Saturday, December 29
I wake up too early again. And I want to…I want to talk to Matt. Not fuck. Talk.
Time zones work in my favour.
And I tell him. I tell him about Marie, her faux affairs, her latest attempt at one and my role in it, her disclosure, her husband’s reaction and her own. Her attempt to pull me into it; last night’s conversation with Alex. I tell him about my parents. Alex’s dad. Jeanette. And, for good measure, about Nicola, the skank and the rat-fuck bastard. The Greek chorus of self-righteous cheater-hating wives. About my stupid conversations about Nicola with Jesse.
Everything. Too much. When I’m done, I stop typing.
And I stop. And think really hard about this, which is hard, because for the last 27 days I have felt much, but have worked hard to think – about us, about guilt, about consequences – as little as possible.
Finally:
The box from Vancouver arrives while Alex is in the shower. ‘Saturday delivery?’ I say, to say something. ‘Yup,’ the courier says eloquently. It’s big. I know, without opening it, it will contain boots. Thoroughly inappropriate-to-wear-in-public slut boots. And smile. Put the box, unopened, in my closet. Decide to think of what’s inside as a New Year’s Eve present for Alex.
When I tell Alex we’re having brunch with Jeanette, he looks, for a moment, like he wants to shove something down my throat. But then he nods. ‘She is a good grandmother,’ he says. And looks at me. ‘And you,’ he says. ‘They never tell you. I never tell you. But I know that if it weren’t for you, I’d never see them. Any of them. Possibly not even my mom.’
‘You’d see your mom,’ I say. ‘You’re not an asshat. We’ll be brief, eat and run. We’ve got to go get your mom from the airport anyway – we can’t stay long.’
Neither one of us says it, but we both think it – and we never have to see Claire again. Sometimes, there is a silver lining.
Jeanette is dancing on air, the definition of fey. I attribute it to Alex’s presence – and his endurance of her hug. She kisses all the children.
‘Where’s…um…’ What was his name? ‘…Christian?’ I ask when Alex steps out of earshot.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘He’s…he’s gone.’ And pirouettes – I swear, she pirouettes – into the kitchen.
The table is resplendent. So says Cassandra. ‘Resplendent,’ Annie echoes.
‘Wow, Jeanette, you’ve really gone all-out,’ I say. ‘This is beautiful.’
‘Nice tablecloth,’ Alex says. Then adds, ‘It looks familiar.’
We sit. And that’s when Jeanette drops the bomb.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ she says. ‘Kids? Look who’s here!’
And as Alex says, ‘If it’s “Uncle” Christian, I’m getting the fuck out of here now,’ his father walks into the room.
I disassociate, as a defence mechanism. The kids whoop and run to Grandpa – Grandpa live is a treat and much more appealing than Grandpa on the computer screen. They hug him, even Henry. Kiss him. There is cooing, and shouting, and over it all, Jeanette’s voice: ‘What a Christmas surprise, hey, my darlings? What a Christmas surprise!’
Alex is sitting very, very still. I’m so aware of his stillness, it hurts. His chest isn’t even moving. I’m afraid to look at him.
And then, in one smooth motion – he brings out his phone. Types. My phone beeps.
And he’s gone.
The children are still covering Grandpa, and Jeanette is still pirouetting. But she sees her stepson’s exit, and I see tears swirl in her eyes and I see her look at her ex-husband. Ex-ex-husband? And then at me.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I say. ‘Give us a few minutes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. She steps away from the spectacle of her ex-husband and the kids and right up to me. ‘I’m so sorry. We thought…and I thought…’
‘Some things don’t really work as surprises,’ I say. ‘Look – start eating without us, OK? The kids are starving. I’ll be right back.’
‘Will you bring Alex back?’ Jeanette asks. Wistfully.
‘I don’t know.’
He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, very erect.
‘My love,’ I say, as I slide in beside him. ‘Oh, my love.’
‘Tell me you didn’t know,’ he says.
‘Not a fucking clue,’ I say. ‘You have to ask?’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ he says.
‘He’s your father,’ I say. ‘I think…I think you’re supposed to say, “Merry Christmas.”’
We’re silent. I put my hand on his knee. He rests his on mine. Throws his head back and closes his eyes.
‘So full of rage,’ he murmurs. ‘So fucking angry.’ He roughly takes my hand off him, pushes me away. ‘Don’t touch me. I don’t want to…I don’t want to act like I did the other day.’
I stay silent.
Then:
‘Do you need to?’ I ask.
‘Fuck. Yes.’
I slide across the seat towards him, and his hand snakes around my head and neck and pushes me down. I unzip his pants quickly. And for the first time in our twelve years together, parked in front of his stepmother’s driveway, Alex fucks my mouth. He thrusts, and he slams my head down on his cock. Tears fill my eyes and I gag.
