Do I Know You?(74)

My mother places her napkin carefully on the table and folds her hands. “I have to say, I’m so relieved to hear you both so happy,” she says.

I permit myself to look in Eliza’s direction. There’s nothing pretend in the smile I send her.

“Eliza, has your room been pleasant, too?” my mom goes on.

I see the moment it happens—the question freezes Eliza’s expression into ice-sculpture rigidity. I feel the same thing happen to me, my blood running cold. Refusing to meet my mother’s eyes, I find myself focusing instead on the leg of one of the neighboring table’s chairs. “How—” I start.

“I called to try to send flowers to Eliza in the honeymoon suite when you first got in. The hotel told me Eliza wasn’t staying in the honeymoon suite and asked if I’d like to send them to her in her room instead,” she says.

Her voice holds nothing except concern, no gotcha glee. It doesn’t mean she’s not enjoying being concerned, though. I know her sympathy is genuine, but I know part of her likes being the worrying, monitoring mom.

“If I can confess something, it’s why we decided to take this spontaneous little getaway,” she continues.

Emotions roil in me, making me glad I opted for oatmeal. I know it’s not just frustration pounding hotly in my cheeks, though I’m pretty close to furious that she intruded on the privacy of her twenty-nine-year-old son and daughter-in-law this way. Deeper, there’s shame. Embarrassment at the truth my mom’s uncovered.

The effort I’ve upheld this entire meal just . . . crumbles. I hear the words I’m speaking like they’re coming from elsewhere. “You caught us, Mom,” my voice says, wavering with cornered spite. “Eliza and I have been staying separately. Things aren’t as great in our marriage as we made you think. Sorry to disappoint.”

Eliza’s head whips in my direction. “Graham . . .”

“Might as well be honest, right?” I ask sharply, ignoring the shock in her eyes. I’m in the grip of something now, barricading myself inside my burning house.

“I don’t understand,” my dad says delicately, fiddling with one prong of his folded sunglasses. “Are you . . . separated?” He pronounces the word with mild horror. Of course he does. In my family, it’s sacrilege.

“No, nothing like that.” Eliza springs in, her voice unnaturally high. I register this, knowing if she can’t control her pitch, she must be fraying. She goes on, racing to finish her sentences. “It’s just . . . something we’re trying. Like a game. It’s really helping us.” She’s stumbling over her words, desperate to get out of this. But there’s no way out. I would sympathize if I weren’t caught within my own whirlwind.

My mom looks crestfallen. It manages to piss me off even more—she must know how embarrassing this is for me, for my wife, yet she just cannot restrain herself from this display of disappointment. No subtlety, no understanding. “You’re staying separately, but you’re not separated?” she manages. “You know, Uncle John knows a wonderful couples’ counselor. I’ll make a call and get you two in right away.”

“Mom. Don’t.”

I slam the words onto the table with force no one can ignore. Everyone goes quiet for several seconds.

“I’m only trying to help,” my mom says finally.

It’s impossible to ignore how she really does sound genuine. It doesn’t matter. All I hear are the ways in which we’ve fallen short. In which I’ve fallen short. Not just to Eliza, who only wants the smoke-and-mirrors, Central Casting version of myself I’ve invented—to everyone.

“Well, you’re not. This”—I gesture to the table—“isn’t helping.” Like it came, the fight leaves me quickly. I’m exhausted. Exhausted by these games, by these pressures, by the gnawing knowledge of not being enough. I hear my voice go soft. “Maybe none of this is helping. I can’t . . . I can’t pretend for you anymore, Eliza.”

I look over, finding her gaze fixed on me, filled with worry and hurt. I hate it.

“I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I wanted to be the person you wanted. I really did.” I have the unusual impression I’m reciting words I’ve practiced instead of saying them for the first time. Like déjà vu. Maybe I’m just realizing they’re long overdue.

I stand up, feeling my parents’ distraught gazes on me. I don’t care. All I can see is Eliza’s heartbreak. It’s unbearable.

I walk out, hating myself.





45


    Eliza


I SIT, HELPLESSLY watching my husband leave the restaurant. Heartbreak and mortification are pulling me in opposite directions, and I’m not certain either is winning. Maybe neither of them will. Instead, they’ll end up ripping me in half, going their separate ways.

The harsh echo of Graham’s words resounds in my head. I wanted to be the person you wanted. I really did. The unyielding repetition surrounds me. I wanted to be the person you wanted. I really did.

It’s not just misery leaving me motionless in my chair, with my pulse choking my chest. It’s confusion. Did he mean Investment Banker Graham? Could he have possibly thought I wanted him to make himself into another person, entirely distinct from the man I married? While I retreat into my head, the silverware sounds and the movement of waiters fading, I replay Graham’s and my week. I’ve worked to point out to him the ways he, my Graham, not the fabricated hotel Graham, was everything I wanted. How the character did nothing except emphasize the charisma, the humor, the creativity, the sexiness I know he has.