He Said He Would Be Late

CHAPTER 1

Our kitchen, like everything else in our house, is white. White Shaker cabinets, quartz countertops, ceramic backsplash, stainless-steel appliances.

They look striking against the dark wood floors, my husband said when we toured the house a few years ago.

It still doesn’t seem like my home, though I search for the feeling like a child who’s lost her toy.

Is it here? I wonder, as I roll out dough for cinnamon buns on the white marble island, my daughter blessedly asleep in her crib.

What about there? I think, planting zinnias in the flower beds beside our stone walkway in a late-afternoon glow that turns my bare shoulders pink.

Sometimes, I catch a glimmer of it when it’s just before dawn and I’m alone in our backyard, holding a steaming cup of coffee, listening to the chirping chorus in the cedar and maple trees, but it usually fizzles out by the time I’ve padded back indoors. One day, it will stick. I’m sure of it.

Affection, like familiarity, requires time.

I hear the screech of the shower’s faucet being turned off, the bathroom fan turned on. Arno getting ready for another day at the office. There’s the familiar buzz of his electric shaver, keeping his facial hair at its most desirable length, between one and three millimeters.

He needs to catch the train today, and the next one leaves at 6:45 a.m., so I work quickly to prepare his lunch, moving between the refrigerator and the island like a ballerina: chin up, back straight as a ruler. I compose a taco bowl of ground beef and lettuce, whole-grain rice, black beans, charred corn, and salsa, everything prepped last night after the baby was put down to sleep.

I scoop the salsa, the cheese, and a dollop of sour cream into separate small Tupperware containers so that they won’t make the rest of the meal wet. A presliced wedge of lime goes on top. It looks like it could have come from Rosita, Arno’s favorite local Mexican restaurant, and I smile with a tinge of satisfaction before carefully placing all the clear containers into his portable cooler.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the window of the microwave: thirty-three years old and I’ve already got dark purplish circles beneath my eyes, wan skin, a faint line creasing my forehead even while at ease.

Am I still beautiful?

I half smile, tuck an errant blond hair behind my ear. It feels drier with each passing year, more strawlike. Frizzy. Who cares? It’s just protein, I remind myself. Vanity is for boring people.

I imagine the confident woman Arno met half a decade ago.

Morning, sweetie, Arno says, breaking my reverie.

Morning, I reply, leaning in to meet his kiss, a quick peck on the forehead that leaves a slight damp spot between my temples.

You look nice, I offer, because he does.

Arno turns back and forth in fake modesty, admiring the pale blue oxford shirt I got him for Christmas. It matches his Paul Newman eyes perfectly.

Wow, I guess I do, he says, grinning. I must have really good taste.

I wrap my arms around him and hold him close, enjoying the pressure of his taut stomach and strong arms against my body. He squeezes me back, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck like a kitten, and I fight the urge to squeal, it tickles so much.

So tonight will be another late one, huh? I murmur, trying to sound as though it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.

Arno sighs, turning away from me to fill his thermos from the Chemex. The nutty smell of coffee envelopes us, and the conversation pauses as we enjoy the scent of a chocolatey Guatemalan roast.

Yeah, unfortunately, Arno says in a tone that mocks defeat, to give off the impression that he doesn’t love every aspect of his job, including the late nights.

We have an IPO bake-off Thursday, and I need to review the pitch.

I pretend I care what this means, nodding with a semblance of concern.

Okay, I understand.

I busy myself with a vase of tulips, which Arno bought for me three days ago. They’re starting to open their cupped heads, creamy yellow and smooth as butter. They don’t look quite real, I think, as I pour a cup of tap water into the vase, nourishing them.

I know you do, Arno says behind me. And that’s just one of the many reasons I love you.

I ignore his pale attempt at flattery and, to my surprise, Arno doesn’t press it.

I should say goodbye to Emma, Arno says, setting his thermos down. Then I’ll head out.

The soft slaps of his rubber soles on the hardwood floors—creeping, so as not to wake the baby. I am relieved he makes this effort.

Maybe I’ll go to the Arnold Arboretum today. Emma’s never been, and according to Alexa, the day will be dazzling: 70 degrees and mostly sunny. Warm for early May.