It’s what Matt does and what makes me drip, but right now, it is absolutely, absolutely horrible. I fucking hate it. There is no room or desire for fantasy. There is no sliver of pleasure. I don’t even try to dissociate or fantasise. Tears streak out of my eyes.
I endure.
‘Jesus, Jane, I’m so sorry,’ he whispers into the back of my neck after he comes. ‘I’m so sorry. Fucking hell. What the fuck is wrong with me?’
‘Rage,’ I whisper back. ‘Rage.’
I don’t know who’s angry – the seven-year-old boy whose father left his mother, or the 33-year-old man whose father left his stepmother. And if it is the 40-year-old man sitting beside me who is this angry, is he angry because his father left his third wife – or came back to the second one?
I don’t know.
But I have to tell him.
‘Alex? Does it make it any easier…I don’t know if it makes it easier. But I do know – it was Claire who left. Claire, not him.’
Silence.
He doesn’t ask me how I know. He doesn’t tell me it helped. He doesn’t tell me it doesn’t matter.
We sit.
‘Do I have to go back in there?’ he asks finally.
‘He’s your father,’ I say. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I should. Do you want me to just collect the kids?’
In the end, we go back in together. Alex’s father looks up at us from his plate of eggs, bacon, waffles and mini-quiches – Jeanette truly did go all-out – and nods. Says nothing. Alex sits down. Says nothing.
‘Did you know Grandpa was coming, Dad?’ Eddie shouts. ‘Did you?’
‘No,’ Alex says. ‘Total surprise.’ He spears a bacon rasher. Jeanette looks away.
Jeanette will tell me the whole story, such as it is, soon enough. She’s still cooing and pirouetting. Despite Alex’s exit and palatable anger, she’s happiness incarnate. He’s back. And she doesn’t have to tell me what happened, not really. He’s never been alone. He made sure of Jeanette before he left Alex’s mom; he got Claire before he left Jeanette. And there he was. Alone. I wonder, did Claire leave him face-to-face? Did they have The Talk? Or did she do it through Skype? Or email?
Perhaps she was old-fashioned. A handwritten note, pinned to the ex-marital pillow.
And how long did he last by himself? A day? Two?
No fucking way he spent Christmas alone.
It briefly occurs to me that perhaps, if I had insisted we call him when we got the news, if I invited him for Christmas, this would not have happened. At least not this quickly, and today would not have happened. But would that have been a good thing or a bad thing?
I don’t know. I know nothing.
Jeanette’s keeping his coffee cup topped up and his plate loaded. And chattering to Cassandra and Eddie. Throwing me looks. Studiously not looking at Alex.
Alex’s father is eating.
I violate all rules of etiquette and pull out my telephone. Start texting. To my dad, ‘I love you. So very much.’ To my mom, ‘I love you. How are you holding up?’ To Alex, ‘Five minutes?’
He texts me back.
We leave without father and son exchanging a word or making eye contact. Jeanette does not attempt to hug Alex goodbye. I don’t evade her arms when they reach for me, but I struggle to reciprocate. The children, fortunately, are oblivious.
I drive to the airport.
Realise either Alex or I will have to tell his mother her ex-husband is back with the second wife. Before the kids do.
Fuck.
‘I need to go to the gym tomorrow,’ I tell Alex as I drop him off at the arrivals doors. ‘Possibly for hours.’
He nods. ‘I need to drink to excess today,’ he says. ‘Definitely for hours.’
I nod.
‘How do Clint and Lacey do it?’ I ask. ‘In and out, in and out, drama and comedy and tragedy, and always, reunion? And she, always laughing, always trusting?’
Alex thinks for a minute. ‘I don’t know,’ he says finally. ‘Maybe she really is psychic and knows how it’s all supposed to turn out. And maybe he trusts her. Completely.’
The drive home is full of Nana talking about Houston Christmas. None of the children mentions seeing Grandpa. And when we get to Okotoks, Alex fails to drink himself into a stupor in front of his mother, perhaps because she, again, seems quite unfazed by the news. Left this wife, back to that one. Does it matter? No longer hers, not with her. Perhaps it is irrelevant, really. It has been more than 30 years. Or, perhaps, she is a devoted mother putting on a good show for her son. The dinner is awkward, but not painful. Jeanette calls me. Six times. I let it go to voicemail.
After we put the kids to bed, I wrap my arms around Alex and hold him tight. He rests his head against my breasts.
‘I really like your dad, you know,’ he says suddenly.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, again. What’s he apologising for? His father’s behaviour? His genetics? The awful mouth-fucking in the car?
It doesn’t matter. What he needs to hear:
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I love you.’
He’s still awake, head on my chest, when I fall asleep.