Chapter 14

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Colleen

The fire seems to inspire some fatherly instinct in Eric, because all of a sudden, he’s going out of his way to be helpful. He invites Maddie, Ethan, and me to pile into the condo, so we do, and it becomes a refuge of sorts. Maddie sleeps in the extra bedroom that was her nursery when she was a baby; Ethan sleeps on a cot in Eric’s room. I am on the couch. There is one bathroom for all four of us. Conditions are tight. Emotions are fragile.

Eric somehow feels the need to stay close to us and drives us to Marshall’s to shop for new clothes. And the three of us need everything: shoes, socks, underwear, school clothes, exercise clothes, warm layers, winter coats, and many other basics. We needed to roam and gather; Eric needed to buy groceries.

“What should I get?” he asked. I was so drained, I could not begin to put together a grocery list or to even answer such a ridiculous question.

“You know what we eat,” I said. “Just get that.”

Only, apparently Eric doesn’t know what we eat, because he bought loads of exactly the things we do not eat. Cheetos. Coca-Cola. Frozen chocolate cake. Tater tots. Taquitos. Pizza rolls. Pop-Tarts. Frozen burritos. Presweetened oatmeal in packets and presugared yogurt in cups.

I get it, it’s comfort food. I get it, he actually is trying to be a good dad, to take care of his kids. The kids eat junk every time they’re out of my sight, so I try to keep the food at home at least somewhat nutritious. And his selections were not quite up to par.

As he unloaded the bags of groceries, I thought my eyes would pop out. I felt my lips curl into a sneer. But I took a deep, cleansing breath and tried very hard to look in the other direction.

Then it is Tuesday morning, our third morning crammed in here. I wake up on the couch feeling like I never quite went to sleep, my throat raw with exhaustion, my jaw tender from stress. My current pajamas are purple sweatpants and a long, sloppy T-shirt. I go to the little kitchen to make coffee, which Eric and I drink in flimsy mugs that we bought a few years ago for the renters. When the kids wake up, I feel another wave of confusion; I do not recognize their night clothes. Ethan in a T-shirt I’ve never seen before and blue pajama bottoms that look like surgical scrubs; Maddie wears a women’s pajama set intended as a Valentine’s gift for some lucky gal (and thus was on sale the day after)—a pink background covered with illustrated Hershey’s kisses and long-stemmed roses.

They both look like burgeoning adults, and I am not prepared to see this.

The two yawn and bump into each other and us as they prepare bowls of cereal. Then Eric reaches into a high cupboard and pulls down a box of breakfast flakes.

“Here you go, buddy,” he says to Ethan.

Chocolate Frosted Flakes.

“Yeah, thanks!” Ethan exclaims.

“Eric,” I say, because now I can’t keep myself from snapping. “What’s the story with all this junk food?”

“It’s not a big deal, Colleen,” Eric says.

I watch in horror as my son pours milk over the flakes and they emit some kind of faux-cocoaesque substance that turns the milk mud-brown. My son grins as he readies his spoon for plunging. There are a hundred things wrong with this picture.

“That’s like having a bowl of ice cream for breakfast,” I declare, incredulous.

“Mom,” Maddie says. “It’s okay, it’s not going to kill us.”

“Not even close,” Ethan says.

And now I’m fuming because (a) I cannot just take that bowl away from him even though I want to, (b) I cannot pour the box of cereal in the trash, and (c) now my kids are talking back to me and questioning my standards. Not okay.

“Eric,” I say. “Can I see you in the bedroom for a moment?”

He nods and follows me in, then closes the door behind us. “Colleen, I know you don’t like the cereal, but—”

I stand before him, just under his chin. “You don’t get to do this,” I say, pointing my finger in rage. “You don’t get to swoop in here and pretend you’re rescuing everybody and ply my children with what is basically food-safe poison.”

“They’re treats, Colleen,” he says sternly. “The kids have been through a lot. They eat healthy all the time, they can take a break.”