I imagine myself showering, blow-drying my hair till it’s smooth and straight, and putting on makeup, maybe even a pop of red lipstick. Perhaps I’ll wear that Reformation sundress I bought before I found out I was pregnant and never got the chance to wear. It’s off-the-shoulder and red, dotted with small white daisies with sky-blue pistils. I hope it fits, conforms to my new body, softer and more supple than I ever imagined it could be. I picture taking a selfie of me with Emma, her downy hair tickling my chin, and sending the image to Arno around lunchtime. He’d show his coworkers, and they’d coo over our angelic beauty.

You’re a lucky man, Arno, one of the bankers or senior analysts would say, groaning over their tragic singleness.

A sudden buzz fills the room, as if from a mechanical fly.

Arno’s phone skitters across the island, coming to a tedious halt at its edge.

I lunge, grabbing the device before it falls, and then compulsively look down at its screen.

Viv

If we don’t win this fucking beauty contest, Brian’s gonna send me up the river. Thx for helping me with the presentation last night, Arnie.

Two seconds later.

Viv

I drop the phone as if it contains nuclear waste, and it clatters to the floor, tumbling over itself till it comes to rest by our potted yucca plant. Thank god for that hideous OtterBox; I’ve poked fun at it for years by calling it just that.

Everything okay? Arno asks, emerging from the hallway, eyebrows raised. Don’t worry, she’s still asleep, he says, gesturing toward Emma’s half-open door.

Um, yeah. I point to his phone. It fell off the counter. You got a message.

My cheeks are burning, but Arno doesn’t seem to notice. He stoops to retrieve the phone and looks at the message. I stare at his face, wanting and not wanting to witness a betrayal of emotion.

Nothing.

He pockets the phone without responding to whoever Viv is and grabs his gym bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

Good thing I got this hideous OtterBox, huh? he says, his eyes meeting my own. My face relaxes, and I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw.

It’s still terribly uncool, I say, smiling. But yes, I’m glad you got it.

Arno picks up his coffee thermos, lunch bag, and leather briefcase and, laden down like a donkey in Greece, ambles over to my side of the island, offering up one last kiss, this time on my lips.

He smells like Arno—that is, slightly sweet, like a juicy fig, but also spicy. A bite of cinnamon. That Harry’s bodywash I ordered for him online because Dove makes him break out. I kiss him back, breathing in. Mine. I exhale, letting him go.

The tide recedes.

Mine.

Have a great day, he says, squeezing my arm.

He has no idea how impossible that will be.

CHAPTER 2

The baby is crying.

Wet, thick sobs that are reminiscent of a screeching cat, or a fire engine. How can something so small be so loud?

I pull my robe a little tighter, feeling bolstered by the squeeze of the belt encircling my rib cage. I’m okay. I’m fine.

We’re fine, my mind reprimands, so quick is my heart to think of me and me alone.

I wait a beat, wondering if she’ll be tricked into thinking she’s truly alone and soothe herself, but no, that’s silly. It’s 7:00 a.m. She’s been out for twelve hours and is starving.

I tiptoe into her bedroom, and Emma immediately quiets.

Ma-ma? she asks suspiciously.

Yes, it’s me, sweetheart, I say, sweeping her out of her crib and kissing the top of her soft, golden head. She looks like a small rabbit in her white cotton pajamas with tiny orange carrots stitched onto the edges, one of a hundred similar sets she’s received from Arno’s parents.

She’s wriggly today—all squirming legs and pinching hands—and I try to squelch the familiar panic that I’ve given birth to an alien that wants nothing from me but sustenance.

Okay, okay, Miss Squirmy, I scold her. Let’s sit down.

I sit in the balsam-green velvet lounge chair by Emma’s window, which looks out on our laughably idyllic Wellesley neighborhood. The majority of the homes surrounding us were built in a colonial style prior to 1940, so they lack the cookie-cutter suburban look Arno so detests.

It’s just so depressing, he’d said once, as we drove by a new housing development in Needham, to ruin a town with so much history with these sanitized boxes. What’s next, a Walmart next to Town Hall?

No, every family in Wellesley boasts a carefully crafted estate with plenty of surrounding greenery and privacy, not to mention a two-car garage, a minimum of two college degrees, and the knowledge that they live in one of the most expensive ZIP codes in Massachusetts.

The country, actually, Arno corrected me, faux sheepishly, the last time I mentioned this fact.

