I reach for the remote and flip through channels until I land on a talk show. I cup my mug in my hands and take another long drink.
I try to lose myself in the drama being played out on-screen, but the topic of the day is infidelity.
"It can make a marriage stronger," insists a middle-aged woman who is holding the hand of a man seated beside her.
He shifts in his seat and looks down at the floor.
It can also destroy it, I think.
I stare at the man. Who was she? I wonder.
How did you meet her? On a business trip, or maybe in line for a sandwich at the deli?
What was it about her that drew you in, that compelled you to cross that devastating line?
I'm clutching my mug so tightly my hand aches. I want to hurl it at the screen, but instead, I refill it.
The man crosses his legs at the ankle, then straightens them. He clears his throat and scratches his head. I'm glad he's uncomfortable. He's beefy and thuggish-looking; not my type, but I can see how he'd appeal to other women.
"Regaining trust is a long process, but if both parties are committed to it, it's very possible," says a woman identified as a couples therapist on the screen below her image.
The drab-looking wife is babbling on about how they've rebuilt trust completely, how their marriage is now their priority, how they lost each other but have found each other again. She sounds as if she's been reading Hallmark cards.
Then the therapist looks at the husband. "Do you agree trust has been reestablished?"
He shrugs. Jerk, I think, wondering how he got caught. "I'm workin' on it.
But it's hard. I keep picturing her with that—" A beep cuts off his last word.
So I got it wrong. I thought he was a cheater. The clues were present, but I misread them. Not for the first time.
I bang the mug against my front teeth when I go to sip more Merlot. I slid down lower in bed, wishing I'd left the television off.
What separates a fling from a marriage proposal? I thought Richard was just having some fun.
I expected their affair to blaze hot and extinguish itself quickly. I pretended not to know, to look the other way.
Besides, who could blame Richard? I wasn't the woman he'd married nearly a decade ago. I'd gained weight, I rarely left the house, and I'd begun to search for hidden meanings in Richard's actions, seizing upon clues that I thought indicated he was tiring of me.
She is everything Richard desires. Everything I used to be.
Right after the brief, almost clinical scene that officially ended our seven-year marriage, Richard put our house in Westchester on the market and moved into his city apartment.
But he loved our quiet neighborhood, the privacy it afforded. He'll probably buy another place in the suburbs for his new bride. I wonder if she plans to quit work and devote herself to Richard, to try to become pregnant, just as I did.
I can't believe I have any tears remaining, but more slide down my cheeks as I refill my mug again. The bottle is nearly empty and I spill a few drops on my white sheets. They stand out like blood.
A familiar haze settles around me, the embrace of an old friend. I experience the sensation of blurring into the mattress. Maybe this is how my mother felt when she had her lights-out days.
I wish I'd understood better back then; I felt abandoned, but now I know some pain is too fierce to battle. You can only duck for cover and hope the sandstorm passes. It's too late for me to tell her, though. Both of my parents are gone.
"Vanessa?" I hear a gentle knock against my bedroom door and Aunt Charlotte enters. Behind her thick glasses, her hazel eyes look magnified. "I thought I heard the television."
"I got sick at work. You probably shouldn't come any closer." The two bottles are on my nightstand. I hope the lamp is blocking them.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Some water would be great," I say, slurring the s slightly. I need to get her out of my room quickly.
She leaves the door ajar as she walks toward the kitchen and I pull myself out of bed, grabbing the bottles and wincing as they clink together. I hurry to my armoire and place them on the floor, righting one when it nearly topples over.
I'm back in the same position when Aunt Charlotte returns with a tray.
"I brought some saltines and herbal tea, too." The kindness in her voice ties a knot in my chest. She places the tray by the foot of my bed, then turns to leave.
I hope she can't smell the alcohol on my breath. "I left the wine in the kitchen for you."
"Thank you, honey. Call if you need anything."
I drop my head back to the pillow as the door closes, feeling dizziness engulf me. Six pills are left.… If I let one of the bitter white tablets dissolve on my tongue, I could probably sleep through until morning.
But suddenly I have a better idea. The thought shears through the fog in my mind: They've only just gotten engaged. It isn't too late yet!
I fumble for my bag and grab my phone. Richard's numbers are still programmed in. His cell rings twice, then I hear his voice. Its timbre belongs to a bigger, taller man than my ex-husband, a juxtaposition I always found intriguing.
