Free Switcheroo by Goldsmith Olivia Page B

differences,” Sylvie said grimly. She gestured to the papers and cards. “Women wouldn’t be so dumb as to make calls to their lovers in Cleveland from their home in Shaker Heights. And that’s not all, Mom. When I went through the American Express bills there were dinners, lots of them. No wonder people said they saw me around town. They were expensive too. And he tipped twenty-five percent.”
    Mildred nodded her head. “A dead giveaway. Men tip big to make up for other things that might not be.” Mildred lifted two other receipts. “So you didn’t go to Vico’s?”
    “No. But Rosalie thinks I did.”
    “What was she doing there, anyway?” Mildred wondered.
    “She’s dating some guy with nine toes. He probably took her. Anyway, are you convinced?” Sylvie asked.
    “Oh yes,” Mildred said. “I’m optimistic, not stupid.” She shook her head. “I’m so disappointed in Bob. So what now?”
    Sylvie had wondered the same thing herself. As she had gone through the pile of proof, she’d moved from disbelief to fear to denial and all those other phases that Elizabeth Kübler-Ross had described as the stages of accepting a death, because what Sylvie had been through was not just Bob’s desk but the death of her marriage and the end of all her future dreams. In her heart, buried somewhere deep under her optimism and blindness, there had been a core feeling that had told her something was wrong although she had refused to listen. There, at Bob’s desk, she had had to not only face this reality but decide what she was going to do about it. She had known immediately that she couldn’t pretend, that she couldn’t excuse it, nor could she doubt that it had happened.
    “Sylvie?” Mildred’s voice was gentle. “So what now?”
    “Well, before I decide, I want to show you just one more thing,” Sylvie said, and the tears in her voice were laced with bitterness. She pulled out a small package from the bottom of Bob’s desk and handed it to her mother. Mildred looked down at the condom in her hand.
    “Well, at least he was having safe sex.”
    “The only safe sex Bob can have is with me ,” Sylvie said. “And that hasn’t happened for fifty-six days.”
    “You’re counting?” Mildred asked. “It’s a bad sign if you’re counting.” She sighed. “My god, if I counted the last time your father and I—”
    “Mother, please!” Sylvie stood up and gathered all the evidence, throwing it into a large envelope. Then she crossed the room.
    “What are you doing?” Mildred asked. “Where are you going?”
    “Upstairs to pack.”
    “Pack?” Mildred echoed as her daughter disappeared into the hall. “Oh no, Sylvie. You mustn’t do that.” She ran up the stairs after her daughter. I already have one ex-in-law on the cul-de-sac. You can’t leave the house.” Sylvie was already in her bedroom, and by the time Mildred got there she had thrown an opened suitcase onto the bed. In fact, she had already thrown some of her cotton underpants into it. “Sylvie, don’t do it. This is where your life is.”
    Sylvie opened the closet door, took out a blouse and a suit—a Karen Kahn she hadn’t worn since the twins’ eighth-grade graduation—and threw them into the bag. “What life? This is not a life. It’s a sham. I have to go. I’m married to a man who not only cheats and lies but also has his toenails buffed.” She knew she was as angry at herself as she was at Bob, because some part of her had suspected something and another part—the stupid part—had refused to acknowledge it. Sylvie picked up the little lamp on her dressing table, unplugged it, and threw it into the suitcase.
    Mildred put the lamp back. “You won’t be doing much reading for a while, I think. But if you were to pick up a book, may I suggest A Week in Firenze ? Camilla Clapfish is such a good writer. She knows everything about middle age.”
    “No. I’ll be too busy calling lawyers,” Sylvie said bitterly. “You know,