"Can I talk to her?"
I steadied my breathing. "Before I put her on the phone, don't you think we should talk?"
"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Russ."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what you want me to say."
"What I want you to say?" I repeated. "I want you to give us another chance, Vivian." I ignored the deafening silence on her end. "I still feel like I don't know what's really going on. How can we make this work? We can go to counseling."
Her voice was tight. "Please, Russ. Can I just talk to London? I miss her."
Don't you miss me? Or are you with Walter right now?
The thought came unbidden, bringing with it the image of my wife calling from a hotel suite, Walter watching television in an adjoining area, and it was all I could do to step back inside the house and call to my daughter.
"Your mom's on the phone, London. She wants to say hi."
I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the conversation, even when London wandered toward the family room. I heard her tell Vivian about her day she also told Vivian about the turtle and say I love you; I heard her ask when Vivian was coming home. Though I didn't hear the answer, I could tell by London's expression that she didn't much like the answer. Okay, Mommy, she eventually said. I miss you, too. We can talk tomorrow.
Vivian knew I generally turned my phone to airplane mode when I went to bed, and old habits dying hard, I did so again that night. In the morning, after turning it back on, I saw that Vivian had left two voicemails.
"I know you wanted to talk and we will, but only when we're both ready. I don't know what else I can tell you. I want you to know that I didn't plan for this to happen, and I know how much I've hurt you. I wish it wasn't this way, but I don't want to lie to you either.
"I'm mainly calling about London. Right now, it's insanely busy at work with the transition and Walter's PAC and all the traveling. We still have the DC leg, and we're flying up to New York this weekend. And since I'm traveling so much, it's probably best if London stays with you for a while. I want to get settled in here first and get her room set up, but I haven't had time to start either of those things. Anyway, I think it's important that you don't tell London what's going on yet. She's already stressed with school and I know she's got to be exhausted. Besides, I think this is something we should do together. Hold on. Let me call you right back. I don't want your voicemail to cut me off."
The second voicemail picked up where she'd left off.
"I spoke with a counselor today about the best way to tell London, and she said we should stress that we think it's best if we just live apart for a while, without mentioning separation or divorce. And obviously, we should both emphasize that it doesn't have anything to do with her and that we both love her. Anyway, we can discuss it more in person, but I wanted to let you know that I'm trying to do what's best for London. We'll also have to talk about when it might be a good time for her to come to Atlanta." She paused. "Okay, I think that's it. Have a good day."
Have a good day?
Was she kidding? Sitting on the edge of the bed, I replayed the voicemails several times. I think I was searching for something anything to suggest that she still cared about me in the slightest, but if it was there, I didn't hear it. I heard a lot of what she wanted, cloaked in terms that were ostensibly all about London's well-being, and the subterfuge infuriated me. While I was thinking about it, my cell phone rang.
"Hey there," Marge said, her tone sympathetic. "Just calling to check in on you."
"It's not even seven in the morning."
"I know, but I was thinking about you."
"I'm... kind of angry, actually."
"Yeah?"
"Vivian left a couple of messages," I said. I paraphrased as best I could.
"Oh, boy. That's what you woke up to? Not exactly a cup of delicious coffee, is it? Speaking of which, I'm on your street and about to pull in your driveway. Unlock your front door."
I left the bedroom and padded downstairs. By the time I got the door open, Marge was already getting out of the car, holding a pair of Styrofoam cups.
Watching her walk up the drive, I noted she was already dressed for work. "I can make coffee here," I said.
"I know. But I wanted to lay my eyeballs on you. Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Maybe four or five hours."
"I didn't sleep much either."
"Liz keeping you up late?"
"No," she said. "Just worried about you. Let's go inside. Is London up yet?"
"Not yet."
"How about I get her ready while you enjoy your coffee?"
"I'm not incompetent."
"I know," she said. "Actually, you're the opposite. You're holding up a lot better than I would be in your shoes."
"I doubt that."
Surprising me, she reached out to touch my cheek, something I could never remember her doing before. "I haven't had to talk you down from a water tower, have I?"
Thanks to the coffee and Marge's early morning help, I felt a bit better than I had the day before when I drove London to school. She chattered away in the backseat about her dream something about a frog that kept changing colors every time it hopped and her innocent cheer was exactly what I needed.
