she rarely did because of the rule: she could only ride to 103
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school if Shelley was riding with her. And Shelley rarely
rode her bike because she always had a gang of friends
who preferred to walk. “I bet you would like living in a
house and biking to school. What do you think?”
Henry drained the last of his cocoa, showed off his
chocolate milk moustache and said, “Good!”
And like that, it was decided.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Lane hesitated before she dropped one and then another
letter into the newest folder on her desktop: Bert-Banned.
The first letter was from a mother struggling to get over
a decades-old loss of a child. The second was from a dis-
traught high school senior whose dad had gotten scary
mad when he heard that his daughter went behind his
back to ask her grandparents for help with college tuition.
Both letters took her breath away. Both letters deserved
to be answered. But not now. In his most recent email
to her, Bert had been clear.
“To be clear,” his email began, “the world is depressing
enough without Roxie making it worse. The numbers
don’t lie. Earnest and sad are over. As is this conversation.”
She dropped ten more letters, all too earnest and sad
for Bert, into the Bert-Banned folder. The next two
went into the folder marked Sooner. These were letters
she would answer after consulting with an expert. She
had many experts on deck—psychiatrists, psychologists,
social workers—but the ones she reached out to most often
were lawyers. A woman specializing in housing disputes.
A guy who handled workplace issues. An inheritance
guru. An authority on sexual assault. A fraud hotshot.
On second thought, the letters she dropped into the
Sooner folder were also too earnest and sad for Bert. She
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dragged them out and dumped then into Bert-Banned.
She was back to none. No letters. She needed a letter. It
didn’t have to be great. Okay was fine. Just not earnest
and sad.
But for some reason every letter she read today was
earnest and sad. Where were all the over-the-top nitpick-
ers, the laughably annoying whiners? All she needed was
one irritated know-it-all and she could get on with the
important task of her day: finding a house.
Next letter: “Dear Roxie, My sister just got arrested
for drugs. She’s not a saint but—”
No. She dumped the letter into Later. Today was not
a good day for drugs. Today did not seem to be a good
day for anything, including finding a house. Finding a
house should have been easy for her. So why was it that
after quickly settling on the town they were going to
move to, she’d lost confidence about moving. Moving
was the normal state of being for the Meckler family.
Deciding to move, planning to move, being in the pro-
cess of moving, having recently moved, was what the
Mecklers did best.
Except Henry had never moved before. What if he
turned out to be unhappy in their new place? She shook
off the worry. Jem—who’d introduced her to the New
Jersey town where Lane was now looking for a house—
had given her the names of several people who’d grown
up there. People who’d moved away to college and then
moved back to start families of their own. Lane had duti-
fully reached out by email to each of them and they all
emailed back, eager to share how much they loved where
they lived. It was a great family town, they told her. An
easy commute, midsize, with an art museum and dozens
of restaurants. The schools, Lane was happy to hear, were
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Rules for Moving
well known for being diverse. There was no good reason
for her hesitation.
She opened the next letter. It was her least favorite
type of letter, a Referee Letter. The people who wrote
Referee Letters didn’t want advice. They wanted to be
anointed the winner of an argument. She dropped the
letter into the Never file. Okay. She used the next one.
answer. She opened the next letter up and read it.
“Dear Roxie, My husband cheated on me—”
Come on! This wasn’t fair, getting a cheater letter
now, less than a month after Aaron and Brielle took their
final ride to nowhere. She’d known all along that a drinking partner wasn’t a thing but she’d never really allowed herself to think of what that meant—Brielle was Aaron’s
girlfriend—until the day she met the girlfriend’s mother
in the hospital. All things were clear that night.
If the universe were a kinder place, a person whose
husband had recently died in his car with his girlfriend
would not have to answer an advice letter about a cheater.
In fact, in a kinder universe there would be a permanent
cheater-letter hiatus. A moratorium of marital discord.
If not forever, at least for a few months. And not just
for her benefit. It was for everyone involved. For all the readers—the cheated upon and, yes, the cheaters too.
Because truly, there was no way she could be helpful
on this subject. It was too close to home, too soon, too
personal, too humiliating. If she answered this letter now, she would probably say something completely inappropriate like, You think you have it bad, buster? You want to know what happened to me?
