Even after months of sleeping alone in a twin—not the king I once shared with Richard—I still lie only on the left side.
The sheets beside me are cool. I am making room for a ghost.
Morning is the worst time because, for a brief moment, my brain is clear. The reprieve is so cruel. I huddle under the patchwork quilt, feeling as if a heavy weight is pinning me here.
Richard is probably with my pretty young replacement right now, his navy- blue eyes fixed on her as his fingertips trace the curve of her cheek. Sometimes I can almost hear him saying the sweet things he used to whisper to me.
I adore you. I'm going to make you so happy. You are my world.
My heart throbs, each steady beat almost painful. Deep breaths, I remind myself. It doesn't work. It never works.
When I've watched the woman Richard left me for, I'm always struck by how soft and innocent she is. So like me when Richard and I first met, he would cup my face between his palms, as gently as if it were a delicate flower he was afraid of damaging.
Even in those early, heady months, it sometimes seemed as if it—he—were a bit scripted. But it didn't matter. Richard was caring, charismatic, and accomplished. I fell in love with him almost immediately. And I never doubted that he loved me, too.
He is finished with me now, though. I've moved out of our four-bedroom colonial home with its arched doorways and rich green sweep of lawn.
Three of those bedrooms remained empty throughout our marriage, but the maid still cleaned them every week. I always found an excuse to leave the house when she opened those doors.
The wailing of an ambulance twelve stories below finally prompts me to get out of bed. I shower, then blow-dry my hair, noticing my roots are visible. I pull a box of Clairol Caramel Brown from under the sink to remind myself to touch them up tonight. Gone are the days when I paid—no, when Richard paid— hundreds of dollars for a cut and colored
I opened the antique cherrywood armoire that Aunt Charlotte purchased at the GreenFlea Market and refurbished herself.
I used to have a walk-in closet bigger than the room in which I now stand. Racks of dresses organized by color and season. Stacks of designer jeans in various states of distressed denim. A rainbow of cashmere lining one wall.
Those items never meant much to me. I usually just wore yoga pants and a cozy sweater. Like a reverse commuter, I changed into a more stylish ensemble shortly before Richard came home.
Now, though, I am grateful that when Richard asked me to leave our Westchester house, I took a few suitcases of my finer clothes. As a sales associate at Saks on the designer-label third floor, I depend on commissions, so it is vital I project an aspirational image.
I stare at the dresses lined up in the armoire with an almost military precision and select a robin's-egg-colored Chanel.
One of the signature buttons is dented, and it hangs more loosely than the last time I wore it, a lifetime ago. I don't need a scale to inform me I've lost too much weight; at five foot six, I have to take in even my size 4s.
I enter the kitchen, where Aunt Charlotte is eating Greek yogurt with fresh blueberries, and kiss her, the skin on her cheek feeling as soft as talcum powder.
"Vanessa. Sleep well?"
"Yes," I lied.
She stands at her kitchen counter, barefoot and in her loose tai chi outfit, peering through her glasses as she scratches out a grocery list on the back of an old envelope between spoonfuls of her breakfast. For Aunt Charlotte, momentum is the key to emotional health. She's always urging me to join her for a stroll through SoHo, or an art lecture at the Y, or a film at Lincoln Center … but I've learned activity doesn't help me. After all, obsessive thoughts can follow you anywhere.
I nibble a piece of whole-grain toast and tuck an apple and a protein bar in my bag for lunch.
I can tell Aunt Charlotte is relieved I've landed a job, and not just because it seems as if I am finally getting better.
I've disrupted her lifestyle; normally she spends mornings in an extra bedroom that doubles as her art studio, spreading rich oils onto canvases, creating dreamy worlds that are so much more beautiful than the one we inhabit.
But she'll never complain. When I was a little girl and my mom needed what I thought of as her "lights-out days," I'd call Aunt Charlotte, my mother's older sister. All it took was the whispered words "She's resting again," and my aunt would appear, dropping her overnight bag on the floor and reaching out with paint-stained hands, folding me into an embrace that smelled of linseed oil and lavender. Without children of her own, she had the flexibility to design her own life. It was my great fortune that she put me at the center of it when I needed her most.
