"Why?"

"She's not your therapist. She's your sister's partner. I assume she's taken your side in all this, and wants you to believe that I'm the bad guy."

But you are the bad guy!

"She wouldn't do that."

"Just make sure," she warned. "I also don't think it's a good idea to tell her what's happening between you and me. It would be better if she gets used to the two of us being apart first. Then it won't come as such a shock when we do tell her."

"Tell her what?"

"That we're getting divorced."

I set my spoon aside. Though I suspected she'd say the word eventually, in the here and now, it still shocked me to hear it aloud.

"Before we start talking about divorce, don't you think it might be a good idea for the two of us to talk to a therapist? To see if there's any way to salvage what we have?"

"Keep your voice down. This isn't the time or place to talk about this."

"I am keeping my voice down," I said.

"No you're not. You can't hear yourself when you get angry. You're always loud."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. "All right," I said, forcing myself to speak even more quietly. "Don't you want to even try to make it work?" I could barely hear myself above the din of the lunch crowd.

"You don't have to whisper," she retorted. "I was just asking you to keep your voice down. People could hear you."

"I got it," I said. "Stop changing the subject."

"Russ..."

"I still love you. I'll always love you."

"And I just told you that this isn't the time or place for this! Right now, we're here to talk about London and why she should probably stay here for the time being and what we are going to say to her on Sunday night. We're not here to talk about us."

"Don't you want to talk about us?"

"I can see that trying to have a normal conversation with you wasn't a good idea. Why can't we discuss things like adults?"

"I am trying to talk to you."

She took a bite of her salad she'd barely eaten any to that point and then placed her napkin on the table. "But you never listen! How many times do I have to tell you that this isn't the time or place to talk about you and me? I said it nicely, I thought I was being clear, but I guess you had other ideas. So for now, I think it's best if I probably leave before you start yelling at me, okay? I just want to have a pleasant weekend with my daughter."

"Please," I said. "You don't have to leave. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to upset you."

"I'm not the one who's upset," she said. "You are."

With that, Vivian rose from the table and strode for the exit. When she was gone, I sat in shock for a couple of minutes before finally signaling for the waiter to bring the check. Rehashing the conversation, I wondered whether I really had been too loud, or whether it had been an easy excuse for Vivian to bring the lunch to an early conclusion.

There was, after all, no reason for her to stay.

Not only was she in love with another man, as far as the weekend went, she'd gotten everything she'd wanted from me.

CHAPTER 16.

The Sun Also Rises

I liked Liz as soon as I met her, but I'll admit that I was amazed that my parents felt the same way. While they accepted the fact that Marge was gay, I often sensed that they weren't exactly comfortable with the women Marge dated. There was a generational aspect to it they'd both grown up in an era in which alternative lifestyles were typically kept in the closet but it also had to do with the kind of women that Marge originally seemed to favor. They struck me as a bit on the rough side and were often prone to profanity in casual conversation, which had a tendency to make both my mom and dad go red in the face.

Marge told me that she'd met Liz at work. Accounting offices, I think most would agree, aren't your usual pickup joints, but Liz had recently joined a new practice and was in need of an accountant. Marge happened to have an opening in her afternoon schedule, and by the time Liz left the office, they'd made arrangements to meet for a glass of wine before dropping by an art opening in Asheville.

"You're going to an art gallery?" I remember asking Marge. We'd met at a bar after work, the kind of place with neon beer signs and the slightly rancid smell of too many spilled drinks. At the time, it was one of Marge's favorite watering holes.

"Why wouldn't I go to an art gallery?"

"Maybe because you don't like art?"

"Who says I don't like art?"

"You did. When I tried to show you some pictures of Emily's art, you said and I quote 'I don't like art.' "

"Maybe I've matured in the past few years."

"Or maybe Liz just blew your socks off."

"She's interesting," Marge admitted. "Very smart, too."

"Is she pretty?"

"What does that matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"Yes. She's very pretty."

"Let me guess. The art opening was her idea?"

"As a matter of fact, it was."

"Does she drive a motorcycle? And favor leather jackets?"

"How would I know?"

"What does she do?"

"She's a marriage and family therapist."

"You don't like therapists either."

"I didn't like my therapists. Well, the last one was okay, but I didn't much like the others. Of course, there were a few years there where I was pretty angry, and I'm not sure I would have liked any therapist."

"Have you told Liz about your anger issues?"

"That's all in my past. I'm not like that anymore."

"Good to know. When can I meet her?"

"It's a little early, don't you think? We haven't even gone out yet."

"All right. So after you do go out, when can I meet her?"

