Anything for Her Marriage

“It’s not the flu,” she reassured him, her gaze lighting on the bag on her desk. “Oh, Cora—please, please, please tell me some of that’s for me!”

“It’s all for you, baby,” Cora said as Guy left.

“Oh, bless you!” Nancy tore into the bag. “How’d you know I wasn’t going to get lunch today?”

“You still weren’t back from your morning appointment when I left, and I know you’ve got that one o’clock. Lucky guess.”

Groaning in sweet anticipation, Nancy attacked the turkey club before she’d even gotten the wrapping completely off. “I don’t know ’ut’s wrong wi’ me,” she forced out around the bite, then swallowed. “I used to be able to skip lunch all the time without any problem.”

“Which probably accounts for why you weigh less than a good-size chicken.”

Nancy swatted at her, crammed a French fry into her mouth. “It’s weird, though—the past few days, I’ve been eating constantly.”

A big grin split Cora’s face. “And at the rate you’re going, that’s going to be gone before the grease has had a chance to set on the fries. Lord, I can’t remember the last time I saw anyone eat like that.” A laugh thundered from her chest. “Save when Elizabeth got pregnant and didn’t know it for two weeks. Oh, there’s the phone—”

Nancy never saw Cora leave.

Dizziness. Exhaustion. Ravenousness. Oh, no no no no no…

Oh, hell.

The sandwich abandoned, she frantically pawed backward through her calendar, only to realize—duh!—it didn’t go past January 1. But surely it wasn’t that late, she thought as she lugged her shoulder bag up onto her desk, hauled out her checkbook and the handy-dandy calendar inside it. Okay, okay…God, they could probably hear her heartbeat in Toronto. There it was. December 17, which made her due on the…she counted forward…fourteenth.

Which was five days ago.

But…but…she’d used a diaphragm. And the stuff. That should have been fine, right? It had always been fine before….

Barely two minutes later, she burst into her house, racing to the bathroom without even removing her down coat. Her heart thudded against her chest as she yanked open the vanity drawer, rummaged through the contents. She found the spermicide first, flipped it over to read the expiration date. See? See? February, it said. February… She looked closer, squinting.

Nineteen-something.

Uh-oh.

Unable to shake the feeling that life as she knew it was about to end, she plucked the diaphragm case out of the drawer, her hands shaking so hard it took three tries before she could unsnap it. She snatched the rubber cylinder from its little plastic bed, then waded through a sea of cats to the living room, where the southern exposure-lit windows were brightest. The animals writhed around her feet as she held the diaphragm up to the light, having to clamp one hand on her wrist to stop the trembling. “Oh, dear God,” she whispered, as the sunlight clearly defined, like a microcosmic constellation, a series of tiny holes in the rubber.

Her mother would have a field day with this one.

Arms tightly twisted together over her suede jacket, Hannah Braden hunched in the passenger seat of her mother’s Cadillac, as far away from Claire’s overpowering perfume—and her cigarette smoke—as possible. Outside her window, which she wished she could open without freezing to death, tree after boring tree whipped past, a charcoal blur against an overcast sky. She’d forgotten to bring her Walkman, which meant she’d been subjugated for the past hour to that New Age crap her mother loved. If she’d been younger, she would have been sorely tempted to cry. Or pitch a fit. But over the past several years, the edges of her emotions had worn down. Oh, yeah, she was seriously pissed off. She just no longer had the energy or enthusiasm to act on it.

All she’d wanted was to spend the weekend with one of her girlfriends, like any normal kid, you know? They’d planned on going to one of the malls tomorrow, seeing a movie, just hanging out. But noooo. She had to spend the weekend out in the boonies with her father, because that’s what children of split parents did, bounced back and forth between Mommy and Daddy like good little Ping-Pong balls. At least when Dad still lived in Bloomfield Hills she’d been able to see her friends at some point during the weekends she and Schuy stayed with him. Now that he’d moved permanently into that mausoleum, however, every weekend she spent with her father was a weekend of being consigned to oblivion. And what really ticked her off was that neither of her parents seemed to care that they were seriously screwing up her life.

“I hope my picking you up early was okay,” her mother said over Yanni or somebody, flicking ashes in the tray suspended from the dash. “But Rafe and I are going out this evening, so I have to be back in town by six at the latest.”

Hannah shrugged, removing her velvet headband, pushing it back into place. A still-glowing ash floated up from the tray, barely missed putting a hole in her sleeve. God. At least Myrna hadn’t smoked.

“My chemistry teacher wasn’t thrilled about it,” she said, picking up the thread of the pseudoconversation. Her voice sounded as flat as the leaden sky outside. “We were in the middle of a crucial lab.”

“Oh, well—” more ashes into the tray “—I’m sure you can make it up.”

Right. At the expense of missing basketball practice. But then, Claire had never thought that a high priority, either.

The seat shifted behind her as Schuyler leaned forward, sticking his face between the bucket seats, then popped a bubble right in Hannah’s ear.

“For God’s sake, Schuy—cut it out! Ewww—why do you have to chew that watermelon stuff? It’s disgusting!”

Schuy grinned, then popped another bubble.

Slugging him would be too kind. Besides, he was nearly as big as she was now. Kinda took the joy out of it, knowing he could hurt her back. In any case, they were through the iron gates leading to the mansion. The place was huge. And amazingly ugly. Why her father had bought the thing to begin with, she had no idea. A “vacation” home, he’d said. Yeah, right. For the Addams family, maybe.