I settle myself deeper in the chair, savoring the luxurious tickle of velvet beneath my thighs, one of the main reasons I ordered this ridiculous piece for nearly two thousand dollars two years ago. One of the first purchases I made from joint checking with Arno. I’d felt dizzy with anxiety at the black, inky numbers on our bank statement, but he barely blinked when I showed him the receipt. I open my robe and wait for Emma to nuzzle her head against my chest, but I stop and tremble, remembering the sensation of her latching on to my breasts with her grabbing, purposeful lips.

Nursing never ceased to feel like some kind of robbery. I weaned her as quickly as I could, around eight months, but some days I didn’t have the energy to resist her pressing need. Nothing about breastfeeding made me feel closer to Emma, only resentful.

Still, I love her. More than anything, I suspect.

I just never realized how much my daughter could disorient me. Frighten me.

A small voice in my head laughs. Now, you know that’s not true! Just look at your relationship with your own mother. I shudder involuntarily again, and Emma looks up at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

It’s okay, I reassure her. I’m not my mother. I’m my own person.

She looks skeptical.

I trace circles around her small, sturdy back as she sucks warm milk from a plastic bottle and gaze out the window, trying to focus on anything other than the text I read on Arno’s phone just a half hour ago.

The view is of the usual suspects: Tracy Kaplan, my neurotic next-door neighbor who lives in the 1.75 million–dollar twelve-room Cape to our right, power walking through the neighborhood with hot-pink wrist weights affixed to her arms, jabbing and punching the air in a way that makes her look mentally deranged. And Chesley Preston, the sixty-five-year-old widower with jet-black hair and a fondness for pinching the asses of other men’s wives, hosing down his Mercedes-Benz so lethargically, he might as well be pissing on it. His home looms behind him, a comically large brick-front colonial with two acres of manicured gardens and an infinity pool that I’ve only swum in once. Because, well, the ass-pinching.

To my left, Doreen Edwards kneels in a flower bed, deadheading some Shasta daisies and bleeding hearts. Her movements are graceful and efficient, belying the type of surgeon I imagine her to be. She often works weekends, so Thursday must be her day off this week. Her thick black hair gleams in the sun, shocking against the creamy, pale skin of her neck and arms.

Since Arno and I moved into this neighborhood, Doreen and I have had a total of three conversations, all of which were initiated by me: Once, when my pregnant brain accidentally locked myself out of our house in a snowstorm and I desperately needed to pee. Once more when I approached her at a block party thrown by Tracy and Terry Kaplan. I’d sensed an ally in Doreen—someone as levelheaded and practical as myself, perhaps even witty—but she took no interest in me, or anyone else at the party for that matter.

She gave off the impression of an island unto herself, someone for whom idle chitchat was neither enjoyable nor necessary to reinforce her stature in the community. I recall saying something to the effect of, So, where do you work out around here? and she’d stared at me with a blankness that sent goose pimples down my forearms. I don’t work out. Just walk, she’d said.

Ahhh, yes, very nice community for walking! I’d blurted out stupidly, hating myself for feeling withered by this complete stranger who’d already revealed herself to be an icy bitch.

Or perhaps Doreen wasn’t a bitch at all, she just saw through our neighbors’ facades. The gaudy diamond jewelry, the at-home spray tans. Faces Botoxed into smooth submission. All of the luxurious ostentation designed to shock the viewer, then cow them into subservience.

All designed to hide what was rotting beneath the surface.

Yes, everything in Wellesley is best viewed from a distance. Through a carefully trimmed boxwood hedge, for example. Though I’d never seen anyone on our street knee-deep in a dirty flower bed except Doreen.

The third time Doreen Edwards and I spoke was a week ago. Her husband, William, had carefully affixed a cluster of pink and white balloons to their mailbox. I craned my neck out the window to read what was scribbled on them in gold italics: It’s a Girl!

So Doreen Edwards was having a baby girl. I’d noticed her growing stomach only in the last month. She was such a petite woman and carried the baby the way every pregnant woman hopes they will: high in the center of her stomach, like a cute basketball, while the rest of her remained lithe and ballerina-like.

It was a cooler, breezy day, and rain threatened every hour. The balloons jittered like a team of nervy colts, itching to cut loose from their stable. Partygoers made their way to the Edwardses’ residence, a carload or two per hour over the course of the morning and early afternoon. Most people I guessed were family members, except for a couple pairs of Prius-driving thirtysomethings I immediately identified as fellow surgeons. Their nondescript clothing and prim mannerisms always gave them away.

