Page 80 of The Housekeeper

Chapter Thirty-three

How do Idescribe the next few months?

Frustrating? Exhilarating? Mundane? Terrifying?

In truth, they were all those things, sometimes separately, sometimes in combination, occasionally even all at once.

I lived those first weeks after Harrison got back from Whistler in constant fear of being found out, that I would say or do something that would betray me, much as I’d betrayed my vows, and that Harrison would somehow instinctively sense I’d been unfaithful.

He’d come home from the West Coast energized and full of ideas. “Honestly, babe,” he told me repeatedly in the days immediately following his return, “it was the best thing I could have done. Meeting with those other writers, talking through shit, listening to their speeches, hearing their insights, learning from their mistakes, just being around them…it was mind-blowing.”

“Sounds amazing,” I said, trapped in the guilt of my own rather mind-blowing experience.What’s the matter with me?I berated myself constantly.Have I no self-control? Does my husband’s selfishness justify my jumping into bed with the first man who offers me a sympathetic ear?

As with the previous time Roger and I had been together, I’d regretted my actions almost immediately, and breathed a deep sigh of relief that he was heading back to Detroit and I would likely never see him again.

“You know that you can call me anytime,” he’d said as he was leaving.

“I won’t,” I told him. “I can’t.”

“I know,” he said, kissing me, tenderly, one last time. “Take care of yourself.”

I’d watched him walk toward his waiting Uber, determined to recommit myself to my marriage. I told myself that whatever problems Harrison and I had could be worked through. All that was needed was a little patience and a good deal of fresh resolve. We had to learn to talk about our issues without assigning blame. We had to “keep the lines of communication open,” as Roger had said in reference to my father.

Intellectually, I understood that you can never change another person, that to try means to be constantly frustrated, that the only person you can change is yourself. So I determined to do just that. I would be the best wife, the best mother, the best listener, the best lover. Whatever my husband wanted, I would try my damnedest to provide. I would be supportive, not critical. I would think before speaking. I would carefully consider my responses, refuse to take offense, to argue, to overreact. I would take great pains not to “ruffle any feathers.”

To this end, I cut back on my weekend appointments, made sure I was home for dinner every night, and gave Harrison frequent massages to ease his aching back, sore from long hours spent hunched over his computer, at long last putting the finishing touches on his new book.

Happily, Harrison seemed to have reached the same conclusions as I had during his brief time away. Perhaps determined to atone for leaving me on my own to cope with both my mother’s death and its unpleasant aftermath, he was attentive, caring, and thoughtful. He stopped complaining about my work schedule,was helpful around the house, playful with the kids, and openly affectionate with me.

Our marriage seemed back on track, and I determined that I would never do anything to derail it again.

As for my father, I followed Roger’s advice and called weekly, determined to keep those lines of communication from shutting down. These conversations were short and often frustrating—we rarely discussed anything other than the real estate market or the weather—but I persevered.

More often than not, it was Elyse who answered the phone, and she was always friendly and eager to chat. In keeping with my newfound resolve regarding Harrison, I went out of my way to be courteous, to not take offense, to not jump to unwarranted conclusions, to keep my so-called “paranoia” at bay.

Rather than fight Elyse—a fight I would surely lose—I determined to “kill her with kindness.” I decided that any woman who could put up with my father deserved the benefit of the doubt, and I resolved to cut her some slack. The truth was that, whatever ulterior motives Elyse might have had, she made my life easier.

And, at that moment, I desperately needed my life to be easier.

I knew from Tracy that Elyse had moved upstairs and was now openly sharing my father’s bed. How long, I wondered, before the two of them moved across the hall into the master suite?

Part of me was appalled. My mother had just died, for God’s sake. Wasn’t it a little early for my father to be playing house with another woman? But part of me also recognized that my father wasn’t getting any younger and that, surely, he was entitled to whatever happiness he could find.

“She’s actually pretty cool,” Tracy said to me one night as we sat in the family room of my house, finishing off a bottle of red wine and admiring my newly decorated Christmas tree. It was almost eleven o’clock. The kids were asleep. Harrison hadexcused himself an hour earlier to go watch TV in the bedroom. Outside, a light snow was falling.

Maybe it was the lateness of the hour. Or the holiday atmosphere. Or the wine. Whatever the reason, I was finally starting to unwind, to feel more relaxed about life in general, more optimistic about the future.

A mistake.

What’s that old expression? If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans?

Not quite on the money but close enough.

“Did you know that Elyse used to be an actress?” Tracy asked.

“An actress? Really?”

“A long time ago. When she lived in L.A. She was in a few episodes ofThe Young and the Restless,and she almost got a lead role in some big blockbuster, but she wouldn’t sleep with the director, so…”