Bert would love a letter like that. Angry, snarky, full
of rage. Maybe she ought to read the cheater letter all the 107
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way through before she trashed it. She squinted—her eyes
seemed to be physically objecting—and read on.
“Dear Roxie, My husband cheated on me. It was a
one-night stand a long time ago. He says he regretted it
immediately, but he didn’t tell me for years. His reason:
he was terrified I would kick him out.”
Okay. She could do it. She could answer this one. It
didn’t sound anything like what happened to her. It was
straightforward. A no-brainer, really. Which was perfect
considering it appeared very little of her brain was work-
ing at the moment.
“Mom?”
How long had Henry been standing there? “Hey
buddy. You okay?”
“Yes. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. You can ask me anything. Come on in.”
Henry slowly tiptoed into the large closet that she’d
turned into an office. He looked like a cartoon cat burglar, hands like paws, paused midair.
Lane laughed. “You don’t have to tiptoe. I’m not
working now. What’s going on?”
“Are we moving soon?” His hands curled into fists
and dropped to his side. He looked worried.
Lane felt her stomach dip. Okay. The good news here
was that he felt safe enough to ask. She’d never felt like she could ever ask her mother about their moves. Instead
she’d waited for clues. Boxes that would suddenly appear
in t
he front hall. Her mother at the kitchen table, Yellow Pages open, narrating her search as she circled synagogues, churches, homeless shelters—any organization that ad-vertised, “We Pick Up Junk for Free.”
She remembered what that felt like so she’d been
careful to keep Henry apprised of every step. As soon
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as she found the town, she told him about it. After she
made an appointment with the real estate agent, she told
him that too.
“We can wait, if you feel like you don’t want to move
yet,” she told him now. “We don’t have to move right
away.”
“Can we move right away?” He hid his thumbs in his
fists. “Can we move tomorrow?”
“Aw buddy. It takes more time than that to move,
even for me. We have to find a house first. And we have
to get rid of all the stuff we don’t want to take.”
“The day after tomorrow?”
“Did something happen?”
Henry shook his head, hard, and in case that wasn’t
clear he added, “No.”
“But you want to move soon, like the day after
tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Henry said. “Can it be bedtime now please?”
He pulled his lips in.
Her chest felt tight with worry, but his pulled-in lips
made her next step clear. “Of course,” she told her little button-lipped soldier-son. “Let’s go.”
h h
h h
For Tell Me That Story Lane offered three choices, all of
them random moments from her day. She really wasn’t
any good at Tell Me That Story. That had been Aaron’s
specialty. It really wasn’t fair that he invented a routine that only he could do and then—okay. None of it was fair.
Henry shook his head at each of her suggestions and
she didn’t blame him. They weren’t very good. “How
about if tonight we read a book instead?”
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“Maybe you could tell me the story of how you and
Dad really wanted a baby and you had to wait and wait
and wait and then you gave up and then I came?”
Lane did not know that Aaron had told Henry that
story.
“Or the story about how you and Dad lived in an
apartment on Number Eleven Street which only had one
room that was so small you could put one hand on the
bathroom sink and the other hand on the kitchen sink
but you didn’t care because you said one room is enough,
who needs a closet? But Dad wanted more than one room
so people could come over for dinner so you moved to
the apartment where we live now. And then I came and
you and Dad had to sleep on the pullout couch but you
didn’t care because you’re a good sport.”
“Sounds like Dad told you all the stories. You know
them better than I do.”
“Not all of them,” Henry said. “What about a story
from when you and Aunt Shelley were little? I don’t know
any of those stories. Maybe one about when you went
camping. Like when we went camping and there were
loons on the lake and Dad and I slept outside so we could
see shooting stars but you stayed in the tent.”
“I don’t have any stories like that from when I grew
up. We didn’t go on vacation when I was little.”
“What did you do? Did you draw? Did you play
games?”
Games. Games was safe. “There was one game Aunt
Shelley and I played. With Grandma. But I was terrible at it.”
“Tell me that story. About the game you were ter-
rible at.”
“Okay. The game is called mahjong. It’s like a card
game that you play with tiles, like domino tiles. And
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Rules for Moving
Grandma Sylvie loved it. Only she didn’t have anyone to
play with because you need four people.”
