At my desk, I tried to remove the image of Phil and Darla standing at the altar from my mind. But a moment later, I found myself picturing her in a white satin and organza gown looking as resplendent as a Miss America Pageant winner. I supposed it made sense that Phil would remarry after all this time. Divorced men often did so within a year. Not that I cared one way or another. I wouldn’t allow myself to.
I glanced at Rob’s photo, sitting on the shelf next to my file cabinet. It had been taken years ago, but remained my favorite. I picked it up, feeling the cool silver frame in my hands. Clad in his lacrosse jersey, twelve-year-old Rob was innocently radiant. His smiling face still beamed with soft preadolescence, before his voice dropped an octave, before stubble darkened his chin, before he’d dated a girl, let alone fallen head over heels for Andrea. That little boy didn’t exist anymore, I thought. My son was a young man now, waking up in a bed far away, eating what he wanted, managing his own time.
I wished he would come home for the weekend, but he wasn’t planning to return until Thanksgiving vacation. Last Thanksgiving, I remembered, he’d accompanied me to my parents’, meaning this was Phil’s year to have him. I hated that I had to share my son, but inviting Phil to family gatherings wasn’t an option. Even if my father didn’t nix the idea, as he had in the past, the dinner would be miserable for everyone, especially me.
Noticing a thumbprint, I polished the photo’s glass surface with my sleeve. Over the years Phil had passed up many opportunities to spend time with Rob. Several times he’d asked to take our boy somewhere, then failed to show up. As long as I lived, I would never forget the afternoon Rob, age five, sat waiting on the front steps for his father to pick him up for an overnight visit. At six o’clock I’d begged my son to come in for dinner, but he’d sat listening as each car passed—none stopping. It still made my insides quake with fury when I considered how much Phil hurt our little boy. I’d wondered if he’d carry that sense of abandonment with him his whole lifetime.
But over the past few years, I’d noticed Phil changing little by little. He started taking Rob to baseball games, an occasional movie, or just out to eat. He even stopped by the house on Christmas mornings to drop off presents—last year with an unexpected box of chocolate truffles for me, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
I placed the photo back on the shelf. Thanksgiving was still a long way off. As I calculated how many months away that was, a pool of sadness gathered at the bottom of my throat, spilling into my chest. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
Was there any way for a single woman to feel anything but lonely? For a moment I considered calling Phil, just to have someone to talk to about Rob. But he’d be at work, or if he were home Darla might be there. Was he really going to marry her? That thought evoked a tidal wave of confused thoughts that scooped up all my neatly stacked emotions and tossed them into disarray.
Darla’s biting words began whirling through my mind. Until that moment I hadn’t allowed myself to contemplate the obvious: She’d threatened to expose me. Had Phil really told her the whole ugly story?
I felt like I’d ingested a vial of acid. My eyes popped open, and my hand rose to cover my mouth. No, I reassured myself, Phil promised never to divulge my secret to anyone.
A leaf floated by my face, skimmed the bill of my baseball cap, then zigzagged to the moist grass where its yellowing predecessors lay. The first to arrive for the weekly promenade, I watched puffs of moisture parachute from my mouth into the chill morning air. Charlie tugged on his leash to inspect his favorite fire hydrant.
I heard voices and noticed two women pushing infants in strollers on the other side of the street. Rob had been that age when the Mom’s Brigade formed. It had been promoted as a playgroup, which would meet at the Community Center every Thursday morning. Within six months one of the original gang moved away, two went back to work full time, and one lost interest. We four remaining moms became sisters, the threads of our hearts knitting together through our common concerns, and we started meeting in each other’s homes. While we busily fed, burped, and diapered our babies, our conversation often centered on weight loss and lack of exercise. Would we ever be able to zip up and fasten our old jeans? Would we be stuck with distended stomachs and colossal thighs forever?
Erika came up with the idea of walking around Green Lake—but only when the weather was good, she’d promised. My calves had complained the first few journeys around the lake’s circumference. I couldn’t believe people exhausted themselves for enjoyment. I would rather have camped out in someone’s family room and nibbled homemade brownies. But I forced myself to continue. I didn’t want to miss seeing the other moms, and I figured our gettogethers were saving my peace of mind. My endurance grew, and I was ecstatic when the unwanted inches began shrinking. When the kids finally entered school, we continued to meet, rain or shine.
My memories were interrupted when Erika rounded the corner and twirled once to show off her new haircut, which was highlighted and shorter at her neck and poofed out around the crown.
“You look great,” I said.
Her fingers explored the blunt ends. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, you look five years younger.” As I watched her flip several pale strands behind her ears, I recalled my dreary reflection in the mirror that morning. “Maybe it’s time I
