Other People's Houses(49)
Anne got a flush of color. “I’m not sure everyone will be as understanding as you two.”
Frances had started making a fresh pot of coffee, and was reaching for filter papers as she answered. “I don’t think it’s understanding. You know how I felt about you cheating, after the other day. But the fact that I was right, that it ended really badly, doesn’t make me happy in the least. You know that. I wish I had been wrong, because now things are all fucked up.”
Anne looked at her. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. I felt so lonely and empty and suddenly Richard was there and he saw a totally different side of me, not even a side that I knew existed. I was a different person with him.”
Frances was leaning against the counter, listening to the gently puffing efforts of the coffee maker. She noticed the laundry was done and moved it over to the dryer, dumping the dry clothes into a basket. “Well, who are you now? Are you seeing a psychiatrist?”
Anne frowned. “Do you think I should?” She kept crossing and recrossing her legs, and Frances wondered idly if she had a urinary tract infection.
She said, “Well, let’s look at the face of it, shall we? You just destroyed several lives, including your own, over a brief and meaningless relationship. You’re mystified as to why you did it, and you find yourself adrift now, not sure how to get back to normal. I would think a psychiatrist might be helpful. You’re depressed.”
“Am I depressed, or am I just responding appropriately to a disastrous situation?”
“It wasn’t disastrous until you made it that way. Go get help, Anne.” The coffee maker was done. “Usual?”
Anne nodded. “Will you help me?”
“I’m not a shrink. I’m not any kind of doctor, and you need professional help.” She added half-and-half, hesitated as she tried to remember if Anne took sugar in her coffee or not, decided she could use the extra calories and added some. Anne was still talking.
“I mean with Charlie. Will you help me with Charlie?”
Frances carried over the coffee, then turned to get cookies. “Did you have breakfast?” Anne shook her head. “Eggs?” Anne shrugged, so Frances pulled out a pan, butter, and eggs. Food before anything, always. Her mother had always been a good cook, and after Frances’s brother died she became almost fanatical about it. Frances would eat three meals a day, under the watchful eye of her mother, because she knew it was three times a day her mother felt like maybe she had some control over the shit storm that was life. If this child was fed, she seemed to radiate, then maybe she won’t suddenly die. Frances had inherited this belief, and now she was making eggs for Anne because it was what she could do. Ava had once joked that on her mom’s headstone it was going to say, “I’m fine, but when was the last time you ate something?”
Frances cracked a couple of eggs while the butter melted, whisking them together with a fork, adding a pinch of pepper. “I don’t honestly know what I can do for you, Anne. You need to fix this, if you can. How are the kids?”
Anne shrugged. “We told them together, because that was what Charlie thought we should do, but they seemed confused about it. I stayed and helped put them to bed, but then I left.”
“Are you staying at your parents’? They’re in Santa Monica, right?”
“Yes, but no. I haven’t told them yet.”
Frances put a plate of eggs in front of her friend, and felt herself standing over her, just like her mom had always done. That was creepy, so she sat down.
Anne ate, her usual color returning. “These are so good, thanks.”
Frances smiled. “You have to take care of yourself. If you want to save your marriage you’re going to have to fight for it. You’ll need your strength.”
“I don’t think Charlie will forgive me.”
“Would you forgive him, if he’d been the one who cheated?”
Anne shrugged, cleaning up the last of her eggs. “I have no idea.” She looked at her neighbor. “Will you help me? Will you help me talk to Charlie?”
Michael walked in, his hair still wet from the shower. He opened his mouth to speak to Frances, but paused when he saw Anne. Two seconds passed, then he glided onward. His unflappability was one of the things Frances enjoyed about him. “Hi, Anne, sorry to hear things are all fucked up right now.” And his honesty, Frances enjoyed that, too.
Anne blushed. “Yeah. I messed up. Sorry.”
Michael grabbed a travel mug from the cupboard and filled it with coffee. “Don’t say sorry to me, dude, no need. We all make mistakes.” He added cream, put on the lid, and said, “Last night, for example, I behaved like a total dick to my lovely wife, who has punished me terribly by simply not smiling at me this morning.” He stood in front of Frances and added, “I am such a phallus, I am so sorry, please smile at me again so I can go on with my life.”
Frances narrowed her eyes at him. So. Fucking. Annoying. He would behave badly but then apologize magnificently, so she would have to forgive him. She smiled a small smile, which broadened once he’d bent down and kissed her. “Go to work, total dick,” she said, and he turned to leave. As the front door closed Frances could smell her shampoo in the air. He bitched about her “fancy” Aveda shampoo that cost too much, but used it himself, the hypocritical swine. She felt a sudden swoon of gratitude that she wasn’t in the same boat as Anne, that she and Michael were making it OK, despite hating each other from time to time, and not having enough sex, and not having much to talk about besides the kids. It wasn’t a sexy marriage, it wasn’t a fun-filled romantic romp, but it was solid. She felt a flicker of concern at the back of her mind that if a few glasses of wine were revealing Michael’s real feelings about her, then maybe they were in more trouble than she realized, but she couldn’t face thinking about that now. She had other people’s lives to think of. And yes, she was aware of the irony of that.