“I know they’ve been through a lot, Eric,” I say, lowering my voice so the kids don’t hear me. “I have too. And it’s not fair you get to be the big savior and feed the kids garbage food. Now they’re questioning the way I feed them.”

“You are taking this too seriously,” he says. “It’s only Frosted Flakes.”

“Stop trying to help,” I say. “I work hard to curb their junk food habits. You are undermining everything.”

Now Eric snaps. “Damn it, Colleen,” he hisses. “Yours is not the only way that’s right. Whether we’re separated, divorced, or married, we are both their parents. I am allowed a say in how my children eat. Stop acting like I’m trying to corrupt them. I am their father.”

“Yes, you are their father. So where were you when we needed you?” I ask. “Our house was on fire. We had to crawl down the stairs to keep from suffocating. I stood in my nightgown in the freezing cold while neighbors came out and watched the fire trucks.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” he says, sounding not all that sorry. “You know, one question I keep having is this: Why didn’t you wake up when the alarms went off? How come our daughter had to wake you up?”

I’m so mad I get dizzy. My voice gets low and quiet, like a growling grizzly. “I had a migraine. I took a Tylenol PM, and I went to bed. Because I was by myself on Valentine’s Day. Meanwhile, six weeks after you moved out, you were in your bachelor pad, entertaining, apparently.”

His nose is flaring; he’s angry now. “I told you I was sorry,” he says, glancing toward the door to make sure the kids weren’t coming through it. “But that’s not a card you get to play every time you’re mad at me.”

“You think this is a game for me?”

“What I think and have thought for a long time is that nothing is more important to you than the welfare of your children,” he says. “Not one. Single. Thing.”

This time, his words hit me like a punch in the gut. Am I being punished for being a good mom? For putting my children first? I thought that was the point.

I cross my arms and pull back. “Is that how it feels?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve always come second and third to them.”

I pause, unsure how to respond. “I only wanted to give my kids a good life.”

“I know,” he says. “And I know that’s because your mom wasn’t there to take care of you when you were growing up. But sometimes I felt like I didn’t matter at all. Not as a husband or as a dad. You took care of everything with the kids. Sometimes you didn’t even tell me when there was a problem. Like when Ethan broke his arm—”

“He fractured his wrist! And you were in Houston,” I exclaim, no longer able to keep my voice low. “All day meetings, you told me. Very big deal, you told me.”

“I had a phone,” he says. “I could have at least talked to him. I could have bought him a . . . teddy bear or something at the airport gift shop.”

“He wasn’t even in pain, except when he realized that he’d miss a few weeks of baseball. I thought I was doing you a favor by not calling you while you were halfway across the country, attending meetings that you told me would make or break your career,” I say. “So I took care of it. That’s what moms do.”

“I never needed you to protect me,” he says. “I needed you to include me.”

“That’s the thanks I get,” I say. And now I hear my voice; it’s nagging. I hate that word, nag, what it means and the way it sounds; everything about it is ugly. “Eric, this isn’t working,” I say, my voice audibly on the verge of tears.

“Yeah,” he says. He is quiet for a moment, and he rubs his forehead as he thinks. “I’ll find somewhere else to live until the insurance money comes through. The three of you can stay here.”

“No,” I say. “I’m the one who should go. It’s too much for me, being here now. Some of my favorite memories happened in this condo. Plus, now it’s your place.”

“You sure?” he asks.

I nod. “Peggy offered to let me stay at her beach shack. I’m going to take her up on it. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

Eric’s face crumples. “I don’t want our lives to be like this,” he says. “I never meant . . . for it to be like this.”

I sigh and rub my eyes. “The only thing that matters now is taking care of Ethan and Maddie,” I say. “I’ll just be ten minutes away, and I can still bring them home after school and stop by a couple of times a week and cook dinner. I don’t want them feeling like their mother abandoned them.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk to them about it tonight.”

“Sure,” I say.

I walk out of the room gripping my elbows, feeling somehow like I have done something very wrong.