Back at home, I forced myself to put on my running gear. I hadn't run since Vivian's announcement the first days I'd missed since I'd started back up and I hoped that the physical exertion would leave me feeling more like myself. On the run I was fine despite adding a couple extra miles, but by the time I'd finished my shower, I found myself thinking about Vivian again. The fury I'd felt earlier had diminished, replaced by an overwhelming sadness.
It was almost too much to bear, and knowing I couldn't face yet another day like the two I'd just weathered, I had to do something. Anything. My desire to work was zero, but I forced myself to go to my den. As soon as I took a seat at the desk and saw a photo of Vivian, I knew that staying at home wasn't going to work. There were too many reminders here; too many reasons for the emotional train to start steaming again.
It was time, I thought, to visit my office.
Packing up my computer, I went to the office I'd rented. The shared receptionist was startled to see me, but reported as usual that I had no messages. For the first time, I honestly didn't care.
I unlocked my office. Nothing had changed since I'd last been here it had been weeks and there was a thin sheen of dust on my desk. I set my computer on it anyway and opened my email.
Dozens of messages, most of them receipts for automatic bills or spam. I deleted as much as I could and filed the bills in the appropriate folders, until I was left with the emails containing links to the footage for the commercials. With the presentation for the plastic surgeon already complete, it was Taglieri's turn. I reviewed the notes I'd taken the weekend before; of the six takes we'd made in front of the courthouse, three were definite no-gos. Of the three that were workable, I eventually whittled that down to two. Of those, I thought he was better in the beginning in the second take, and better at the end in the first take. With a little editing I had basic software on my computer I'd be able to put those two sections together. There's nothing quite like movie magic.
Even better, I liked him in the footage we'd shot, and I was sure that others would as well. He came across exactly the way I hoped honest, competent, and likable but more than that, he looked good on camera. Maybe it was the natural lighting, but it was a vast improvement over his previous commercials.
The footage for the second commercial was much more complicated. There were a lot of different scenes shot from varying angles and a particularly gorgeous scene of a meadow with grazing horses along with many different people, and that multiplied the way the commercial could eventually play out. Knowing it would take more time and energy than I'd be able to summon, I decided to simply work on the first commercial.
The software I used wasn't commercial grade, but that was okay; I'd already spoken to the best freelance editor in town, and slowly but surely I got to work. At lunch, I had to force myself to finish a bowl of soup I'd picked up from the deli, then went back to editing until it was time to pick up London from school.
It had not been an easy day. Whenever my concentration waned even for a second the emotional turbulence, and questions, would return. I'd get up from my desk and pace; other times, I would stand near the window, feeling as my chest grew tight and hands began to shake in what seemed to be an airless office. I would feel deeply feel my own loss in a way that made me believe there was no reason to go on.
But inevitably, because distraction was my only hope of salvation, I would return to the desk and try to lose myself in the service of Taglieri.
"What you're experiencing is normal," Liz assured me on the back patio later that night, after I told her what I was going through. She and Marge had shown up at my house yet again after work. Marge had brought Play-Doh and was sitting on the floor with London while they sculpted various items.
"You've suffered a profound shock. Anyone would be upset."
"I'm worse than upset," I admitted. "I can barely function."
While Liz and I had talked hundreds of times, it was the first time I ever felt that I needed to talk to her. The day had left me spent. I wanted nothing more than to run away or find a dark, quiet place to hide, but with London, I couldn't do that. Nor did I think it would help; after all, I would carry my thoughts with me wherever I went.
"But you told me you went to work," she said. "You got London to and from school and piano. And she's eaten."
"I picked up fast food on the way home."
"That's okay. You've got to learn to be gentle with yourself. You're handling this about as well as anyone could. Especially the way you're dealing with the emotions."
"Did you not hear anything I told you?"
"Of course I did. And I know it feels unbearable, but believe it or not, the fact that you're letting yourself feel the emotions instead of suppressing them is a good thing. There's an old saying that goes like this: The only way out is through. Do you understand what that I mean by that?"
"Not really. But then again, my brain doesn't seem to be working all that well. The next time I look at the commercial I edited together, I'll be depressed at what a terrible job I did."
