I chalked everything up to him wanting to be a “super-husband,” and used my extra free time to hang out with my best friend since high school, Amanda.
Amanda’s vivacious personality could force the most sullen person to smile. Her voluminous auburn hair and naturally toned body could rival most teenagers, and her love for literature was as immense as mine.
At age thirty five, she and her husband Barry were still attempting to have their first baby. They’d attempted everything short of hiring a surrogate, but they hadn’t lost hope.
With each in-vitro fertilization treatment, I would bring her a new baby purchase—booties, bibs, collectible teddy bears, and assure her that the doctors were wrong, that she could and would bring a child into the world.
So, when she called me one afternoon with news that she was finally pregnant, I cancelled my family BBQ and relocated our celebration to her and Barry’s home.
Six months later, Barry called me while I was leaving work. He was talking so fast that I could only make out every other word.
“Barry?” I tried to sound calm. “I can’t...I can’t understand you...Are you crying? Is something wrong with Amanda? Is she okay? Did something happen with the baby?”
“The baby,” he said, and then he was quiet for a while. “The baby...The baby’s not mine. It’s not mine...”
“What? Barry, you’re being ridiculous. You two have been trying to have a baby in every way possible for years. You’re just nervous because he’s almost here. You’re going to be a great father and—”
“I was going back and forth to Texas in May...We might’ve had sex once during that month. Maybe.”
I stilled. I remembered that.
Amanda had been complaining about how little he was at home due to his job. He’d been demoted and his company was making him do all the grunt work, denying his request to attend out-of-state meetings via video chat.
I remembered her crying about how alone she felt, how she didn’t think Barry was as serious about having a natural born baby as she was because he’d started talking about adoption.
Still, I refused to believe that Amanda’s baby wasn’t his. Who else could it have belonged to?
“Barry, I think you’re being paranoid...That one time could’ve been the time you know? I think you should call and discuss this with her. I don’t think I’m the right—”
“It’s not mine.” He groaned. “Meet me at the Marriott around the corner from your job. I know you two are supposedly great friends, but I need to show you something.”
“Okay...” I hung up and called Ryan.
“Hey baby,” he whispered. “I’m in a meeting. What’s going on?”
“I need you to pick the girls up from dance practice today.”
“Okay, not a problem. Is something wrong?”
“No, I—” I was about to tell him that Barry had called me crying about Amanda, but there was a strange voice in the back of my head telling me not to. “I need to run a few errands and I won’t be able to pick them up on time. That’s all.”
“Okay babe. See you at dinner.”
When I made it to the Marriot’s lobby, I saw Barry hurling pennies into the wishing well, cursing at any one who dared to stare at him.
His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.
I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around in a rage. But then his eyes softened and he hugged me tightly. “Thank God you’re here...Come with me.”
He motioned for me to follow him inside the hotel’s upscale lounge and ordered a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the menu. Sighing several times, he shook his head over and over.
“I’ve never really liked wine, Claire.” He filled his glass until it slightly overflowed. “It was always Amanda’s thing. I always thought it tasted like horse shit. The more expensive it is, the worse it tastes.”
He’s losing it...I knew I should’ve called Amanda on my way over here... I’ll go call her in the restroom...
“Barry, I’m going to run to the—”
“She insisted on having this very brand at our wedding. Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
He took a large gulp and exhaled. “Yep. 1975 Chateau Trotanoy—it’s a Bordeaux...And it’s still as disgusting as it was on the day I married her.”
“Barry...”
“That’s why I find it quite fitting to drink now, especially since I’ll be filing for a divorce in the morning.”
WHAT!
“I don’t feel comfortable with you telling me this.” I stood up. “You need to go home and talk to—”
“My wife? My philandering, lying, ‘doesn’t-give-a-shit-about-me’ wife? I don’t think so.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slid it to me. “I hired someone weeks ago to follow her, to find out where the fuck she was spending all her extra time.”
I sat down and opened the envelope, flipping through the pictures: Amanda was shopping at a few boutiques, hanging out with me, and attending first time mommy classes.
I stopped flipping and put the stack down. “Okay. I need you to listen to me. I really don’t think—”
“I didn’t believe it was true either. I mean, my guy would always come back with the same photos week after week. She was at home, at your house, out shopping. Pretty typical stuff on the surface and I almost called him off the job. I thought I was being paranoid. But then one day at dinner I happened to ask her about you. I said, ‘So, how has Claire liked being a freelance marketing director? Is it better than working for an ad agency?’ She said you hadn’t worked at home for years, that you’d been working sixty hour weeks at Cole and Hillman downtown. So I asked myself: If Claire isn’t at home during the day, who is Amanda going there to see? It can’t be Claire’s daughters. They’re in school. So...”
It took me several minutes to absorb what he was trying to imply, several more to even wrap my head around such a ridiculous assertion.
“No.” I shook my head. “No...There’s no way. There’s a perfectly good explanation if...” I picked up the packet of photos and flipped through them again.
They were all circumstantiaclass="underline" Amanda’s car parked outside my house—she loved my neighborhood’s walking course and often left her car in my driveway to do one of her “thought-walks.” There were pictures of her walking along the Hot Metal Bridge in the rain, sitting alone on a bench—probably crying about Barry not being at home again. But then there were pictures of Ryan, my Ryan, sitting next to her on that bench. Kissing her on that bench.
There were pictures of their cars parked outside the Hilton in Greentree—the next town over, pictures of them walking through the city park hand in hand, pictures of them having sex from the open windows of my bedroom.
The date on this bedroom photo is yesterday...
Barry lifted a photo from my hands. “I went to that Hilton myself...I followed them there in a cab. I waited thirty minutes before going inside and pretended to be her brother who happened to get lost on the way. I walked over to the front desk clerk and said, ‘My sister is always bragging about how nice this place is, how often she uses it for a getaway. You must see her a lot huh?’ You want to know what that clerk said to me?”
“No.” Tears fell down my face.
He took another gulp of his wine. “I’ll tell you anyway. He said, in the most annoyingly excited salesman voice, ‘Oh yeah...She’s been coming here off and on for over a year. She tips every time she comes and she just loves our room service menu.’ For over a year, right under my goddamn nose...”
His face reddened and he shook his head. “I wanted to go up there and confront them, but I knew I would’ve killed them—both of them. I can’t pretend that I don’t know anymore, Claire. I can’t pretend to be happy about a baby that’s not mine, and when I got this last set of pictures today, I made up my mind... I’ve hired a lawyer and I’m telling her it’s over tonight. I just thought I would let you know the real reason why before she lied to you like she lied to me.” He banged his fist on the table.