The baby shower attendees trickled out as they’d trickled in—slowly, then all at once—and by the time they were all gone, Doreen sauntered down her driveway to where William had affixed the balloons. She drew a pair of scissors from a hidden pocket in her skirt and slashed the balloons, one after the other, before removing them from the brick mailbox entirely.

Something in her expression—was it despair?—prompted me out our front door, down our stone walkway, and thirty feet to the left, where Doreen stood by the mailbox, holding the pink and white rubber in her hands like entrails.

Hey, Doreen, I said, feigning casualness. Just thought I’d pop over and say congratulations! A baby girl, how exciting!

I rubbed my arms against the nip in the air, but also in preparation for Doreen’s chilliness. It never came.

Thank you, Doreen said without affect. Her eyes were cast downward to the balloons in her hands.

You okay? I asked.

Doreen looked up. Her eyes met mine. In this gray, pre-evening hour, you could make out the varying shades of brown: amber, honey, warm cinnamon. She was a very striking woman—sharp cheekbones and small rosebud lips.

No, she said. I’m not sure I want a baby.

Oh, I said, unsure of where to go from there. We both looked up at the clouds, as if awaiting divine intervention.

Finally, I sighed.

Honestly, I didn’t want Emma at first, either, I whispered, conscious of Arno somewhere in the neighborhood, jogging to stay in perfect form. But eventually, you realize it’s the best decision ever, I said, questioning the words even as they flowed from my mouth.

You’ll realize being a mom is why you were put on this earth.

Doreen looked at me quizzically, then laughed: a sharp, clipped sound that reminded me of a tree branch breaking in the wind. You don’t believe that, she said.

I stood stock-still as if I’d been slapped, feeling the warmth spread from my cheeks down my neck and chest.

I … I do, I said. I mean, every woman is different. That was just my experience… I was stammering.

Doreen’s eyes narrowed. "Well, my purpose is to be a good surgeon. To be the best cardiothoracic surgeon," she added.

Can’t you—can’t you be both? I asked. A mother and a great surgeon?

I’m afraid not, Doreen said. It was clear she’d given the matter a lot of thought. I don’t see how I could spread myself so thin and still be good at either. Surgery is my life.

I nodded, sensing the conversation, which had taken such an unpredictable and terrible turn, was over. I turned to go, leaving Doreen to her balloon massacre.

Hey, Liz?

I spun around, surprised. I honestly wasn’t sure Doreen even knew my name. It sounded strange in her mouth, like an unfamiliar language I’d never heard spoken out loud.

Yeah?

What did you want for yourself, before—Doreen gestured at my manicured lawn, the bright white colonial behind me, our spacious two-car garage—all this?

"This is what I wanted, I snapped, shocking myself. My family is what I want. Arno and Emma are all that matter."

Doreen nodded slowly, just once. Her eyes never wavered from my own as pools of pity oozed from them.

In that moment, I vowed to never talk to Doreen again. So what if she too was having a girl? Toxic, that’s what Doreen Edwards was. A miserable, uppity bitch.

Too bad you won’t be able to have a little friend soon, I coo into Emma’s hair, breathing in her baby powder scent. I don’t think Mrs. Edwards will let you play with her baby girl. She’ll be much too busy for us … surgeoning.

Emma looks up at me blankly, stretching her arms overhead, warm and full of milk. Soon enough, she’ll be fidgeting once more, struggling to get out of my grasp and onto the floor, where she will crawl about ceaselessly in pursuit of dangerous objects to cram into her mouth.

I set about the tasks that fill every morning so fully it’s shocking I ever thought I’d have time to make lavender scones, or do yoga, or take a walk with Emma in her stroller before the sun ascended to its highest peak in the clear blue sky.

I change Emma’s diaper. I dress Emma in fresh clothes: today, a russet-colored romper, 100 percent cotton, with white lacy frills on the shoulders. I prepare Emma’s breakfast: sweet potato pancakes, blueberries, and bits of sausage that she grasps with her tiny fists and chucks onto the floor. Emma regurgitates half of her pancake, orange mush spilling onto her terry-cloth bib and dripping onto her chunky thighs and beautiful frock. I change Emma into a new outfit—this time, a pink onesie and floral bubble shorts that Arno adores. I snap a photo of Emma, send it to Arno.

