The Girl in the Mirror(63)
Adam takes the hint and strides off to find the photos. I do have him well-trained.
The album is old-fashioned black leather. It’s big enough that when Annabeth places it on the coffee table in front of the sofa, we can all see the photos from our chairs around the living room. It doesn’t look like Summer’s style, and when Annabeth opens it, I see why.
Inside the front cover are two full-page photos of bride and groom. From one side, Summer’s smile radiates through the room. Her golden hair tumbles down her shoulders and over her dress so that I can hardly see the intricate lace of the bodice. Summer’s eyes are pure aquamarine; her sweet expression hits me like a slap in the face.
Then there’s the other photo. This gown is plain satin, and the bride’s auburn hair is piled on top of her head. Her eyes have a mysterious expression, almost mournful, as if she knows she’s not long for this world. It’s Helen.
Adam and Summer don’t have their own wedding album. Adam has a combined album for both of his wives. Did Summer do this? Did she add her photos to an existing album? Or was the combined album Adam’s idea?
Annabeth turns the pages, and I see photos of Helen and Summer jumbled together. The two weddings were only two years apart, and Adam wore the same suit. In photos that don’t include the bride, it’s hard to tell which wedding is which. Both took place in Adam’s garden, when the flowers were at the height of their bloom, and both wedding parties are surrounded by a swirl of rosy, soft-focus colors, with an azure sky as backdrop. The floaty tangerine tulle that Summer imposed on her bridesmaids—there were six of us—is only a shade brighter than the peachy pink Helen chose for her attendants. In fact, if it weren’t for her bronze complexion and auburn hair, you could almost mistake Helen for Summer. Summer’s prettier, but they were made from the same mold. Adam definitely has a type.
Maybe men don’t spend much time reminiscing over their wedding day, or days, but does he really want to look at photos of me and his dead first wife at the same time?
Adam is hunched over the album beside Annabeth, looking at the photos with an expression of complacent pride. I could swear he is thinking that two wives are better than one.
Adam and I are supposed to be so close. I’m supposed to be the wife who helped him get over his grief. We make love in the bed he shared with Helen. I thought about replacing the mahogany frame, but it was too hard to get it moved down the stairs.
It’s always seemed weird that Summer spent her wedding night in Helen’s bed, but I figured Adam was so open about Helen and his relationship with her that there was no awkwardness. When you meet your one true love, you talk about your ex-girlfriends and there’s no jealousy; you laugh together about how crazy they all were. But Helen isn’t an ex-girlfriend. She isn’t an ex-wife. They never broke up.
Adam’s silence about Helen suggests loyalty. It suggests he loved her as much as he loves Summer. Maybe more. The wedding album certainly doesn’t consign Helen to history.
I’ve always seen my sister as the ultimate prize, but maybe to Adam she was just another pretty girl when he found himself single. And Summer was happy to be the second wife. She would do the girl jobs, and he would make the decisions. They had fun with the sexyrape, and she loved Tarquin.
It’s not that I expect to be the only woman Adam has ever loved, but I don’t want to feel like I’m interchangeable. I almost feel that Adam doesn’t care which wife is which as long as she cooks and cleans, looks after the kids, and puts out.
Adam’s not a bad guy. I’ve made our relationship work. Our sex life is great, he’s good company, he loves his kids. He’s not the idol I thought he was, but I had started to think he could be the right guy for me. But he’s not. He never will be.
I’m not even any good at the things Adam loves me for.
I sit in my plush armchair and gaze through the window at the infinity pool, watching the line between water and air dissolve as darkness descends. Did Summer love her life because it was perfect or because she was Summer, happy with her lot?
“Summer,” says Adam, “isn’t it time you put Tarquin to bed?”
Tarquin has toddled over to the album and is rubbing his fingers over the photos. He turns and points at me and speaks up loud and clear.
“You’re not my mummy.”
Everyone is staring at me. Virginia, Annabeth, Adam. I can’t think of a single thing to say.
It’s happening.
“You’re not my mummy.” Tarquin is delighted by his words. He says it again. In between his pronouncements, there is clanging silence.
If any of them suspects, it’s over. They could easily ask questions I couldn’t answer. All Adam needs to say is, describe the day we met. Describe our first kiss. Describe our wedding night.
And my mother doesn’t need to ask a question. She doesn’t need to say a word. She could walk across the room right now and place her hand on my heart.
Tarquin’s eyes bore into me. He knows. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows. You nailed it, kid.
“Tarquin is talking!” Annabeth exclaims. “Listen to his clever new words!”
“I didn’t know he understood about Helen,” says Virginia.
“He doesn’t,” says Adam. “We agreed not to tell him yet.” He turns to me, that wolfish look in his eyes again. Is he angry because he thinks I told Tarq about Helen? Or is he starting to doubt?