“Can I talk to you?” She looked awful, cold and pinched despite the typical warmth of the day. As Frances nodded and opened the door she thought she saw Charlie coming out of his house up the street, but wasn’t sure. She hoped not; she really didn’t want to take sides. Well, apart from the side of the kids, that side she would always be on.
The dogs greeted Anne in their usual enthusiastic fashion, because (a) they didn’t know she was a cheater and (b) they’re instant forgivers, dogs, it’s just the way they roll. They also sensed deep misery, and followed her into the kitchen and sat next to her while she lowered herself into a chair. While Frances pulled the usual mugs from the cupboard and looked to see if there was any coffee left, Anne petted the dogs and felt like death warmed over.
In the distance, Frances could hear the shower running. “Michael’s still here, you know. Is that OK?”
Anne was still petting the dogs as if it were going out of fashion. She nodded. “It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to talk to you.” She looked up suddenly. “Does he hate me?”
“Michael?” Anne nodded, so Frances shook her head. “No, or at least, he hasn’t said so. It’s not our place to hate you, is it? You didn’t cheat on us.” What she didn’t say was that she and Michael hadn’t spoken yet that morning, so who knew what he thought? She’d been giving him the cold shoulder, and had been a little vexed that his car was still out front when she got back from drop-off. She’d hoped he’d be forced to reach out to her from work, maybe send her flowers, or leave her apologetic voicemails. That way she could nurse her resentment in solitude, whereas if she saw his face she would find it hard to stay mad. Their relationship was basically a deep, deep friendship at this point, and flares of anger usually just fell into the darkness and burned out. They frequently ignored the advice to never go to bed angry, but it took too much effort to stay mad past the following lunchtime.
Anne got a flush of color. “I’m not sure everyone will be as understanding as you two.”
Frances had started making a fresh pot of coffee, and was reaching for filter papers as she answered. “I don’t think it’s understanding. You know how I felt about you cheating, after the other day. But the fact that I was right, that it ended really badly, doesn’t make me happy in the least. You know that. I wish I had been wrong, because now things are all fucked up.”
Anne looked at her. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. I felt so lonely and empty and suddenly Richard was there and he saw a totally different side of me, not even a side that I knew existed. I was a different person with him.”
Frances was leaning against the counter, listening to the gently puffing efforts of the coffee maker. She noticed the laundry was done and moved it over to the dryer, dumping the dry clothes into a basket. “Well, who are you now? Are you seeing a psychiatrist?”
Anne frowned. “Do you think I should?” She kept crossing and recrossing her legs, and Frances wondered idly if she had a urinary tract infection.
She said, “Well, let’s look at the face of it, shall we? You just destroyed several lives, including your own, over a brief and meaningless relationship. You’re mystified as to why you did it, and you find yourself adrift now, not sure how to get back to normal. I would think a psychiatrist might be helpful. You’re depressed.”
“Am I depressed, or am I just responding appropriately to a disastrous situation?”
“It wasn’t disastrous until you made it that way. Go get help, Anne.” The coffee maker was done. “Usual?”
Anne nodded. “Will you help me?”
“I’m not a shrink. I’m not any kind of doctor, and you need professional help.” She added half-and-half, hesitated as she tried to remember if Anne took sugar in her coffee or not, decided she could use the extra calories and added some. Anne was still talking.
“I mean with Charlie. Will you help me with Charlie?”
Frances carried over the coffee, then turned to get cookies. “Did you have breakfast?” Anne shook her head. “Eggs?” Anne shrugged, so Frances pulled out a pan, butter, and eggs. Food before anything, always. Her mother had always been a good cook, and after Frances’s brother died she became almost fanatical about it. Frances would eat three meals a day, under the watchful eye of her mother, because she knew it was three times a day her mother felt like maybe she had some control over the shit storm that was life. If this child was fed, she seemed to radiate, then maybe she won’t suddenly die. Frances had inherited this belief, and now she was making eggs for Anne because it was what she could do. Ava had once joked that on her mom’s headstone it was going to say, “I’m fine, but when was the last time you ate something?”
Frances cracked a couple of eggs while the butter melted, whisking them together with a fork, adding a pinch of pepper. “I don’t honestly know what I can do for you, Anne. You need to fix this, if you can. How are the kids?”
Anne shrugged. “We told them together, because that was what Charlie thought we should do, but they seemed confused about it. I stayed and helped put them to bed, but then I left.”
“Are you staying at your parents’? They’re in Santa Monica, right?”
“Yes, but no. I haven’t told them yet.”
Frances put a plate of eggs in front of her friend, and felt herself standing over her, just like her mom had always done. That was creepy, so she sat down.
Anne ate, her usual color returning. “These are so good, thanks.”
Frances smiled.
