If Marco had hesitated at all, she would have sobered up in seconds. But he said, “Wouldn’t want to break with tradition.”
When they made love, it was slower and less frenzied than when they were younger, when he’d had to be home for dinner by seven o’clock. She fell asleep next to him, a privilege she’d never had before. She thought maybe they could go to breakfast, talk about the timing finally being right.
He was snoring lightly when she heard his phone buzz. It was on the floor next to his side of the bed, vibrating against the hardwood. This was back when not everyone had a cell phone, when they were still novel. Deb got out of bed and tiptoed to the phone. The name “Linda” flashed on the screen. The phone stopped buzzing, but then it started again, the same name flashing. Deb felt sick.
“Hey,” Marco said, opening his eyes slowly. He shifted his gaze down, to the phone.
“Your wife is calling,” Deb said.
At the mention of her, he sat up in bed, as if a bolt of electricity had shot right through him.
“Shit,” he said.
Deb knew, with just that one word, that what he had told her—that they were separated—was a lie.
He grabbed the phone and let himself out the door, into Deb’s side yard. He was naked.
She watched him pacing back and forth, talking with animated expressions. It was cold outside. His penis looked so small. Deb was disgusted—with herself, with him, with all of it.
She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and went into the kitchen, started brewing coffee as if it were any other day. Ten minutes later, he appeared before her, wearing his boxer shorts now.
“Deb,” he said. “It’s not what you think.”
“That’s what every liar says.”
“We’re not separated, but we almost are. We’ve been having issues for months. I don’t know why I told you we were separated. I guess I wanted us to be. I wanted you and me to have a chance, finally.”
“Just stop, okay?” Deb ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t care. Just leave. And when she finally leaves you, don’t call me. Ever again. Got it?”
He nodded solemnly then went to her bedroom to gather his things. She turned to the sink, pretended to be washing dishes, so she wouldn’t have to see him when he let himself out. When she heard the door click, confirming his exit, she threw her mug at the wall. She wanted it to shatter into a million pieces, but it just cracked in two.
The mohawked bartender lifted the bottle of Zin in the air, examining its emptiness in the bar lights.
“It really was like liquefied jam,” Deb said.
He winked then sauntered away to a group of women waving him over.
Deb still had Marco’s number in her contacts list. She’d done a few purges of phone numbers over the years, deleting people from her life, but she’d never deleted him.
“Just call,” the bartender said.
He had returned and was a few feet away from her, mixing a trendy-looking pink cocktail. The contemplation must have been obvious on Deb’s face. She smiled to herself, thinking how Marco would find it funny if she did call and said, “A bartender with a mohawk told me to call you, so here I am.”
She took a deep breath and did it. Maybe it was because of the bartender. Maybe it was because of the wine. Maybe it was because the news she’d learned was just too much not to share with someone.
The phone rang two times before he answered.
“Deb?” he said.
He hadn’t deleted her either.
“It’s me,” she said. She was trying hard to keep her voice even. She didn’t want him to know she’d needed alcohol to call him.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve hoped you’d call,” he said.
She laughed, in spite of telling herself not to get charmed again.
“Let me guess—you’re married?” she said.
“Negative. You?”
“Negative,” she said.
“I don’t believe it. You must have a stable of eager boyfriends then,” he said.
“Again, negative.”
“Well, how about that.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she just blurted out the truth: “I needed to talk to someone, and I thought of you.”
“Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“Yes. I mean, nobody died. Well, my dad died, but that’s not why I’m calling,” she said. She felt her face redden. “Are you still in Los Angeles? Can you meet for lunch … tomorrow, maybe?”
Lunch seemed safe. Deb felt she was at an age when safe mattered, when her heart could take only so much.
“Even if I wasn’t in Los Angeles, I’d be there.”
Their lunch lasted until four o’clock, when the winter sky started to turn gray. They talked about everything—their loves and losses. He was, in fact, divorced, for the second time. His kids were grown, of course. His son, Jake, worked at an investment firm; his daughter, Charlotte, was a schoolteacher.
“Charlotte and I talk on the phone sometimes. I feel like I’m just a line item in her day planner, but it’s still nice to hear from her,” he said. “Jake and I … well, you know how father-son relationships can be.”
“I’ve heard,” Deb said.
Deb didn’t have any ex-spouses or children to discuss, so she talked mostly about work. She assumed it was boring, but Marco nodded along like he was fascinated.
“I always knew you’d be one of the higher-ups,” he said.
He’d never really climbed the ladder. He’d jumped from job to job, always making a middle-of-the-road salary.
“Anyway,” she said. “What I wanted to talk to you about—well, it’s kind of strange.”
She took the article out of her purse and handed it to him. She watched his eyes scan it. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s wild.”
“To put it simply.”
“I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling,” he said.
“I hardly know how to feel.”
“Do you think she’s still out there? The woman who left you—”
“My mother, you mean?”
“Well, yes, I guess that’s what she’d be,” he said.
At first, Deb had been so shocked by her parents’ lies that she hadn’t considered whether her mother was alive, in the world somewhere. She supposed it was possible. When she imagined a woman leaving a baby, she imagined a teenager, someone too scared to know any better. That teenager would be in her mid to late fifties now. Deb had friends that age.
“I have no idea,” she said. “Maybe.”
He leaned forward, put his elbows on the table.
“You have to find out, don’t you?” he said. “Unless you don’t want to, of course. I guess I shouldn’t presume you’d want—”
“I feel like I have to try to find her. I can’t just … not.”
He rubbed his hands together conspiratorially.
“Can I help?” he asked.
She hadn’t thought of this—him offering his help in any way. She’d just wanted to tell another human being this odd story.