The Affair. Colette Freedman

      “You were always such a procrastinator.”

      Kathy moved the phone away from her mouth and took a deep breath. Sometimes her older sister’s schoolmarmish tone set her teeth on edge. “I know, I know. Can you do it?”

      “Seriously, Kathy? Brendan is seventeen, and Theresa is fifteen. I really don’t think they need a babysitter. . . .” Julia Taylor began.

      “—Fine,” Kathy interrupted, a little more sharply than she’d intended. “I’ll ask Sheila.” Sheila was Julia and Kathy’s younger sister, and Kathy knew that Julia was always a little envious of the amount of time Sheila spent with Kathy’s kids.

      “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Julia said hurriedly. “I was just saying that I thought they were old enough to take care of themselves.”

      “I know they are, but at least if you’re here they’ll both study for their last few exams, instead of vegging out in front of the TV all night.”

      “I suppose Robert is out.”

      “He’s entertaining a client,” Kathy said smoothly, the words tasting bitter and flat in her mouth.

      “And you’re left to do the Christmas shopping, I suppose.” Julia never made any secret of her dislike for Robert.

      “Can you do it or not?” Kathy allowed a little of the terrible, bubbling anger that seemed to be caught in the pit of her stomach to come to the surface. “Yes or no? I don’t need the lecture.”

      “Yes, I’ll do it.” There was a long pause, then Julia added, “Are you all right? You sound upset.”

      “I’m just tired. It’s too close to Christmas, and I’ve barely done anything. I guess I’m just panicking a little. All the stores are open late, and if I cross a few more presents off of my list, I’ll be happier.”

      “No problem. What time do you want me to come over?”

      “Right now.”

      “Aw, Ma, not Aunt Julia!” Brendan was halfway through buttering what looked like an entire loaf of bread. He was making himself a quick snack. “I’m seventeen!”

      Kathy gathered up the clean laundry from the dryer and dumped it into the cracked plastic basket. Brendan was a younger version of his father and looked and sounded enough like him to disconcert her on occasion.

      Theresa burst into the kitchen in a billow of icy air. She too had inherited her father’s looks, but not his height. “Practice got out early. I’m starving,” she announced and snatched a slice of buttered bread from the pile Brendan was busily creating. Normally it would have instigated an argument.

      “We’ve got Julia babysitting us tonight,” Brendan said glumly.

      “Ma!” Theresa turned the single word into an accusation.

      “I know, I know,” Kathy snapped.

      The two children read the warning signals and kept quiet.

      “It would be great to be able to go out and trust you both to get your homework done. But I can’t. That’s why I’ve got to get your Aunt Julia to watch you. Trust me, I like it even less than you do. I’m the one who had to listen to her lecture me.” Hugging the basket of clothes like a shield, she hurried from the kitchen before she said anything else.

      Kathy thumped up the stairs, angry with herself for getting annoyed with the children. It wasn’t their fault. She’d spent the day trying to make sense of what she’d discovered in her husband’s office. All the bits and pieces went around and around in her head, a hideous jigsaw of half-truths, suppositions, and lies. By the time the kids had come in from school, there was a sick headache sitting behind her eyes and a ball of acid indigestion lodged in her stomach. Even watching Brendan butter the bread was enough to nauseate her.

      Balancing the laundry basket on her hip, she dumped the clothes on her bed and began to sort through them, the simple, mundane task distracting her. Theresa’s socks—every one a different shade; Brendan’s school tee shirts, all of them stained yellow beneath the arms; Robert’s boxer shorts. She stopped and held them in her hands. The material was still warm from the dryer. When had he started wearing boxers?

      It was another question. Suddenly, she had nothing but questions. She’d been married to Robert for eighteen years and had known him for three years before that. Twenty-one years. She knew a lot about him—she had thought she knew everything. But now it was becoming apparent that she knew damn little about the man she’d married. She shook her head suddenly, the savage movement setting off the pain behind her eyes. This wasn’t the man she had married. The Robert she had married would not have lied to her. The Robert she had married respected her. Loved her.

      She wondered when that had changed.

      When they’d first married, he had worn Jockey briefs. Always the same brand, always plain white. She frowned, trying to remember when that had changed. A year, no, almost two years ago. About the time he’d started going to the gym.

      He’d taken up going to the Boston Sports Club on Bulfinch, near Government Center. He had told her the three-year membership came courtesy of a client. Then one day he had come home with a packet of boxer shorts that he’d bought at the Gap in Coolidge Corner. All the guys in the gym were wearing them, he told her; he felt a bit out of place wearing briefs.

      Wadding the boxer shorts into a ball, she shoved them into Robert’s underwear drawer. Was it a lie? Was it the truth? Nothing made sense anymore.

      Kathy then did something she rarely did: she turned the lock in the bedroom door, locking herself in. She then took off all of her clothes and looked at herself. Really looked at herself, naked, vulnerable, exposed. Standing with her back against the wall, she stared at herself in the unforgiving mirrored doors. She saw the pasty, slightly flabby body of a forty-three-year-old woman who looked at least three—maybe even five—years older. Her breasts were heavy. They were a nice shape; however, they had already lost their elasticity and were hanging lower than she would have liked. Her belly was similarly full, soft, with a circle of baby fat that had never quite disappeared. Her legs were good, Kathy thought, and she allowed herself a brief moment to admire her long legs before she glanced at her unmade face. There were lines around her eyes, etched into the corners of her mouth, tiny vertical strips on her top lip. The bags under her eyes looked bruised, and the whites of her eyes were threaded with burst veins from crying. When she looked at herself from head to toe, fully exposed, naked and raw, she saw someone who looked like her late mother.

      Was that what Robert saw?

      Her lips moved, shaping the next question: What do you see when you look at me? She didn’t know, because he never told her. He rarely told her she was pretty. He used to compliment her all of the time. Not that she needed to be complimented . . . but occasionally, it was nice. Especially from the man you loved. She frowned. When was the last time he had told her that he loved her?

      When was the last time she had told him that she loved him? The question blindsided her. “I always tell him,” she said aloud. Reflected in the mirror, she could see the lie in her eyes. She didn’t always tell him, nor could she remember the last time she’d told him.

      Kathy slid open the closet door and began hunting out clothing. Men were so needy. Had she not given him enough attention? Had she driven him away, into the arms and bed of another woman? It was a question she didn’t want to tackle, didn’t even want to examine, because she was afraid of the answer.

      When was the last time he had told her that he loved her . . . and meant it? There was a time he had said it every morning before he went out to work. “I love you.” Then again, last thing at night, beginning and ending every day with the simple statement. That