are without fear of rejection  from others was something I respected, if only because it was something  I aspired to myself.

She was strong, too. Vivian didn't whine or complain in the face of  adversity; if anything, she became almost stoic. In all the years I've  known her, I've seen her cry only once, and that was when Harvey, her  cat, passed away. At the time, she was pregnant with London and Harvey  had been with her since she was a sophomore in college; even with her  hormones in overdrive, it was less like sobbing than a couple of tears  leaking onto her cheeks.

People can read whatever they want into the fact that she wasn't prone  to weeping, but the fact was, there hasn't been much for Vivian to cry  about. To that point, we'd been spared any major tragedies and if there  was anything at all that might have been a cause for disappointment, it  was that Vivian hadn't been able to become pregnant a second time. We'd  begun trying when London was eighteen months old, but month after month  passed without success, and though I was willing to see a specialist,  Vivian seemed content to let nature take its course.

Even without another child, though, I usually felt lucky to be married  to Vivian, partly because of our daughter. Some women are better suited  to motherhood than others, and Vivian had been a natural. She was  conscientious and loving, a natural nurse unfazed by diarrhea or vomit,  and a model of patience. Vivian read London hundreds of books and could  play on the floor for hours; the two of them went to parks and the  library, and the sight of Vivian pushing London in a jogger-stroller was  a common one in our neighborhood. There were other activities and  scheduled playdates with neighborhood kids, preschool classes, and the  usual doctors' and dentists' appointments, which meant that the two of  them were always on the go. And yet when I think back on those first  years of London's life, the image of Vivian that most comes to mind is  the expression of absolute joy on her face, whether holding London or  watching our daughter gradually discover the world. Once when London was  about eight months old and sitting in the high chair, she happened to  sneeze. For whatever reason, London found that highly amusing and began  to laugh; I offered a fake sneeze, and London's laughter became  uncontrollable. While I found the experience delightful, for Vivian, it  was more. The love she felt for our daughter eclipsed everything else,  even the love she felt for me.         

     



 

The all-consuming nature of motherhood-or Vivian's view of it,  anyway-not only allowed me to concentrate on my career, but it also  meant I seldom had to take care of London on my own, so I never really  learned how challenging it could be. Because Vivian made it look easy, I  thought it was easy for her, but over time, Vivian became moodier and  more irritable. Basic household chores also took a backseat, and I often  came home to a living room littered from wall to wall with toys and a  kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes. Laundry piled up, carpets weren't  vacuumed, and because I've always disliked a messy house, I eventually  decided to bring someone in twice a week to clean. During London's  toddler years, I added a babysitter three afternoons a week to give  Vivian a break during the day and I began watching London on Saturday  mornings, so Vivian could have some Me Time. My hope was that she would  have more energy for us as a couple again. To my mind, it seemed that my  wife had begun to define herself as Vivian and a mother and that the  three of us together were a family, but that being a wife and part of a  couple had gradually become an inconvenience to her.

Yet most of the time, our relationship didn't bother me. I figured we  were like most married couples with young children. In the evenings, we  generally talked about the stuff of life: conversations about children  or work or family, or what to eat or where to go on the weekend, or when  to bring the car in for an inspection. And it wasn't as though I always  felt like an afterthought; Vivian and I began to set aside Friday  nights as date nights. Even people at work knew about our date night,  and unless there was an absolute emergency, I would leave the office at a  reasonable hour, put some music on in the car on the way home, and be  smiling as soon as I walked in the door. London and I would spend time  together while Vivian dressed up, and after London went to sleep, it  almost felt as though Vivian and I were dating again.

Vivian also humored me when work was particularly stressful. When I was  thirty-three, I'd considered trading in my respectable car-the  hybrid-for a Mustang GT, even if the trade-in wouldn't have caused much  of a dent in the purchase price. At the time it didn't matter; when I  took it on a test drive with the enthusiastic salesman, I heard the  throaty roar of the engine and knew it was a car that would elicit  envious glances as I drove down the highway. The salesman played right  along and when I told Vivian about it later, she didn't tease me about  being too young for the middle-age crazies, or worry aloud that I  clearly wanted something different than the life I was leading. Instead,  she let me indulge the fantasy for a while, and when I finally came to  my senses, I bought something similar to what I already had: another  hybrid with four doors, extra storage in the trunk and an excellent  safety ranking in Consumer Reports. And I've never regretted it.

Well, maybe I regretted it a little, but that's beside the point.

And through it all, I loved Vivian, and never once did I waver from the  conviction that I wanted to spend my life with her. In my desire to show  it, I thought long and hard about what to buy her for Christmases,  anniversaries, birthdays, as well as Valentine's and Mother's Day. I had  flowers delivered to her unexpectedly, tucked notes under her pillow  before heading off to work, and would sometimes surprise her with  breakfast in bed. Early on, she appreciated those gestures; in time,  they seemed to lose a bit of luster because she'd come to expect them.  So I'd rack my brain, trying to think of another way to please her,  something that would let her know how much she still meant to me.

And in the end, among other things, Vivian received the kitchen she'd wanted, just like the one in the magazine.





Vivian had always planned to go back to work once London started school,  something part-time, which would still allow her to spend her  afternoons and evenings at home. Vivian insisted that she had no desire  to be one of those moms who became permanent volunteers in the  classroom, or decorated the cafeteria at the holidays. Nor did she want  to spend her days in an otherwise empty house; in addition to being a  great mother, Vivian is also brilliant. She'd graduated from Georgetown  University summa cum laude, and prior to becoming a mom and housewife,  she'd served as a successful publicist not only for the talk show host  in New York, but at the media company where she'd worked until London  came along.

As for me, I'd not only maximized every bonus since starting at the  agency, I'd received promotions as well, and by 2014, I was heading up  some of the agency's major accounts. Vivian and I had been married for  seven years, London had recently turned five, and I was thirty-four  years old. We'd not only remodeled the kitchen of our home, but we also  had plans to remodel the master bathroom as well. The stock market had  been kind to our investments-especially Apple, our largest holding-and  aside from the mortgage we had no debts. I adored my wife and child, my  parents lived nearby and my sister and Liz were my best friends in the  world. From the outside, my life seemed charmed, and I would say as much  to anyone who asked.         

     



 

And yet deep down, part of me would also have known that I was lying.

As well as things had been going at work, no one who reported to Jesse  Peters ever felt comfortable or secure in their job. Peters had started  the agency twenty years earlier and with offices in Charlotte, Atlanta,  Tampa, Nashville, and New York, it was far and away the most prominent  agency headquartered in the Southeast. Peters, with blue eyes and hair  that had gone silver in his twenties, was legendary for being both  shrewd and ruthless; his modus operandi had been to run other agencies  out of business either by poaching clients or undercutting fees; when  those strategies didn't work, he'd simply buy out his competitors. His  successes further inflated his already massive ego to megalomaniacal  proportions, and his management style fully reflected his personality.  He was certain that his opinions were always correct, and he played  favorites among the employees, frequently pitting one executive against  the other, effectively keeping everyone on edge. He fostered a climate  in which most employees attempted to claim more credit on successes than  they deserved, while hinting that any failures or mistakes were the  other guy's fault. It was a brutal form of social Darwinism, in which  only a select few had any chance for long-term survival.