They nod.
“It’s going to be fine. Trust me.”
Downstairs in the wine cellar I select several bottles. Might as well pull out the good stuff, I think.
Over the last six months, I’ve wrestled with my fate, whether it was predetermined or not. Today, I can feel it in my bones that this will be my last day, whether it’s the psychic’s prediction or my own plan backfiring on me. The dead crow is a sign that the messenger of death has arrived on my doorstep. It’s time.
FARAH
Rini slips out the back door to gather the bottles of wine. She didn’t instruct us to stay in the living room after announcing the lockdown, but none of us have moved. Yet.
I may not feel bold enough to reveal my nascent dreams of partnership with Aimee, but Rini was right. My life is about to change, and it begins with Joe. I beckon him away from the crowd. We wander past the library and the game parlor into a dark den.
“We need to talk,” I say when we’re alone.
Joe looks puzzled.
“About Beckett,” I say at the same time as he asks, “About my former aide?”
“What about your former aide?”
Joe clears his throat. “I thought we’d talk about this when we got home. Is Beckett okay?”
“Now is a good time. Beckett’s fine. You go first,” I say.
I take a seat on the edge of the chair by the door to signal I’m ready to get into it. My heart starts to race a bit, and not from the storm or the sudden change in plans. Joe is right—I specifically said I didn’t want to hear about his work drama while on this vacation, but I’m compelled to have this conversation by something other than my desire to stick my head in the sand. To follow the shame, like Rini said.
Joe closes the half-moon doors behind us. He grimaces. “My former aide is speaking out against me.”
“Speaking out? I assume this has nothing to do with your policies.”
Joe rubs his hands together and walks to the window.
“She says I touched her inappropriately,” he says.
“And did you?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So she’s lying?”
“Not really, but it’s not the way she’s painting it. Farah, come on. I’m old-school. I shake hands. I touch backs. I connect with people.”
“You can’t say that kind of thing anymore.”
“This isn’t a press conference. You’re my wife.”
Am I? I wonder. I’ve never been a fan of the possessive, generic “my wife,” but right now it curdles in my stomach like milk neglected on the kitchen counter. How did we get so far apart? It’s as if I woke up one day and the little things I never said had grown into full-fledged secrets we’ve hidden from each other, from ourselves.
“Are you going to lose reelection?” I ask.
“The emergency polling was inconclusive but not good. Fortunately, I have time. One big news story and this would blow over.”
Since I started to have feelings for Aimee, I’ve repeatedly told myself I couldn’t leave Joe for another woman because he’s an important politician. The suburb where I grew up is incredibly progressive in its thinking, yet inside our homes, it’s like a 1955 sitcom. A man and a woman. Three kids. Sometimes two. Sometimes four. A dog. Never a cat. Cats are for city dwellers. The man makes the money. The woman earns some money (a little or a lot), but her real job is to make the world go round. They have strong values of acceptance, but they have firm boundaries around their beautifully crafted lives. Anything out of the ordinary is dangerous. The message has seeped into my core, and it’s this same rigid thinking that won’t allow me to be honest about my concerns around Beckett’s behavior.
“What about Beckett?” Joe asks. Ready to move on, he takes a seat across from me on the maroon tufted couch.
“I’ve been biting my tongue a long time, but after his most recent incident at the car—”
“He’s doing great, Farah. Stop beating yourself up over that.”
“That’s the thing—I’m not. It’s your passive-aggressive comments that are eating at me. It could have happened to you. It could have happened to the nanny. It could have happened to anyone watching Beckett.”
I take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. This is exactly how our previous discussions have gone before. I dance around the subject, hoping Joe will come to the same conclusion I have, while he railroads the conversation into a different direction. I can’t control Joe’s reaction, but I can change my approach.
“I want Beckett to get evaluated. He may have ADHD, or behavioral issues, or need developmental intervention. I don’t really know.”
“You sure sound aggressive for someone who claims they don’t know,” Joe says.
“The point is, I’m tired of pretending one way or the other. I act like he’s fine, or I convince myself of the worst, but in reality I don’t know and you don’t either. We need a professional assessment.”
Joe leans forward, ready to argue the other side of this yet again. He’s a boy, he’s high energy… the list of excuses to ignore the issue goes on. But Joe pauses before launching into our usual script. He might actually be hearing me and giving weight to my declaration.
“Yes, yes, I think you’re right,” Joe says.
“You do?”
Joe stands and begins to pace the room like he’s brainstorming. “I’ll bring him over to Lottie first thing on Monday. She’s the best child psychologist there is.”
