Marge opened one eye to peer at me. “It’s probably time that you tell her, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer, because I didn’t even know where to start. There was too much to lay on a six-year-old: divorce and Marge dying and moving-maybe even as far away as Atlanta-leaving her father and her friends behind.
I didn’t want London to deal with any of it. I didn’t even want to deal with it. As I felt the tears building behind my eyes, Marge reached over and placed her hand on mine. “It’s okay,” she soothed.
“No, it’s not okay. None of this is okay.” I could hear my voice begin to crack. “What am I going to do about London? What am I going to do about you?”
She squeezed my hand. “I’ll talk to London about me, okay? So don’t worry about that. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do. As for everything else, I’ve already told you what I think.”
“What if I can’t? What if I let you down?”
“You won’t,” she said.
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can. I believe in you.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, “I know you better than anyone. Just like you know me.”
The following Friday, in mid-January, Vivian flew into town to pick up London for the weekend. When I broached the idea that it was probably time to tell London about our impending divorce, she suggested that we do it when they got back. After all, she said, she didn’t want to ruin London’s weekend.
The next morning, my Realtor staged our first open house, and as promised, Marge and Liz were there, loudly talking up the house to each other in front of potential buyers. Afterward, my Realtor called to tell me that she’d detected some genuine interest in the property from one couple in particular, who were relocating with their children from Louisville.
“By the way, your sister missed her calling as an actress,” the Realtor remarked.
On Sunday evening, shortly after their return from Atlanta, Vivian and I sat our daughter down at the kitchen table and gently broke the news.
We kept the discussion at a level appropriate for a six-year-old, emphasizing that both of us still loved her and that we would always be her parents. We told her that she had nothing to do with the fact that we could no longer stay married.
As she’d done the first time, Vivian led the discussion. Her demeanor was loving and I felt that she struck the right tone, but London burst into tears nonetheless. Vivian held her and kissed her as she cried.
“I don’t want you to get divorced,” London pleaded.
“I know it’s hard, sweetheart, and we’re so sorry.”
“Why can’t you just be happy with each other?” London said, still sobbing. Her naïve incomprehension triggered such a profound wave of guilt that I despised myself.
“Sometimes it just doesn’t work,” I tried to explain. The words sounded meaningless, even to me.
“Is that why the house is for sale?”
“I’m afraid so, baby girl.”
“Where am I going to live?”
At her question, my eyes flashed toward Vivian, silently warning her not to say Atlanta. Her expression was defiant, but she held her tongue.
I put a hand on London’s back. “We’re still working on that. And I promise that no matter what happens, your mom and I will both be around to take care of you.”
Eventually, London calmed down, though she was clearly still confused and shaken. Vivian went upstairs with her and started getting her ready for bed. When she came back down, I intercepted her at the door.
“How is she?” I asked.
“She’s upset,” Vivian answered, “but according to my counselor, that’s normal. In the long run, she’ll be fine as long as you don’t make the divorce more acrimonious than it has to be. That’s when kids suffer the most in these situations, and you don’t want to do that to her.”
I bit back a retort-I wasn’t the one making this acrimonious, after all-knowing it was pointless.
Vivian gathered her things-the limo and the jet were waiting, after all-but she paused in the doorway. “I know it’s a bad time, with Marge and everything,” she said, “but we need to get our agreement squared away sooner rather than later. You just need to sign it, so we can be done with all this.” And then she was gone.
Swallowing my rage, I started up the steps so I could finish tucking London in.
In bed, her eyes were red and swollen, and she barely looked at me.
Later that night, for the first time in years, she wet the bed.
In the days following our discussion with London, she was noticeably subdued and spent even more time in her bedroom than usual. The bed-wetting continued; not every night, but two more times, and she no longer wanted to read Two by Two before going to sleep. While she let me kiss her goodnight, she no longer reached up to put her arms around my neck for a hug.
On Marge’s recommendation, I spoke to her teacher at school about what was going on between Vivian and me. The teacher assured me she hadn’t noticed anything amiss, other than a recent incident at the drinking fountain. London had somehow spilled water on her blouse one morning, and immediately burst into tears. She was inconsolable, and resisted both the teacher’s and her classmates’ attempts to comfort her.
My daughter, in other words, was struggling. After her piano lesson on Thursday, I spontaneously suggested we go out for ice cream, but her reaction was tepid. I finally persuaded her to go, but she barely touched her ice cream on the drive home, oblivious to the mess the melting cone made in the car. Later that evening, as she was playing with her Barbies, I overheard her talking to herself as she leaned young Barbie toward Ken.
“I don’t want to live with Mommy in Atlanta,” Barbie said to Ken. “I want to live here with Daddy. Daddy is fun and we go on date nights and he lets me cook, too. And I want to play with Bodhi every day and see Nana and Papa and Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep, replaying the scene that London had enacted over and over in my head. Marge was right, I thought. Emboldened, I called Taglieri the following morning, making it clear to him that I was willing to do whatever it took to ensure that London lived with me.
That same day, my Realtor called to let me know that I’d received an offer on the house.
“Well, you’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest,” Taglieri said. It was Wednesday, five days since I’d conveyed my instructions to Taglieri, and he had called me into his office to discuss the response. I fidgeted in my seat as he went on. “I got a letter from Vivian’s attorney yesterday.”
“And?”
“If you choose to fight her on the custody issue, it’s going to get very ugly. Basically, the attorney warned me that they’re going to aggressively pursue a claim that you’re an unfit father.”
I blanched. “What does that mean?”
“For starters, they want to bring in a psychologist to evaluate London, and do an assessment of her needs and preferences. I mentioned that as a possibility to you early on, if you remember. London’s so young, I’m generally of the opinion that it’s of limited use, but depending on the psychologist they use, they’re hoping to submit a report that bolsters their claims. Some of the allegations are frivolous. They’re claiming that you don’t feed London a healthy diet-that you sometimes feed her sugary junk food for dinner, for instance, or that your failure to get her to dance class resulted in her getting kicked out. But there are other claims that the psychologist might explore on a deeper level.”
“Like what?” I felt slightly nauseous as Taglieri went through the possibilities.
“That you’re forcing London into a relationship with your new girlfriend, Emily, before she’s ready.”