Later in the morning, I meet Alex at a coffee shop in Newburyport. I told Alex and Dad about the fire on the day it happened, but that was the only thing I told them. My sister looks shocked when she sees me. I haven’t been to the drug store yet to buy cheap cosmetics or even a hair dryer.

“Colleen,” she says with alarmed concern.

“I know,” I say. “Let’s take a walk.”

We get coffee and head down the street and cross to the boardwalk along the river. In summer, this area can be teeming with children, walkers, tourists, but now it is empty.

“You look exhausted,” she says.

I gaze out at the sloshing gray waters of the Merrimack River, a few boats across the way, all wrapped in plastic for winter.

“I am,” I say, and I stop, stalling. “It’s not just the fire, Alex. That morning, when I called Eric about the house . . . when I finally reached him that morning.” I chuckle because it’s all I can do. “Anyway, my husband has a girlfriend.”

“What?”

I take a drink of coffee. “I guess I don’t know if she’s a girlfriend or a—what do they say now? A hookup? I haven’t asked him to clarify. He says he wasn’t having an affair. I think it’s more pathetic than that. He didn’t want to be with me anymore, but he couldn’t stand being alone.”

“Ugh, men,” Alex says. “Colleen, I’m sorry.”

“So, I guess my marriage is over. You probably already knew that, but I . . . had hope. Oh, and there’s more,” I say, smiling now, because this is absurd. I tell her about how our insurance lapsed.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

I shrug. “First of all, it means our house burned down, and the insurance company doesn’t need to pay us a nickel. Second of all, it means . . . I don’t know, the first of all pretty much covers it.”

“How are Maddie and Ethan doing?”

“They’re . . . amazing. It’s winter vacation, and they’re supposed to be relaxing and enjoying themselves,” I say. “At least they don’t have schoolwork. And Eric is cheering them up by letting them gorge on MSG and corn syrup. Now they’re festering at the condo. They just don’t have much to do until Thursday when Eric is taking them skiing.”

“Wait, are you staying at the condo too?” she says. “Where are you sleeping?”

“On the couch,” I say. But then the tears start again, angry and exhausted. I turn away from her and pull a tissue from my pocket. “Why is this all happening at the same time? I lose my house and my marriage on the same day? Why?”

“Colleen, I’m so sorry. He’s obviously even more of a louse than I thought he was.”

The wind comes up behind me and blows my hair into my face. “Oh, Alex. We can’t call Eric names. He’s the father of my children, and that’s never going to change.” I blow my nose. “Plus, I think he is trying to help. I just . . . I’m at my wits’ end.”

“Do you want to stay with me?” she says. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Thanks, but no,” I say, turning my head to push my hair down. “My friend Peggy is letting me stay at her place on Plum Island. It’s small, but it’s right on the beach, not that that does me any good this time of year.”

“Plum Island?” Alex says. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

I look out toward the Merrimack River. Beyond where we stand, in the distance, a little strip of houses seems to almost float upon the surface of the water. That is Plum Island. The other side of the island faces ocean. “I’ll be fine,” I say.

I know what worries Alex. Plum Island was one of our mother’s favorite places. She loved kicking off her sneakers and feeling the sand between her toes and the frothy ocean water under her feet, no matter how cold it was. She loved it in the winter, when almost nobody else was there and the fog came in thick and you could not tell the difference between sky and water. And though we knew that to the north we were looking at the city of Portsmouth and the Isles of Shoals, and to the south, the town of Ipswich and Cape Ann, in the mist those places appeared like distant, mysterious shores yet to be discovered.

“It’s got to be awfully quiet this time of year,” she says. “Don’t you need more, I don’t know, action? Things going on?”

“It’s close to Newburyport,” I say. “And I think I’ll like the quiet. Heck, maybe I’ll take up painting.”

“Like Mom?” Alex says.

“No, not like Mom,” I say. “Like me. Like I have always wanted to do, except I never had time because I’m always organizing everybody’s lives. Anyway, I’m not worried. It’s only temporary.”

