“And he’s my brother, Tatum. Don’t you see how you can’t have it both ways: make these decisions without me for your dad, and yet insist that you know best with Leo?”
Ben sliced off an enormous pat of butter, though he knew I was on a rigid diet forAs You Like It, and plopped it in the pan. He stood there frozen, waiting for this to drive the wedge further into our evening.
Finally he said: “Tate, you know me. You think I want to be like this? You think I am the type of guy tonotgive him the benefit of the doubt if it was at all reasonable?”
I considered this, and it was true. If anyone could make room for empathy, it had always been Ben. But before I could reply, he said:
“So you have to do this my way. That’s it. I’m not negotiating on my own brother.”
And so I swung up the cutting board, dumped the peppers onto the pan, and said: “Since we’re doing everything your way, I’m going to read my lines. Just leave me dinner in the fridge.”
Our child-free evening turned into an adult-free evening as well.
Today, at Commitments, Leo greets us with a hug that is tighter than the one from Dr.Wallis. He is skinny and disheveled, but his skin glows and his smile fans all the way to his eyes. He sinks into the white couch in the family meeting area.
“Thanks for coming all this way,” he says. Then: “Does Ben know you’re here?”
I shake my head.
“Thanks for that too. I don’t want to fight with him.” He rubs his eyes, and it occurs to me that Ben is fighting so many of us these days. I think of my husband, alone in the kitchen chopping peppers, and part of me wants to race home, lean in and listen, try to figure out what’s ailing him too. It’s not like I wasn’t angry with my father for a long time, it’s not like I can’t remember what it feels like to be furious at someone for wrecking their life. It’s just that giving in, being less obstinate, was probably easier for me because I was always more malleable than Ben, like I have an emotional spigot that I turn on and access. I’m an actor, after all. Being malleable is my calling card.
“I should probably tell him when we get back,” I say. “I don’t want him to think that I’m keeping things from him.”
“OK,” Leo says, nodding.
“But we’ll do what’s best for you,” my dad says in his best sober coach voice.
“I don’t want him to be angry with me,” Leo says. “It’s not helping. Like, he comes down here, and it’s just allYou need to get back to work,orTake responsibility for this.It stresses me out. Like he can’t understand that he’s not my dad.”
A small voice in me wants to say,Stop blaming your brother for your own choices,but I’m pretty sure that’s Ben’s voice from a few nights ago, so I say instead:
“It’s fine, Lee, don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything you don’t want me to. What matters is getting you better.”
“Thanks, Tate.Thank you.” He eases back into the couch. “Then let’s keep this between us right now. I hate to ask, but maybe it can just be our secret?”
I nod. “Sure, OK.”
And with that, I learn how easy it is to betray my husband.
23
BEN
JULY 2005
Our car sputters to a stop in the middle of nowhere Arizona. I’m right, of course, we should have stopped for gas, but Tatum insisted,No, no, that’s BS, they justsaythe tank is almost empty, but it’s not.
The tank is empty. Tatum squeezes the wheel and grits her teeth and looks toward me, batting her lashes. “Don’t be mad.”
“Tatum!”
“OK, so I should have listened to you. But ... you know ...”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you’re justusuallya little melodramatic about the tank running low, so I figured—”
“That I couldn’t possibly be right when the orange light is flashing frantically to alert you that we’re about to run out of gas?”