Claire navigated the car into the circular driveway, cut the engine as she stubbed out her cigarette. Apprehension sizzled through Hannah’s veins, as it always did at these changings of the guard. When they’d all still lived together, it had been much easier to gauge their moods, although her father was generally so even-tempered, it was hard to actually describe what he had as “moods” at all. Still, she always felt uneasy, almost like a stranger, during these transitions. Especially with Dad, since his mental state was so much trickier to figure out than her mother’s. Actually, now that Hannah and Schuy were older, their mother paid little attention to them. Which was just fine with Hannah, since she and Claire had never exactly been bosom buddies to begin with. In any case, it was pretty clear that her mother’s catching herself another husband had taken precedence over nurturing her children, and the procession of potential candidates zooming in and out of their lives was positively dizzying. Doctors, lawyers, business moguls, software developers, even a professional race-car driver. Hannah didn’t even bother to look up when the doorbell rang anymore, let alone leave her room.

Not that her relationship with her father was much better. It wasn’t strained, exactly, as much as…she couldn’t quite find the word. Foggy, she supposed. Like a fuzzy photograph. Maybe it was that he tried too hard, you know? The typical divorced dad - gotta - spend - quality - time - with - my - screwed - up - kids syndrome. Neither she nor Schuy could make a move without his being right there. Yet despite all her father’s efforts to “be” their father, and though Hannah really believed he cared about them—he called nearly every day, even when he was traveling—there was something missing.

So her mother didn’t have much use for her children in her life, and her father didn’t seem to know what to do with them at all. Just your typical dysfunctional all-American family, that was them.

Dad was standing on the steps, in cords and a heavy off-white turtleneck sweater, the bitter wind ruffling his thick hair. Still pretty good-looking, she supposed, for someone his age. He was smiling, but he looked…tired.

And far older than he’d looked the last time she’d seen him.

She wasn’t prepared for the worry that stepped up her heart-rate. He’d said it was just as well Star had let him go, that the freelance work suited him much better. He’d said he and Myrna had parted by mutual agreement, that the marriage had simply been a mistake. And Hannah knew Dad and Mom didn’t belong together. Sheesh. How had they ever hooked up to begin with, was what she’d like to know. Still, it seemed the more things changed—supposedly for the better, to hear her parents—the more unhappy everybody was.

God. They were all, like, totally screwed up.

Every time Rod saw the kids, it was a shock. Spawned from tall stock—Claire was only a few inches shorter than he—they grew faster than crabgrass after a rainy spring. Good Lord! Hannah was what? Five-ten already? And even though she’d put that height to full advantage playing basketball, she still often wore a defensive expression, as if daring anyone to point out what she clearly regarded as her freakish size. He caught that look now, as she climbed out of the car, jerking a hank of long, pale blond hair behind one ear.

Or maybe her size had little to do with it.

Schuy bounded up the drive, a marionette in baggy jeans, a navy hooded sweatshirt underneath a ski jacket, and one of those knit caps the kids called a “beanie” pulled down past his eyebrows. Braces glinting in the dull light, his brainy, geeky son gave him a hug, then disappeared into the house and presumably into the kitchen. Claire minced along behind, grimacing as her heels sank into the gravel driveway, puddled in places from the last snow. Leave it to his ex to coordinate her outfit to the gray day, from the fox jacket over matching wool slacks to the ridiculously high heels. She’d pulled her still-blond hair back into a slick, neat chignon at the nape of her neck, accentuating features as classic as ever. But in the stark daylight, her makeup looked desperate, her salon tan sprayed on. She’d been a beautiful woman once. Could still have been, had she not fallen victim to vanity and self-indulgence. He thought, briefly, of how much Myrna had been like Claire fifteen years ago.

Of how little like either of them Nancy was. How predictable and safe he’d thought them, Claire and Myrna, how unpredictable Nancy was, even including the bizarre times she picked to pop up in his thoughts. Well, there you have it, he thought for the thousandth time. If he couldn’t manage a relationship with “predictable and safe,” clearly he’d made the right decision about Nancy, who was anything but.

Then why couldn’t he get the woman out of his mind? Why did he continue to see Nancy’s generous smile, those bottomless my-soul-is-yours-for-the-taking eyes, superimposed on the face of every woman he met?

“For God’s sake, Rod,” Claire barked, slamming him back to earth. “When are you going to get this driveway properly paved?”

He shrugged, thinking that Claire probably wouldn’t be amused to know the thought of having made love to her—willingly—now vaguely repulsed him. “I like the sound of gravel crunching underfoot,” he said mildly, slipping one hand into his pocket. “Reminds me of my grandparents’ driveway, when I was a kid.”

Before Claire could comment, Rod changed the subject. “Any trouble getting them out early?”

“What?” She navigated the granite stairs, careful not to touch the carved stone railing which would hardly be clean, now would it? At the top, she extracted a silver cigarette case from her leather purse. “Oh. No, none. They weren’t doing anything important, anyway.”

“I see. I’m hocking my soul to send them to one of the best private schools in the country, and you’re telling me they’re not doing anything important?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rod—you know what I mean.” She clicked open the case; he took it from her, shut it, slipped it back into her purse.