"If it's that bad, you'll fix it, right?"
I nodded. I had to fix it. Because Vivian had opened her own bank account, it was up to me to cover all the bills, including, I assumed, the mortgage.
"Good. And that will be another step forward. And as to what I meant earlier too many people think that suppressing emotions or avoiding them is healthy. And sometimes it can be, especially after the passage of time. But in the immediate aftermath of a traumatizing event, it's often better to simply allow the feelings to surface and to experience them fully, while reminding yourself that the feeling will pass. Remind yourself that you're not your emotions."
"I don't even know what that means."
"You're sad now, but you're not a sad person and you won't always be sad. You're angry now, but you're not an angry person, and you won't always be angry."
I thought about what she'd said before shaking my head. "I just want to stop the emotions from being so intense. How do I do that?"
"Keep doing what you're doing. Exercise, work, take care of London. In the end, it's just going to take time."
"How much time?"
"It's different for everyone. But every day, you'll feel a little less vulnerable, a little stronger or resolute. If you thought about Vivian every five minutes today, maybe next week, you'll think about her once every ten minutes."
"I wish I could snap my fingers and be done with it."
"You and everyone else who experiences something like this."
Later that night, after London had FaceTimed with her mom and had gone to bed, I continued to sit with Marge and Liz. For the most part, Marge was content to listen.
"In your experience," I asked, "do you think she'll come back?"
"I've seen both situations, honestly," Liz answered. "Sometimes, what someone thinks is love is just infatuation and after the shine wears off, they decide they've made a mistake. Other times, it is love and it lasts. And still other times, even if it is infatuation, the person comes to the conclusion that the love they felt for the first person is no longer there."
"What should I do? She won't even talk to me."
"I don't know that there's anything you can do. As much as you might want to, you can't control another person."
I wanted a drink, I wanted to forget and simply not care, if only for a little while, but even though there was beer in the refrigerator, I held off because I feared that once I started drinking, I wouldn't stop until the fridge was empty.
"I don't want to control her. I just want her to want to come back."
"I know you do," Liz said. "It's clear that you still love her."
"Do you think she still loves me?"
"Yes," Liz said. "But right now, it's not the same kind of love."
I turned toward Marge. "What happens if she wants London to move to Atlanta with her?"
"You fight it. Hire a lawyer and make a case that she should stay with you."
"What if London wants to go?" I felt the pressure of tears beginning to form. "What if she would rather be with her mom?"
At this, Marge and Liz were silent.
Friday, I took London to and from school and dance, but otherwise buried myself in work like the day before. I was barely surviving. I remembered that fourteen years earlier, on a horrible day I would never forget, the Twin Towers collapsed.
Then came the weekend. Liz's suggestions had become a mantra: work out, work, take care of London and though I wouldn't be heading into the office, I nonetheless wanted to follow her advice.
I woke early and ran seven miles, my longest run in years. I forced myself to eat breakfast and then fed London. While she relaxed, I finished my edits on the first commercial and started working on the second one. I brought London to art class, continued to edit while she was there, and learned that London had made a vase. She carried it to the car gingerly, careful not to bang it on anything.
"We have to bring this back next week so that I can paint it," London told me. "I want to paint yellow flowers on it. And maybe some pink mouses."
"Mouses?"
"Or a hamster. But hamsters are harder to paint."
I had no idea why that would be, but what do I know?
"Okay. Flowers and mouses," I said.
"Pink mouses."
"Even better," I agreed. "Are you ready to head to Nana's?"
I helped her into the car, knowing that it was time to tell my parents that Vivian had left me. Because Marge wanted to stay with me while I shared the news, Liz took it upon herself to take a walk with London. I called my father in from the garage, and he took a seat next to my mom.
I spilled it all in a single rush of words. When I finished, it was my dad who responded first. "She can't leave." He frowned. "She's got a kid."
"I should call her," my mom interjected. "She's probably going through a phase."
"It's not a phase. She told me she was in love with him. She's got her own place now."
"When is she coming back?" my mom asked. "If she comes next weekend, your dad and I will be out of town. We're going to visit your uncle Joe in Winston-Salem. It's his birthday."