“God, you’ve got to help me. Please help me. Please.”
I scarcely know what I’m saying, but I find myself babbling as if I’ve developed a sudden case of Tourette’s. I shiver behind the wheel, wondering how the drivers around me can be so blasé when my world has exploded. The skies ought to be weeping, traffic should be creeping along like a funeral procession …
I pull up to a stoplight and brake as the light turns red. In some dim recess of my mind, among neurons not occupied with pondering the demise of my family, my primary choir begins to sing:
When we don’t know what to pray—the Spirit prays for us, come what may.
If you groan—He’ll pray! If you moan—any day!
He knows you better than you know yourself.
I didn’t cry when talking to Michael, but the sweet memory of those childish voices draws tears that spurt down my cheeks. A few months ago I wasn’t sure the song was appropriate for fourth and fifth graders, but the catchy tune quickly became one of their favorites.
Now, apparently, the song is going to haunt me.
With that melody playing in my head, my hands and feet manage to guide the car back to Grandmother’s cottage. I park my vehicle, pick up the bag of fast food, and open the car door. My feet move toward the house while my brain marvels that I can still place one foot in front of the other. I can almost believe that a benign force has entered my body, allowing me to carry on while my heart huddles in a heap, shivering beneath a fatal blow.
Rose rises from the porch swing, her arthritic dog in her arms, and meets me at the top of the stairs. Because I don’t want her to see my watery eyes, I lower my head and trudge to the front door.
“We were beginning to worry,” she says. “Penny thought you might be lost.”
“Not lost. I had to … stop and make a couple of phone calls.”
“No big deal.” She opens the screen door and holds it for me. “It’s not like either of us is starving. Except Penny, of course.”
I lead the way into the house. We’re greeted by Penny, who has covered the kitchen table with gadgets of all sorts: flatware, utensils, pens, papers, and other gewgaws from Grandmother’s drawers.
“I was about to call the police,” Penny says, then her smile pulls into a puzzled expression. She looks intently at Rose. “Did something happen out there?”
Why is she looking at Rose? I turn to stare at our younger sister and am amazed to see tracks of tears on her cheeks. For an instant I’m convinced she’s become aware of my emotional crisis through some sort of sisterly empathy.
“Rosie.” Penny steps toward her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Rose swipes at her cheeks and summons up a wavering smile. “I went for a walk and got a little nostalgic, that’s all. This place … has always meant a lot to me. It’s like I can almost hear Grandma’s voice as we’re working.”
I’m hearing Grandmother’s voice, too, but I no longer have the energy for nostalgia. I toss the McDonald’s bag onto the crowded table. Silly of me to think Rose is intuitive enough to pick up on my tortured state. Neither she nor Penny has ever tried to understand or even know me outside my role as the oldest sister. They think of Michael as “Mr. Perfect,” and of Michael and me as a slightly dull, completely married couple.
I still think of myself that way. So how am I supposed to adjust to this new reality?
If I were home, I’d lock myself in the house and wear my pajamas for seventy-two hours, eating and crying until I had cleaned out the refrigerator and used up several boxes of tissues. I wouldn’t tell anyone about Michael’s affair until I learned how to tell the story without breaks in my voice.
But here I don’t have that luxury. I can’t even go to pieces in private, because this cottage is small and the walls are thin. I’d rather not say anything to my sisters, but I have to share this burden with someone. Who better than Rose and Penny? They’ve been through similar situations, and neither of them lives in Savannah. They’re not likely to share my secrets with my neighbors.
Once Penny and Rose have claimed their food, I brace myself on the back of a dining room chair.
“By the way”—my voice tightens—“I learned something while I was out. Something truly … terrible.”
Rosemary looks at me, her brow arched. “Did you have a fender bender or something?”
I lower myself into the chair and cover my face as fresh tears fill my eyes. Behind my protecting fingers, I wrestle with the idea of keeping silent. I don’t want to talk about this, not now, not ever. I don’t want to cry in front of my sisters.
Yet I feel positively saturated with disaster; I have to release these feelings or I’ll burst. Maybe putting Michael’s betrayal into words will force me to face the truths I’ve been struggling to accept for the past hour.
“It’s worse than a fender bender; just look at her.” Penny slides into the chair across from me. “Talk to us, Gingerbread. What happened?”
Slowly, I lower my hands. Not knowing where to rest my gaze, I focus on a rusty potato peeler. “Ross called while I was getting dinner. He needed a signature on some kind of form, so I told him he’d need to talk to Michael. When I tried to track him down, Marlo—she’s a friend—gave me a number to call.”
Rose squints as she sits next to me. “Is Michael all right?”
“He wasn’t in Atlanta where he said he’d be. He’s in Savannah … with another woman.”
“You mean”—Penny leans toward me—“with another woman? Like an affair?”
A whooshing noise fills my head, and I feel as if all the air is being sucked out of the room. I cling to the edge of the table, Rose’s hand comes up to cover her mouth, and Penny’s right eye narrows in a sudden spasm.
Penny is the first to recover. “Wait a minute. Surely the situation isn’t as bad as you thought. I’ll bet Michael has an explanation.”
“I didn’t want to think anything at first. Then I realized why Marlo gave me the number. It’s Saturday. So she wasn’t acting as Michael’s secretary, she acted as my friend. She wanted me to know that he’s been unfaithful.”
“That’s impossible. Michael’s not a louse.”
“I spoke to Michael, and he didn’t deny it. He didn’t explain it away, either.”
Penny shakes her head. “I would never have imagined this. Not of Mr. Perfect.”
“I still don’t believe it.” Rose reaches for my hands and holds them in a tight grip. “There has to be a logical explanation. Maybe Michael couldn’t talk without ticking the woman off. Maybe she’s crazy and she’s been stalking him. Wait a while, then call him back. Listen to his side of the story.”
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“But he’s your husband.” Penny pats my arm. “You have to talk to him; y’all ought to talk. No matter what happened, you’re married, and married people are partners.”
I stare at my sister in disbelief. Penny has married five husbands and is apparently scouting for number six. None of her marriages has lasted more than a few years, so what does she know about healthy relationships?
“Excuse me”—a frosty note chills my voice—“but what gives you the right to talk like some kind of marriage expert?”
Penny throws up her hands and surrenders the field, but Rose draws closer and slips an arm around my shoulder, whispering the only words I want to hear: “I’m so sorry.”
I’m sorry too. Sorry I ever put this weekend together, and sorry I ever thought I could trust Michael long enough to let him out of my sight. For twenty-seven years I have believed that loyalty and stability were part of Michael’s personality, that he’d be the last husband on earth to cheat in marriage. He doesn’t like conflict, he avoids messy confrontations, and he is downright dense when it comes to picking up emotional cues.
So how in the world did another woman manage to attract him?
I bury my face in my hands again. I had thought this weekend would be a good thing, and I’d hoped the money from the sale of this house would take the strain off our marriage. I’d thought I could solve our problems by making life easier for him.
But at this particular moment, I’m sorry I ever met my husband.