Reputation(48)
“You mean the guy who let him die,” I say stonily. “You mean the guy who deliberately killed him so we could be together.”
Now it’s Willa who’s silent. “Wait.” Her voice is small. “You mean . . . it’s true?”
“Of course not! But I know people talked. Of course they speculated about it after we got together. I guess that’s why I didn’t tell you what his role was. I didn’t want you to judge him.”
“Oh.” Willa sounds both relieved and sheepish. “Okay. I mean, it sounded a little far-fetched to me, too.” There’s an awkward pause.
I stare at the family photo in a silver frame on my desk. It’s of me, Greg, and Sienna and Aurora on that disappointing Barbados trip, though we’re smiling cheerfully for the camera. In my desk drawer is another family photo—of me, Sienna, and Aurora . . . and Martin. Not in Barbados—we never could have afforded Barbados—but at Ocean City, New Jersey. There’s significance to why I saved that photo and why, sometimes, I pull the drawer open and look at it. Maybe I do feel guilty. I was unfaithful, in a way.
“I will say this,” I tell Willa. “Greg did sweep me off my feet the moment I met him. He was just so vibrant. Larger-than-life, the doctor who could save anyone. And he was . . . complimentary.”
“How so?”
“He kept saying how caring I was as a wife. He recognized that I had a lot on my plate and was impressed with how together I seemed.” I sigh. “Martin hadn’t recognized any of that in a long time. Which, I mean—it makes sense. He was so sick. Scared. But I’m still human. Greg’s attention felt good. And also . . .” I trail off, not wanting to tell her the rest.
“Also what?” Willa asks.
I lace my fingers around my coffee mug. There are certain limits to what I’ll admit. What will Willa think if I tell her that, when my eyes drifted to Greg’s expensive shoes and slick watch, I felt a deep, envious desire? And when the appointment was over and Martin’s surgery was set, when we were walking through the parking garage to find our car, I saw a beautiful Porsche parked in the RESERVED FOR DOCTOR spot and almost blushed with lust? I’d fetishized Greg’s wealth and possessions. I’d become ravenously material.
“Greg called quite a bit, but we always talked about Martin,” I say instead. “Or, well, mostly all about Martin.”
“What’s that mean?”
There’s a lump in my throat. Sometimes, during those phone conversations, after a barrage of questions about Martin’s chances of recovery, or if whether perhaps a heart transplant did make more sense at this stage, I’d talk about my daughters. I felt so alone in navigating Martin’s illness; Sienna and Aurora were more concerned with their friends and social media minutiae. I remember sitting on my kitchen floor one night, talking to Greg about how I’d asked Sienna if she wanted to be there in the hospital during Dad’s surgery. Sienna shrugged and said callously, “But homecoming is that night, Mom.”
“She’s just scared,” Greg assured me. “She’s distancing herself from the situation so she doesn’t have to face the tough emotions.”
It was weird to be telling this to my husband’s cardiologist instead of my husband, but how could I share it with Martin? It would break his heart to know that his beloved Sienna was pushing him away. Those two always had a special bond, with inside jokes and special hobbies and interests they pursued together. I wouldn’t be surprised if Martin wanted Sienna and Aurora by his side even more than he wanted me. We loved each other, sure, but marital love is complicated, whereas love between parent and child is pure.
“It just felt so good to be listened to,” I say softly, knowing how poorly I’m explaining this. “I was so, so scared.”
“Of course you were,” Willa says softly, sympathetically.
I remember looking up at Greg in the hospital, after he’d told me Martin hadn’t made it. I’d drunk up the strangeness of him—his full head of wavy hair, the smattering of freckles on his cheeks, the bone structure of his clean-shaven, youthful face. Our gazes locked, and something stirred low inside me, something both lustful and shameful. It almost felt as if we were going to kiss. We didn’t, of course. I turned in the hall and saw that my daughters were standing there, watching.
“Did you ever ask your girls what they thought about all of this?” Willa asks, as if reading my mind.
I crinkle my muffin bag between my fingers. “What do you mean?”
“What did they think about you dating the surgeon who couldn’t save their dad?”
I don’t like the way she’s phrased that. “He didn’t . . . look, I don’t think they would have liked anyone I dated.” I blow out a breath. “What was I supposed to do, Willa? Be alone forever? I didn’t have any support system.”
“You had the girls. And Martin was their father. They adored him.”
“It wasn’t like Greg replaced Martin.” This just isn’t something Willa can understand. “And, Jesus, they adored Greg. They were . . . I don’t know, impressed by him. Their grades went up when he came into the picture, almost like they felt they needed to prove themselves. Also, Greg was able to give them things they never had. Cool clothes. Fancy handbags all the popular girls were carrying. Lavish vacations. Stuff we never got to enjoy before. And over the years, they really bonded. Half the time I’d walk in and Greg and Sienna would be talking about something I had no clue about. Aurora had him correct her science homework. She went to him when she got the best grade in her biology class.”