“Excuse me,” I say, standing and pushing my chair in.
In the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror, wondering when I began this double life; two lives coexisting side by side like twins in a womb. In actuality, I’ve learned to lie, sparing others and hurting myself. When it starts, it’s the small things, like when you’re dying for moo goo gai pan, craving it so bad you can taste it, and you hear yourself say, “I don’t care, Chinese or Mexican, either one is fine with me.” But it gets worse, all your feelings lost, numbness growing like bacteria slowly destroying you until you are unable to recognize if you are hot or cold, tired or hungry, miserable or happy. I reach for soap and allow my hands to linger under the water.
The bathroom door opens, and Dana comes in. She stops to look at herself in the mirror, and then she opens her purse and pulls out a brush, lip gloss, and lip liner.
“Prescriptives,” she says, “the best,” as she outlines her lips. “Want to use it?”
“No, thanks. I have my own.” I dig in my purse.
“Don’t do that.”
I look up. “What?”
“You’re squinting.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
Dana brushes her long blonde hair. “You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Squint. I mean, you move your face a lot when you talk.”
“That’s called expression, Dana.”
“Yeah, but it’s not worth it. You have to live with that skin for the rest of your life. You should be more careful.”
I realize I am having this conversation with a reflection in the bathroom mirror. And I remind myself that while Dana has her flaws, she’s a good person. She’d do anything for me.
Back at the table Eric is saying, in a somewhat British accent even though he was born and raised in Brooklyn, how he and Marisa had gone to Barneys together that day and bought a fabulous set of dishes.
When I’d just given birth to David and was not able to leave him, Dylan wanted me to hire a baby nurse so I could go out for dinner and travel. He said if I stopped breastfeeding I’d lose weight faster. As if to prove a point or punish me, one Sunday he went antique shopping without me and returned at the end of the day with a slew of collectibles for our brand-new bookcase. I told him that I wanted to gather things for the shelves together slowly, over the years. Objects, books, and photographs of the moments of our lives. Dylan acted as if he didn’t hear me, my voice trailing off, fleeting like an echo, until it eventually disappeared, unheard, as if unspoken, while he continued to pull collections of books from the boxes. On the coffee table he piled a pair of gold binoculars, an artifact from a ship, two brown leather satchels, and vases. I tried again to explain to him that I wanted each item on our bookcase to have personal meaning, that our books should be ones we had actually read. But Dylan needed the shelves full, and he needed them to look a certain way, neat and uniform—identical leather spines evenly lined up.
It wasn’t until he flipped through one of the last books that he understood what I was trying to say. The title page read, The Life and Times of Jesus Christ. We’re Jewish, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he would ever read. But because Dylan could never be completely wrong, we decided to keep some of the items: one satchel, a vase, and the gold binoculars. Everything else went back the next day. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d come with me,” Dylan said.
When the main course arrives, Marisa says, “I know something that I’m not supposed to know.” She looks around, making sure she has everyone’s attention.
“What do you know?” Dana asks, cutting into a grilled portabella mushroom as if it were a steak.
Marisa leans in and casts her eyes downward, one shoulder forward so that her button-down silk shirt opens, revealing a purple lace bra. My eyes fasten on it, and I think that lace is an interesting invention. A fabric with holes, a tapestry you can see through, and yet it obscures.
“I really shouldn’t tell.” She brings her other shoulder forward.
“Oh, that’s not right. You can’t say something like that and then not finish. You just can’t do that,” Dana says, as if reciting the rules to a game.
“Well, did you notice Lori was at the Murphys’ party by herself? She told everyone that Howie was out of town.” Marisa turns her head from side to side. “I heard he was in town. Didn’t go to the party because they’re separated. She’s moved out, and she’s living in an apartment in the city.”
“Why?” I ask. “They seemed like such a nice couple.”
“That’s what they wanted everyone to think,” Marisa says.
“Just last week I was complaining to Peter that he should be more like Howie. You know, more affectionate.” Dana dabs her lips with her napkin.
“You never know what goes on behind closed doors,” Marisa says.
Dylan speaks but doesn’t focus on anyone in particular. “There should be a renewal policy on marriage. Like a lease. Every two years you can renegotiate. Renew, or not.”
“I like that,” Peter says, extending his arm as if he were to shake on it. “That’ll keep ’em on their toes.” He takes a bite of his poached salmon.
“Who’s them?” Dana asks.
“Women, my love.” Chewing, Peter continues, “After all, marriage is a ridiculous concept, created for one purpose.”
“And what’s that?” Marisa asks.
“For women to have economic security,” he says, swallowing.
Eric dips his napkin into a glass of water and rubs at the stain on his shirt. “People used to get married at fifteen and die at thirty. They were together for fifteen years. Today if you get married at twenty-five, and live to seventy-five, you could theoretically be married for fifty years.”
Marisa winks at him. “Lucky you.”
“What a shame,” I say. “All those years. And their daughter, Olivia. How is Olivia?”
“I hear it’s been really hard on her,” Marisa answers.
“Can we change the subject, please?” Peter says. “This is bringing my head down.”
“I agree,” Dana says. “Let’s move on.” She pushes up her sleeves and lifts her drink. “What’d you do today, Callie?”
“I spent the day with Kelly. We had lunch and then went to the Met.”
“Now that sounds interesting,” Peter says, reaching for his drink.
“What?”
“You and Kelly.”
“What are you talking about, Peter?”
“Come on, Callie, you know what they say about Kelly.”
“No, I don’t, Peter. What do they say about Kelly?”
Peter rotates his wrist, spinning ice around in his glass. “They say”—he places his glass down on the table—“she likes girls.”
“Why, why do people say that? Because she’s not married?” I dip bread in olive oil. “That doesn’t mean anything, Peter, and anyway, I’m not interested.”
Peter looks into my eyes. “Oh, come on. Not even a little?”
I swallow. “Not even a little.”
“You’re in denial, Callie.” He leans back and clasps his hands on his crossed legs. “All bottled up.” He drags this out.