The Good Twin(47)

“How are you feeling today?” I was happy to see him out of the bedroom. Lately, he’d been so fatigued from the day that he’d retreated to his bed by the time I arrived from work. He was dressed in slacks and a long-sleeve shirt, open at the collar, but his face was still drained of color.

“A little better,” he answered.

I didn’t believe him. His hand was resting on his stomach, and every few seconds, he winced. He’d been on the new trial drug for several weeks now, but I hadn’t noticed any improvement.

“Do you think you can eat tonight?”

“Sure. Especially your stuffing. Been looking forward to it all day.”

“Where’s that fool husband of yours?” Poppy asked. I never knew whether my grandfather disliked Ben only because Dad did, or whether he’d formed his own opinion of him. I explained that Ben was feeding homeless people tonight, then quickly changed the subject. Dad had little interest in art, and Poppy had even less, but we all enjoyed college football, so we talked about the day’s games. Before I knew it, Tatiana rang the bell for dinner. She joined us at the table, and we began as we always had when I was a child, by stating what we were thankful for.

Poppy began. “I’m thankful that I don’t have to go outside in this god-awful cold weather.”

I laughed. We New Yorkers were grateful that we hadn’t had real winter yet—the temperatures were still in the upper forties, dipping down to the midthirties at night.

“I’m thankful that I have a beautiful, loving daughter and a father who still knows how to comfort me,” Dad said.

I started to speak, then the words choked in my mouth. It was obvious what I was most thankful for—that my father was still alive, still with me. I stopped and took a breath. “I’m thankful for my family, that I have a family. Nothing is more important.” I’d learned long ago that it wasn’t biology that made a family. It was unconditional love, and I’d always had that from my parents and grandparents. I’d hoped that I’d start my own family, with Ben and lots of children, but now I knew that would never happen. Any love I once had for him was gone. He was as dead to me as my mother.



My grandfather returned to Florida the Sunday following Thanksgiving, and I returned to my usual routine of daytimes at the gallery and evenings with Dad. A week later, I got the news: Dad’s trial wasn’t working. Instead of reducing the tumor, it had spread even more. His doctors were taking him off the drug. “Probably two months left, the most three. That’s all,” his doctor had told me.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I went to my office in the back of the gallery and bawled. Sandy had seen my face when I was on the phone and knew to leave me alone. I cried deep, heaving sobs, my head buried in my hands. After five minutes, the tears began to dwindle.

I would soon be an orphan. I had my grandfather, and I had one aunt and uncle and two cousins, but they weren’t enough. No one took the place of a parent. I had mourned for a whole year after my mother died, coming straight home from school, cutting out all friends and activities, hibernating in my room, until finally, on the one-year anniversary of her death, my father said, “That’s enough,” and forced me back into living. But during that entire year, I knew I still had my father. I knew that I had someone who loved me more than anything else in the world.

A few years after my mother died, when I was twelve, I thought about searching for my birth mother. Dad had said he’d help me, if that’s what I really wanted, then cautioned me that sometimes the fantasy was better to hold on to than finding out the reality was much different from I’d hoped. I thought about it for days, then weeks. Finally, after three months of weighing it, I decided against searching her out. If I found her, and she rejected me, it would hurt too much. It would feel like losing my mother all over again.

Now, facing the loss of my father, I thought about it again. Maybe. Maybe after Dad’s gone. Not right away. Down the road. Maybe I’ll find her, and she’ll be happy to see me. Maybe then I won’t be alone.



I’ve done it. I had dinner with Ezra last night, and afterward, still feeling the buzz from three glasses of wine, we went back to his loft and made love. So now, I’m an adulterer, too. Except I felt I deserved this. If Ben hadn’t been unfaithful, I never would have considered cheating on him. I returned home from Ezra’s bed, and as usual, Ben was plopped in front of the TV, feigning the boredom of someone who’d been in the same spot all night. He asked his usual, “How’s Rick?” question. I answered my usual, “The same,” and then I headed to our bedroom alone, as usual.

Now, back at the gallery, I picked up the phone to call my attorney. When Steve Goldfarb got on the line, I asked, “Can you pull up a copy of my prenuptial agreement?”

“Sure. Hold on a sec.” Thirty seconds later, he said, “Got it. Now, what’s going on? You and Ben having problems?”

“To say the least.”

“Listen, Charlotte, you’re under a lot of stress with what your father’s going through. That has to affect your other relationships. Step back from whatever you’re thinking, and wait until things settle down.”

“Our conversation is covered by attorney-client privilege, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I don’t want my father or grandfather to know about Ben. He’s having an affair. Has been for months, maybe longer. Since before Dad’s diagnosis.”