“If you say so,” Alex says.

That afternoon Peggy drops off the key to the place before she brings her kids to North Conway for the week. At dinner, Eric and I tell the kids that I’m moving out for a bit. I reassure them that I will still pick them up from school and bring them to their activities. I will also be taking over as Grocery Shopper in Chief. They know what that means. Vegetables.

The next afternoon I am ready to go. I drive down Plum Island Turnpike, a straight, smooth road that leads away from the city and into an expanse of marsh that is wide, flat, and jagged with frozen mud. By the edge of the road there are a few houses, a few trees. I pass the little airfield where they host model airplane competitions on Father’s Day. Just like always, there are two or three cheerful biplanes parked there. Then, on the right, I pass Bob Lobster, our favorite fish shack. Our family has spent many warm days sitting on wooden picnic tables, scarfing down lobster rolls, fries, and chowder. Now the sign says they’re “Closed for the Season” and all is quiet.

After that, on the other side, the beloved and iconic Pink House stands alone, overlooking the marsh. You’re not supposed to, because the house is now the property of the US Fish and Wildlife Service, but I pull over by the side of the road. The old foursquare is not as pink as it once was; nobody’s lived here in years, and the paint is flaking off. But it still holds its glass cupola high, watching the wide and empty horizon around it. There’s something haunting about this house, so solitary, so remote. My mother used to admire it. She thought it very brave of the house to endure out here all alone. The house isn’t very big nor fancy, and there’s no neighborhood, nor even a proper sidewalk for people to reach it easily. And yet, here it stands and here it remains, proud and beautiful after all these years, the silent matron of the marsh. A red-tailed hawk swoops in from the river and lands on the chimney; I don’t know whether I should feel like I’m home or homeless. Frankly, I feel both.

I continue driving over the bridge, then I turn right to navigate through the narrow streets and to Peggy’s cottage. It is the last house on the island before the wildlife refuge begins, which means there are no neighbors to the south. When I arrive, the cold wind off the ocean gusts so hard, it slices through my clothes. I burst through the door with bags of groceries and bags of clothes, the ones purchased yesterday at Marshall’s, tags still on.

The cottage is right on the beach; glass doors open up to sand, but in this freezing winter, that fact only serves as a cruel joke. The place is simple, one open space, surrounded in basic wood paneling, basic kitchen appliances, an old bathroom with a shower. Peggy and her ex once planned to do a major renovation, a la Joanna and Chip Gaines, but they didn’t make much progress before their marriage fell apart. Peggy got the house in the settlement, but she didn’t have the income to implement the HGTV overhaul she’d daydreamed of, so here we stand.

I walk around and touch things, a shelf, a chair, a basket filled with seashells. I sit on the bed and take a used novel from the bookshelf. I don’t notice which book it is, and I can only thumb through the pages mindlessly before I am exhausted by the idea of reading it.

The silence is already too loud here. It gives me too much space for thinking, and I use it to blame myself for everything that’s ever gone wrong. Eric is right, I should have included him more. I shouldn’t have been so controlling. I could have been a better wife. I should have talked to him more. I am not a complainer; I never complained, but what’s the difference between that and telling someone how I feel? I just don’t know.

How do I feel? Now, I feel lost, displaced, exiled, even though I’m the one who volunteered to come out here. What did I feel before now? What did I feel before Eric told me he was leaving? I’m not sure I know.

Pride, that was one thing I used to feel. Proud of our home and our family and our lifestyle. We lived in a beautiful home; I was married to a handsome lawyer. But the house was never ours; it was just a tease of fate, something God dangled in front of me to make me feel safe for a little while. We were the Newcombs, the neighborhood’s golden family. I played the game and I played to win, but I failed. Turns out, Alex is the smart one—too smart to get trapped in this life of building beautiful things to protect yourself from the fact that life is temporary, and then ending up running ragged to keep the illusion going. In the end, everything goes up in smoke. In case you forgot for a moment, nothing ever lasts.