"Brie … pears…" Aunt Charlotte murmurs as she jots the items on her list, her handwriting full of loops and swirls. Her steel-gray hair is swept up in a messy bun, and the eclectic place setting before her—a cobalt-blue glass bowl, a chunky purple pottery mug, a silver spoon—looks like the inspiration for a still- life painting.
Her three-bedroom apartment is expansive since Aunt Charlotte and my uncle Beau, who died years ago, bought in this neighborhood before real-estate prices skyrocketed, but it has the feel of a funky old farmhouse.
The wood floors slope and creak, and every room is painted a different color— buttercup yellow, sapphire blue, mint green.
"Another salon tonight?" I ask, and she nods.
Since I've been living with her, I've been as likely to find a group of NYU freshmen as a New York Times art critic along with a few studio owners gathered in her living room.
"Let me get the wine on my way home," I offer.
It is important that Aunt Charlotte not see me as a burden. She is all I have left.
I stir my coffee and wonder if Richard is making his new love coffee and bringing it back to bed, where she's drowsy and warm under the fluffy down comforter we used to share.
I see her lips curve into a smile as she lifts the covers for him. Richard and I would often make love in the morning.
"No matter what happens during the rest of the day, at least we had this," he used to say.
My stomach tightens and I push away my toast. I glance down at my Cartier Tank watch, a gift from Richard for our fifth anniversary, and trace a fingertip over the smooth gold.
I can still feel him lifting my arm to slip it onto my wrist. Sometimes I'm certain I catch on my own clothes—even though they've been cleaned—a whiff of the citrus scent of the L'Occitane soap he washed himself with.
He feels linked to me always, as close yet diaphanous as a shadow.
"I think it would be good for you to join us tonight."
It takes a moment for me to reorient myself. "Maybe," I say, knowing I won't.
Aunt Charlotte's eyes are soft; she must realize I'm thinking about Richard. She isn't privy to the real story of our marriage, though. She thinks he chased youth, casting me aside, following the pattern of so many men before him. She thinks I'm a victim; just another woman cut down by the approach of middle age.
The compassion would be erased from her expression if she knew of my role in our demise.
"I have to run," I say.
"But text me if you need anything else from the store."
I secured my sales job only a month ago, and already I've been given two warnings about my tardiness.
I need a better way to fall asleep; the pills my doctor prescribed leave me sluggish in the morning.
I haven't worked in almost a decade.
If I lose this job, who else will hire me?
I sling my heavy bag over my shoulder with my nearly pristine Jimmy Choos peeking out of the top, lace up my battered Nikes, and put in my earbuds. I listen to psychology podcasts during my fifty-block walk to Saks; hearing about other people's compulsions sometimes pulls me away from my own.
The muted sun that greeted me when I awoke tricked me into thinking it was warming up outside. I brace myself against the slap of a sharp late-spring wind, then begin the trek from the Upper West Side to Midtown Manhattan.
***
My first customer is an investment banker who introduces herself as Nancy. Her work is consuming, she explains, but her morning meeting was unexpectedly canceled. She's petite, with wide-set eyes and a pixie cut, and her boyish frame makes fitting her a challenge.
I'm glad for the distraction.
"I have to dress powerfully or they won't take me seriously," she says.
"I mean, look at me. I still get carded!"
As I gently nudge her away from a structured gray pantsuit, I notice her fingernails are bitten to the quick. She sees where my gaze has landed and she tucks her hands into the pockets of her blazer.
I wonder how long she'll last in her job. Maybe she'll find another one—something service oriented, perhaps, involving the environment or children's rights—before the field breaks her spirit.
I reach for a pencil skirt and patterned silk blouse.
"Maybe something brighter?" I suggest.
As we walk the floor, she chatters about the five-borough bike race that she's hoping to compete in next month, despite her lack of training, and the blind date her colleague wants to set her up on. I pull more items, sneaking glances at her to better gauge her shape and skin tone.
Then I spot a stunning black-and-white floral Alexander McQueen knit and I stop walking. I lift a hand and run it gently down the fabric, my heart beginning to pound.
"That's pretty," Nancy says.