It ended up being a little less than two weeks. I invited the two of them over to my apartment, and grilled a few steaks on my pint-sized patio. Liz brought dessert, and the three of us split a bottle of wine. It took me all of thirty seconds to feel at ease with Liz, and it was clear that she already cared deeply for my sister. I could see it in the attentive way she listened whenever Marge spoke, her easy laughter, and how attuned she seemed to Marge's hidden, emotional side. When it finally came time for them to leave, Marge pulled me aside.

"What do you think of her?"

"I think she's fantastic."

"Too fantastic for me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't totally get what she sees in me."

"Are you kidding? You're awesome. You had her laughing all night long."

Marge didn't seem convinced but she nodded anyway. "Thanks for having us over. Even if you did burn the steaks."

"They were purposely charred," I explained. "It's supposed to add flavor."

"Oh, it did. Burned is often the goal of world-class chefs."

"Goodbye, Marge," I said. "And you're welcome."

"Love you."

"That's only because I put up with you."

Marge didn't introduce Liz to my parents until another month had passed. It was a Saturday afternoon, and within minutes of her arrival, Liz disappeared into the kitchen to help my mom, the two of them chatting as if they were old friends. My dad sat with Marge, watching a ball game. I was sitting with them too, not that either of them seemed to notice.

"What do you think, Dad?" Marge asked during one of the commercials.

"About what?"

"Liz," Marge said.

"She seems to be getting along with your mom pretty well."

"Do you like her?"

My dad took a sip of his beer. "It doesn't matter what I think."

"You don't like her?"

"I didn't say that. What I said was that it doesn't matter how I feel about her. The only thing that really matters is how you feel about her. If you know why you like her and she's good enough for you, then she'll be good enough for your mom and me."

Then the game came back on, and my dad descended into silence. All I could think was that my dad was, and always will be, one of the smartest men I've ever known.

After my lunch with Vivian, I went back to work, but my thoughts were jumbled and I felt out of sorts. The feeling intensified as three o'clock came and went, and I began to feel the loss of London's company. As important as it was for London to spend time with Vivian, I wasn't convinced that I had to be invisible the entire weekend for their time together to be meaningful. I wondered why I hadn't protested more strongly when Vivian had suggested it, but deep down, my problem was me. I knew I still wanted to please her and as much as that suggested a flaw in my character, that flaw was exacerbated by the obvious: If I hadn't been able to please her before, why on earth would I think I was able to please her now?

It was, I think, the first time I realized the depth of that particular problem. Even I had trouble making sense of it. Logically, I knew it was both ridiculous and unlikely why, time after time, did I continue to try?

I wished I could be another person. Or, better yet, I wished I could be a stronger version of me and I wondered whether I needed professional help. I wondered if professional help would change anything. Knowing me, I'd end up trying to please my therapist.

It's been said that parents always screw up their kids and since I'd been a people pleaser for as long as I can remember, it logically flowed that it was all my parents' fault. Why then, I wondered, did I feel the need to visit them so regularly? Why did I try to visit with my dad during ball games, or tell my mom that her meals were delicious?

Because, I thought to myself, I wanted to please them, too.

I finally left the office a little after five and drove to Marge's. I told myself that I would keep talk about Vivian to an absolute minimum even I was tired of her a goal that lasted all of twelve seconds. I whined my way through dinner and Marge and Liz were supportive as always. If I was a broken record, they were too, and while they assured me repeatedly that I would be okay, I still wasn't sure whether to believe them.

They dragged me to a movie and we had our pick of the late-summer blockbusters still lingering in theaters. We chose something fun one of those stories with flawed heroes battling really evil bad guys intent on destroying the planet, and lots of action but even so, it was hard for me to relax and enjoy it. I found my thoughts drifting to how Vivian and London had spent the afternoon and what they'd had for dinner; I wondered if my wife was sitting in the family room and flipping through a magazine after London had gone to bed. I wondered whether she'd called Spannerman, and if so, how long they'd talked.

After the movie, I tried to do some reading. My sister had a few books in the spare bedroom, but trying to lose myself in a novel was impossible. I gave up and turned out the light, and spent hours tossing and turning before finally falling asleep.

I woke two hours before dawn.

At a quarter to eleven on Saturday morning, my cell phone rang. I'd already jogged, showered, had coffee with Marge and Liz, and started to put together the questions for the patient testimonials. It is easy to accomplish a lot when one wakes up in what feels like the middle of the night.

When I pulled the phone from my pocket, I saw it was Vivian and I hit the magic button.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Russ. Are you busy?"

"Not really," I said. "I'm at my sister's. What's up? Is London all right?"

"She's fine. But I forgot to bring the vase to art class, and I was wondering if you might swing by the house and bring it here. I'm almost at the studio and if I turn around and go back, she's going to be really late."