Nicholas Sparks - Two by Two

“The truth is that she knows what to do!” Vivian snapped before directing her attention to London. “Right?”

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she said.

“I’ll bring them to the dry cleaner tomorrow,” I volunteered. “I’m sure we’ll be able to get the stains out.”

“That’s not the point, Russ! She doesn’t have any respect for the things I’ve bought her, no matter how many times I tell her!”

“I said I’m SORRY !” London screamed.

One thing I knew for sure: Vivian was way too angry and London way too tired for something like this to continue.

“How about I finish up here?” I offered. “I can get her in bed.”

“Why? So you can tell her that I’m overreacting?”

“No, of course not-”

“Oh, please. You’ve been undermining me ever since I went back to work,” she said, “but okay, fine. I’ll leave the two of you alone.” She started for our bedroom before facing London again. “I’m very disappointed that you don’t care enough about me to listen,” she said.

I saw the angst on London’s face as soon as Vivian left and my first thought was to try to make sense of how cruel Vivian had sounded. I should have responded but Vivian was already down the steps and London was crying so I stepped farther into the room and took a seat on the bed. I opened my arms. “Come here, baby girl,” I whispered and London came toward me. I put my arms around her and pulled her close, feeling her body continue to shake.

“I didn’t mean to ruin my dress,” she whimpered.

“I know you didn’t. Let’s not worry about that right now.”

“But Mommy’s mad at me.”

“She’ll be okay in a little while. She had a rough day at work and I know she’s really proud that you did so well in school today.”

Her cries gradually began to subside, diminishing to sniffles. I wiped her tears away with my finger.

“I’m proud of you, too, Pumpkin.”

“Papa calls me that, not you.”

“Maybe I can call you that, too.”

“No,” she said.

Despite her sadness, I smiled. “Okay. Maybe I’ll call you… Donkey.”

“No.”

“Butterbun?”

“No,” she said. “Call me London.”

“Not even baby girl? Or sweetie?”

“Okay,” she nodded, her head shifting against my chest. “Mommy doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Of course she does. She’ll always love you.”

“Then why is she moving away?”

“She’s not moving away,” I said. “She just has to work in Atlanta sometimes. I know you’ll miss her.” As I held my daughter, I ached for the little girl who was no doubt as confused as I was by what was happening to our family.

It took more than the usual number of stories before London was able to finally settle down enough to go to sleep. After kissing her on the cheek, I went downstairs and found Vivian pulling items from the closet.

“She’s ready for a kiss if you want to head up.”

Vivian grabbed her cell phone and walked past me, placing the clothes she’d removed on the bed in the master bedroom. There were two open suitcases, each of them already half packed and there were far more outfits than necessary for a three-day trip. There were business suits and workout clothes, casual wear and dresses more appropriate for dinner dates. I wasn’t sure why she was packing so much. Did she not intend to come home this weekend? Surely she would have mentioned that already… but then I realized that there was no reason to believe that. I would learn what was up when she wanted me to know. As I stared at the half-packed suitcases, the phrase corporate apartments leapt again to mind. Though I’d felt hollowed out when I’d been with London only moments ago, the emptiness had now been replaced with knots.

I couldn’t bear staring at the clothes any longer so I went to the kitchen and debated whether or not to pour myself a drink before deciding against it. Instead, I stood before the sink and absently stared at the backyard. The sun had gone down not long before, the sky still clinging to the last vestiges of daylight, and the moon had not yet risen. The resulting sky-a fast-fading twilight-struck me as strangely foreboding.

I felt a growing understanding emerging along with a creeping sense of fear. The more I thought about my wife, the more I accepted the notion that I no longer had any idea what she was thinking. About London, about me. About us. Somehow, despite the years we’d been together, she’d become a stranger to me. Though we’d made love only two nights earlier, I wondered if was because she loved me or because it was a habit, a lingering residue of the years we’d spent together, more physical than emotional. But that option, as heartbreaking as it felt to me, was better than the alternative-that she’d made love to me as a distraction, because she was doing or planning something even worse, something I didn’t even want to imagine.

I told myself that it wasn’t true and even if she was vacillating when it came to her feelings toward me, she would always want what was best for our family.

Wouldn’t she?

I didn’t know, but then I heard Vivian speaking in a low voice as she descended the stairs. I heard her say the name Walter and she told him to hold on; I knew that she didn’t want me to know she was on the phone. I heard the front door open and close. Though I shouldn’t have, I crept toward the living room. The drapes were closed, the living room already dark, and I stood behind the curtains, gazing through the opening between the fabric and the glass. I was spying on my wife, something I had never imagined doing before, but the rising fright made it feel as though my free will had vanished. I knew it was wrong, even as I was craning my neck and shifting the curtain-and by then it was too late to stop.

I could not hear much until Vivian laughed, a joyful sound, one that I hadn’t heard in what seemed like years. But it wasn’t simply the laugh that startled me; it was the way she smiled and the light in her eyes, the giddiness she radiated. Gone was the Vivian who’d come home surly from work or snarled at London; the irate Vivian who’d been in the master bedroom was nowhere to be seen.

I had seen that expression on Vivian’s face before in moments of undiluted happiness, often having to do with London. But I’d also glimpsed it when we were alone, back when I was younger and still single and courting a woman I’d met at a cocktail party in New York.

Vivian looked like she was in love.

By the time Vivian reentered the house, I was in the den. Afraid of what I might say, I avoided speaking with her. I didn’t want to spend time with her and I forced myself to review Taglieri’s script, the words meaning nothing at all, even as I read them.

I felt her move behind me, but only for an instant. I heard her footsteps recede to the master bedroom, where I knew she planned to fill both suitcases until they were nearly bulging.

I stayed in the den for an hour, then another, and finally a third hour. Vivian finally came back to check on me. I think she was caught off-guard by the fact that I hadn’t sought her out. The last she knew, I’d been comforting a crying London, and because she knew me, she assumed I would try to discuss the incident.

Now, though, like she’d done so often to me, I’d left her wondering what was going on.

“Are you coming to bed?”

“In a little while,” I answered without turning around. “I still have some work to do.”

“It’s getting late.”

“I know,” I said.