A Good Marriage(77)
Amanda was about to turn down the stairs when she caught sight of Zach’s open office door up on the third floor. Zach didn’t usually leave the door open when he wasn’t home. His office was his private space. Even Amanda didn’t go in unless she needed to do something specific like fix the closet (finally scheduled for next week). This had been true in every house they’d ever lived in, once their houses were big enough for luxuries like an office.
“Zach!” Amanda called up. Maybe he’d gone to work early but stopped back home on his way to the airport or something. Often Amanda had no idea he was scheduled to travel until he’d come and gone. She took a couple steps back and aimed her voice more directly. “Zach!”
The house was utterly quiet.
Amanda made her way up and toward the open door with a rising sense of dread. But what exactly was she afraid of? She’d lived for so long—always, really—by such a clear set of rules. There had been the rules for surviving back with Daddy in the trailer—hide, lie still, run. There were the rules for avoiding conflict with Zach—don’t complain, don’t ask questions, don’t be where you’re not supposed to go. Simple, really. Considering breaking any of them—intentionally—was bound to feel dangerous. Amanda was holding her breath by the time she finally reached the top of the stairs and peeked into the office.
An empty room. She exhaled.
Three massive computer screens, wrapped around like a cockpit on Zach’s sleek midcentury modern desk. The shelves were lined with the books that Amanda was sure Zach had never read. She’d been there, back in Palo Alto, when the “personal library curator” had selected the books to give the precise intellectual impression Zach desired—not that he ever had anyone in his home office to appreciate it. It was too bad. The books did paint a convincing picture of someone who was adventurous and curious, a casual athlete and an open-minded traveler. A person who was interested less in the finer things in life and more in a life well lived. It was an appealing idea of a man, just not one that had anything to do with Zach.
The only thing that Zach had ever cared about, as far as Amanda could tell, was success. And not even for the money—which she might have understood better—but for the pure satisfaction of coming out on top. Winning for winning’s sake. Zach didn’t just want it. He needed it. As if without it, he’d have vanished into thin air.
Amanda had never cared before about Zach’s obsession with success or those pretend books. But today, all of it grated. Amanda thought about those novels she’d pored over so longingly at the library, the stories that had saved her life. And yet here was Zach, thinking he could have all that just by laying down some cash. But then, why not? After all, he’d bought her.
Amanda’s face felt hot suddenly. Her heart was throbbing in her ears. No. She was not a thing that belonged to Zach. Of course she wasn’t, and neither was Case. This was her home, too.
Amanda felt a little rush as she stepped inside the office, arms crossed tight.
On the floating shelves on either side of Zach’s desk was a scattering of the framed photographs that had been taken over the years by an assortment of paid photographers Zach had insisted Amanda hire. The pictures, displayed throughout the house, were lovely. But Amanda longed for family photos like Sarah’s, with mussed hair and chocolate-covered faces and closed eyelids. Even Maude and Sebe had these kinds of pictures—of life in all its perfect imperfection. For Zach, that kind of thing simply wouldn’t do. For him, their family had always been an airbrushed abstraction, something to be put on a shelf and admired from a distance.
But what did Amanda want out of her family, her marriage? She’d never seriously considered the question. To be able to tell her own husband that she was scared. She wanted at least that much. And she wanted him to care.
Amanda made her way over to Zach’s desk chair and sat down. When she put her hand over the mouse, the computer screens came to life. Yet another photo of the three of them, taken by a photographer in Sunnydale, where they’d lived until Case was a year old. Outlined in light, they were standing by the window of their loft apartment—which looked far more glamorous than it had actually been. Zach had Case cradled in his forearms. Amanda stood behind them, her hands on Zach’s shoulders, gazing down at Case. As if this was a thing they did: touched each other, gazed adoringly.
When Amanda swiped the mouse again, a password request popped up. She tried her birthday and Case’s together, halfheartedly. As she expected, the password was rejected. It was too demoralizing to consider other possible alternatives.
Instead, Amanda pulled at the drawer to her right. To her surprise, it slid open, unlocked. Inside, were several manila folders, crisp and neatly stacked. Amanda lifted them out and set them on her lap. The top was labeled Case Camp. There were brochures for several of the camps they had discussed, including the one that Case had ultimately attended. Amanda maintained all the files for Case—school, camp, activities. She’d had no idea Zach ever kept anything.
Amanda flipped to the next file, Case Activities. There was a brochure for the Brooklyn Conservatory of Music, where Case took guitar lessons, and for the DUSC Soccer League. Case School had copies of Case’s Brooklyn Country Day report card, the school newsletter they’d gotten at spring parent-teacher conferences (the only one Zach would probably ever attend—he knew the minimum that was required), and the student directory. Looking at all of it, Amanda felt such a strange mix of confusion, guilt, and sadness. Like she’d stumbled upon some rebellious teenager’s secret collection of well-loved toys. Was this the true Zach? Was this what he really wanted? To be more involved. Maybe he didn’t know how to ask for what he needed, any more than Amanda did.