"I'll get right back to you," his recorded message promises. Richard always, always keeps his promises.
"Richard," I blurt out. "It's me. I heard about your engagement, and I just need to talk to you.…"
The clarity I felt a moment ago wiggles away like a fish through my fingertips. I struggle to grasp the right words.
"Please phone me back.… It's really important."
My voice breaks on the last word and I press End Call.
I hold the phone to my chest and close my eyes. Maybe I could have avoided the regret ravaging my body if only I'd tried harder to see the warning signs. To fix things. It can't be too late. I can't bear the thought of Richard marrying again.
I must have dozed off because an hour later, when my cell vibrates, it jolts me. I look down to see a text:
I'm sorry, but there's nothing more to say. Take care. R.
At that moment a realization seizes me. If Richard had moved on with another woman, I might be able to eventually patch together a life for myself.
I could stay with Aunt Charlotte until I'd saved enough to rent my own place. Or I could move to a different city, one with no reminders. I could adopt a pet. Maybe, in time, when I saw a dark-haired businessman in a well-cut suit turning a corner, the sun gleaming off his aviator shades, I wouldn't feel my heart stutter before I realized it wasn't him.
But as long as he is with her—the woman who blithely stepped up to become the new Mrs. Richard Thompson while I pretended to be oblivious—I will never have peace.
When she took a good look at her life, Nellie felt as if she'd been splintered into several different women during her twenty-seven years: the only child who'd spent hours playing alone in the creek at the end of her block; the teenager who'd tucked her babysitting charges into bed, promising no monsters lurked in the darkness; and the social director of the Chi Omega sorority who'd sometimes fallen asleep without bothering to lock her door.
Then there was the Nellie of today, who'd walked out of a scary movie when the heroine was being cornered, and who made sure she was never the last waitress to close up and leave Gibson's Bistro after the one A.M. final call.
The preschool also saw a version of Nellie: the teacher in jeans who'd memorized every Elephant and Piggie book written by Mo Willems, who dispensed organic animal crackers and cut-up grapes, and who helped children create handprint turkeys for Thanksgiving.
Her coworkers at Gibson's knew the waitress who wore black miniskirts and red lipstick, who would join a tableful of rowdy businessmen in tossing back shots to earn a bigger tip, and who could effortlessly palm a tray of gourmet burgers. One of those Nellies belonged to the day; the other, the night.
Richard had seen her navigate both of her current worlds, though he obviously preferred her preschool-teacher persona.
She'd planned to resign from her waitressing job right after they married, and her teaching job as soon as she became pregnant—which she and Richard hoped would happen quickly.
But not long after they'd gotten engaged, he suggested she give notice at Gibson's.
"You mean quit now?" Nellie had looked at him in surprise.
She needed the money, but more than that, she liked the people she worked with.
They were a vibrant group—a microcosm of the passionate, creative types who flocked to New York from all over the country, drawn like moths to the bright city. Two fellow waitresses, Josie and Margot, were actresses trying to break into theater. Ben, the headwaiter, was determined to become the next Jerry Seinfeld and practiced comedy routines during slow shifts.
The bartender, Chris, a six-foot-three dead ringer for Jason Statham who was probably single- handedly responsible for drawing female customers into the place, wrote scenes for his novel every day before he came to work.
Something about their fearlessness, the way her coworkers exposed their hearts and chased their dreams despite the rejection they continually suffered, spoke to a part of Nellie that had been switched off during her last year in Florida.
They were like children in that respect, Nellie realized—they possessed an undaunted optimism. A sense that the world and its possibilities lay open to them.
"I only waitress three nights a week," Nellie had said to Richard. "That's three more nights you could be with me."
She arched an eyebrow. "Oh, so you're going to stop traveling so much?"
They'd been lounging on the couch at his apartment.
They'd ordered sushi for Richard and tempura for her and had just finished watching Citizen Kane because it was his favorite film and Richard had joked that he couldn't marry her until she'd seen it.
"It's bad enough that you hate raw fish," he teased. Her legs were slung over his and he was gently massaging her left foot.
"You don't need to worry about money anymore. Everything I have is yours."
"Stop being so wonderful." Nellie leaned over and brushed her lips against his, and though he tried to turn into a deeper kiss, she pulled back. "I like it, though."
"Like what?" Richard's hands were running up the length of her leg. She could see his expression turn intent and his deep-sea eyes darken, the way they always did when he wanted sex.