Nicholas Sparks - Two by Two

The second voicemail picked up where she’d left off.

“I spoke with a counselor today about the best way to tell London, and she said we should stress that we think it’s best if we just live apart for a while, without mentioning separation or divorce. And obviously, we should both emphasize that it doesn’t have anything to do with her and that we both love her. Anyway, we can discuss it more in person, but I wanted to let you know that I’m trying to do what’s best for London. We’ll also have to talk about when it might be a good time for her to come to Atlanta.” She paused. “Okay, I think that’s it. Have a good day.”

Have a good day?

Was she kidding? Sitting on the edge of the bed, I replayed the voicemails several times. I think I was searching for something-anything-to suggest that she still cared about me in the slightest, but if it was there, I didn’t hear it. I heard a lot of what she wanted, cloaked in terms that were ostensibly all about London’s well-being, and the subterfuge infuriated me. While I was thinking about it, my cell phone rang.

“Hey there,” Marge said, her tone sympathetic. “Just calling to check in on you.”

“It’s not even seven in the morning.”

“I know, but I was thinking about you.”

“I’m… kind of angry, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Vivian left a couple of messages,” I said. I paraphrased as best I could.

“Oh, boy. That’s what you woke up to? Not exactly a cup of delicious coffee, is it? Speaking of which, I’m on your street and about to pull in your driveway. Unlock your front door.”

I left the bedroom and padded downstairs. By the time I got the door open, Marge was already getting out of the car, holding a pair of Styrofoam cups.

Watching her walk up the drive, I noted she was already dressed for work. “I can make coffee here,” I said.

“I know. But I wanted to lay my eyeballs on you. Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Maybe four or five hours.”

“I didn’t sleep much either.”

“Liz keeping you up late?”

“No,” she said. “Just worried about you. Let’s go inside. Is London up yet?”

“Not yet.”

“How about I get her ready while you enjoy your coffee?”

“I’m not incompetent.”

“I know,” she said. “Actually, you’re the opposite. You’re holding up a lot better than I would be in your shoes.”

“I doubt that.”

Surprising me, she reached out to touch my cheek, something I could never remember her doing before. “I haven’t had to talk you down from a water tower, have I?”

Thanks to the coffee and Marge’s early morning help, I felt a bit better than I had the day before when I drove London to school. She chattered away in the backseat about her dream-something about a frog that kept changing colors every time it hopped-and her innocent cheer was exactly what I needed.

Back at home, I forced myself to put on my running gear. I hadn’t run since Vivian’s announcement-the first days I’d missed since I’d started back up-and I hoped that the physical exertion would leave me feeling more like myself. On the run I was fine despite adding a couple extra miles, but by the time I’d finished my shower, I found myself thinking about Vivian again. The fury I’d felt earlier had diminished, replaced by an overwhelming sadness.

It was almost too much to bear, and knowing I couldn’t face yet another day like the two I’d just weathered, I had to do something. Anything. My desire to work was zero, but I forced myself to go to my den. As soon as I took a seat at the desk and saw a photo of Vivian, I knew that staying at home wasn’t going to work. There were too many reminders here; too many reasons for the emotional train to start steaming again.

It was time, I thought, to visit my office.

Packing up my computer, I went to the office I’d rented. The shared receptionist was startled to see me, but reported as usual that I had no messages. For the first time, I honestly didn’t care.

I unlocked my office. Nothing had changed since I’d last been here-it had been weeks-and there was a thin sheen of dust on my desk. I set my computer on it anyway and opened my email.

Dozens of messages, most of them receipts for automatic bills or spam. I deleted as much as I could and filed the bills in the appropriate folders, until I was left with the emails containing links to the footage for the commercials. With the presentation for the plastic surgeon already complete, it was Taglieri’s turn. I reviewed the notes I’d taken the weekend before; of the six takes we’d made in front of the courthouse, three were definite no-gos. Of the three that were workable, I eventually whittled that down to two. Of those, I thought he was better in the beginning in the second take, and better at the end in the first take. With a little editing-I had basic software on my computer-I’d be able to put those two sections together. There’s nothing quite like movie magic.

Even better, I liked him in the footage we’d shot, and I was sure that others would as well. He came across exactly the way I hoped-honest, competent, and likable-but more than that, he looked good on camera. Maybe it was the natural lighting, but it was a vast improvement over his previous commercials.

The footage for the second commercial was much more complicated. There were a lot of different scenes shot from varying angles-and a particularly gorgeous scene of a meadow with grazing horses-along with many different people, and that multiplied the way the commercial could eventually play out. Knowing it would take more time and energy than I’d be able to summon, I decided to simply work on the first commercial.

The software I used wasn’t commercial grade, but that was okay; I’d already spoken to the best freelance editor in town, and slowly but surely I got to work. At lunch, I had to force myself to finish a bowl of soup I’d picked up from the deli, then went back to editing until it was time to pick up London from school.

It had not been an easy day. Whenever my concentration waned-even for a second-the emotional turbulence, and questions, would return. I’d get up from my desk and pace; other times, I would stand near the window, feeling as my chest grew tight and hands began to shake in what seemed to be an airless office. I would feel- deeply feel -my own loss in a way that made me believe there was no reason to go on.

But inevitably, because distraction was my only hope of salvation, I would return to the desk and try to lose myself in the service of Taglieri.

“What you’re experiencing is normal,” Liz assured me on the back patio later that night, after I told her what I was going through. She and Marge had shown up at my house yet again after work. Marge had brought Play-Doh and was sitting on the floor with London while they sculpted various items.

“You’ve suffered a profound shock. Anyone would be upset.”

“I’m worse than upset,” I admitted. “I can barely function.”

While Liz and I had talked hundreds of times, it was the first time I ever felt that I needed to talk to her. The day had left me spent. I wanted nothing more than to run away or find a dark, quiet place to hide, but with London, I couldn’t do that. Nor did I think it would help; after all, I would carry my thoughts with me wherever I went.

“But you told me you went to work,” she said. “You got London to and from school and piano. And she’s eaten.”