I sit Emma on the floor of her tropical-paradise activity gym and soother that Arno’s parents bought her for three hundred dollars. It’s a mess of soft, pillowlike objects to grab and pull: fuzzy sloths and cheetahs, koalas with detachable arms that Emma likes to shove in her mouth and try to choke herself on. I set all of her favorites within arm’s reach: a banana teether toy, a crinkly monkey, and a toucan chime. At thirteen months, she’s outgrown them, but I try anyway, desperate for a moment’s reprieve.

Here, play with these, sweetheart, I plead. I still haven’t changed out of my bathrobe.

I vacuum all of the room-sized rugs on the first floor of the house: family room, living room, dining room, foyer, Emma’s bedroom, my office, and our master bedroom. By the time I’m finished, my armpits are drenched, and I can feel sweat seeping from the top of my head. I don’t have the energy to even attempt to clean our second floor, which houses three extra bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a second office we never set foot in.

I shower with Emma on the floor outside of the glass door so I can see her. I encourage her to play with a stack of wooden blocks, but soon enough she’s reaching her hands into the small wicker trash bin, rooting around like a stray dog. She picks up a used tampon and draws it toward her mouth.

Emma, no! I shout, louder than I intend to.

No! she yells back, and immediately begins weeping.

I exit the shower with soapy hair and unshaved legs and gather Emma into my arms. I cocoon her into my favorite blue towel and sing about twinkling stars and diamonds in the sky. She stops crying but still eyes me suspiciously, like she’s an elderly spinster I’m grooming for her banking information.

For the second time that day, I think about what it would feel like to put Emma down for a nap and drive away.

I remember that morning, cupping my steaming mug of coffee on our back patio, listening to the din of robins and thrushes ushering in a new day. Hadn’t I made a plan? What became of it?

I check the clock on the wall: almost noon. I think about that sundress again, hanging in my walk-in closet, tags still on. I want to laugh, or cry, or cry-laugh. Such a silly dream, the two of us in dresses, strolling through the arboretum and snapping selfies for Arno to coo over at lunch. I still have conditioner in my hair. There is dried sweet potato vomit under my fingernails.

I peer out the window, Emma clutched tight to my chest, and see Doreen step into her gleaming green Range Rover. Her baby bump is vague, a trick of the light. She looks like she could be going to a trendy brunch or even a business meeting in her pink, flowy midi skirt, expensive white T-shirt, brown leather jacket, and minimalist kitten heels. Her hair is flawless, an asymmetrical bob I hadn’t noticed since our troubling conversation last week. Is it new? I wonder what her friends are like, or whether she has friends at all.

A stab of guilt, straight to my gut, travels up my chest like acid reflux.

I should be getting out of the house, going to the public library or the arboretum, or at least the grocery store. Nothing is keeping me trapped in this house.

Our house, I correct myself.

The text.

It flashes before my closed eyes like an aura before a migraine: Thx for helping me with the presentation last night, Arnie. Followed by a kissing-face emoji.

I’ve never called Arno Arnie. That’s what his parents and siblings call him. No one else.

But there was no heart emoji, and this clue seems significant. Surely if Arno was having some sort of, I don’t know, tryst, this Viv person would have sent the kissing face emoji with a heart.

Ma-ma, Emma says, and I realize I’ve been mumbling to myself.

Nothing, sweetie, I say. Do you want to go to the library?

Emma scrunches up her nose like she’s smelled something horrid. She can’t possibly know what a library is, but somehow, she’s decided she hates it.

Fine, no library, then, I agree, bouncing her up and down on my knee.

Emma pouts, crocodile tears welling up in her big blue eyes, so much bluer than my own.

Arno’s eyes. That’s what our daughter has.

No, no, I reprimand her. None of that today. We’re going to go have some fun, Em.

I smile down at my child so blindingly, so forcefully, she begins to wail once more.

CHAPTER 3

I’m wearing the red sundress.

I feel a little like—what did my mother used to call them? Sausage casings. Her cruel description for women who stuff themselves into too-tight dresses and dare to wear them out in the world.

Not that I’m overweight. But the baby weight, twenty-five pounds over the course of nine months, has been tougher to eliminate than I’d anticipated. I feel it clinging to my ass, softening my thighs, filling out my breasts, and fattening the chipmunk cheeks Arno playfully squeezes, saying how cute I am.

I’ve stepped onto the scale religiously since about a month after giving birth to Emma, and I still have more than a few pounds to lose in order to get back to my prebaby weight. I feel awkward in the dress, my newly plump breasts bulging over the neckline. But do I look lascivious?