“Why?”
“That’s the rule. Four people.”
“I mean why didn’t Grandma have anyone to play
with?”
“Because we moved so much.” Lane saw the flaw
in her explanation immediately. Her sister moved the
same amount and she always had friends. Luckily Henry
didn’t challenge her. “Then one day Grandma got the
idea that she could play mahjong if she taught me and
Aunt Shelley how to play.” Henry started counting on
his fingers. “You’re right. That’s only three people and
the rules say four. But Grandma Sylvie came up with
an idea for a new rule, which was that the fourth player
would be make-believe.” Henry looked puzzled. “The
first time we played she told me to get my favorite doll
and put her in the empty chair.”
“Was your doll always the pretend fourth player?”
“No.” Lane closed her eyes and saw it happen, first
Sylvie coming up with the idea that Lane’s Cabbage Patch
doll Delilah would sit in as their imaginary fourth, then
Shelley spitting out the news.
“Delilah isn’t here. Lane left her behind. Because you
said she had to. Since she hardly played with her anymore.
I guess Delilah is living in a garbage dump in San—”
Sylvie cut her off. “We’ll try something else. Pick a
name, Shelley. Any name.”
And so it was that on some days they played mahjong
with an imaginary guest player named Tina Turner and
on some days with Prince and on some days with E.T.
Lane shared none of this with Henry.
“Why were you terrible at the game?” he asked.
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Nancy Star
“I didn’t understand the rules.” That was only partly
true. The other part was that she realized from the start
that as long as she went through the motions, as long as
she paused long enough to look as if she were carefully
choosing her hand, or considered her tiles before discard-
ing, no one could tell if she was paying attention or not.
For her those games were a chance to daydream. Playing
mahjong turned out to be another iteration of being alone.
“I can play with you if you want,” Henry told her. “I
don’t care if I lose. I’m good at losing. I’m a loser.”
“Why would you say that?”
Henry closed his eyes and pulled the blanket up over
his face.
“Henry?” The blanket shifted. “Did something hap-
pen at school today?”
Blanket down. “Nope.” Blanket up.
“Are you sure? You seem…” She stroked the blanket
where his hair would be. “Out of sorts.”
Blanket down. Eyes open. “I have lots of sorts.” Blanket
up. Muffled voice. “You can go.”
h h
h h
From her perch in the corner of the couch, Lane scrolled
through her email to see if anyone from Henry’s school—
his teacher, Miss Mary, the nurse—had reached out through
the parent portal, but no one had. She debated calling
Doctor Bruce for guidance on what to do if Henry was
upset and wouldn’t say why, but Doctor Bruce had been
very specific when they worked out their plan. If there
was an emergency, she was to call him without hesitation.
If it wasn’t an emergency, she was to write down any
questions she had in the log she was dutifully keeping to
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Rules for Moving
track Henry’s progress and they would discuss it at their
next appointment. Her gut was clear—something was
bothering Henry. But she knew a lot about emergencies
and this wasn’t one.
Now that she thought about it, she didn’t have to
talk to Doctor Bruce to know what he would say. He
gave her the same advice every session. It was the same
advice Miss Mary gave. Lane’s job was not to try and
read Henry’s mind when he was silent. Her job was to
pay close attention to what he said and follow his lead.
What Henry said was clear. He wanted to move. The
sooner the better.
Tomorrow she’d escalate the search for a new place.
Now on to the cheating wife.
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March 15, 2017
Ask Roxie!
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Dear Roxie,
My husband cheated on me. It was a one-night stand a
long time ago. He says he regretted it immediately, but
he didn’t tell me for years. His reason: he was terrified I would kick him out.
Which I did. I kicked him out. I felt I had no choice.
I was crushed by what he did. I felt I could never trust
him again. I couldn’t trust anyone again. And I couldn’t
forgive him. So I got a divorce.
In the ten years that have passed since our divorce
not a day has gone by when I haven’t felt regret. I still
love my husband and I believe he is a good man. I be-
lieve that what he told me then is true: he had one af-
fair, one time, never again. And I forgive him.
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The problem is the trust part. I want to trust him
but I’m struggling. I’m not sure how one goes about
recovering from the loss of trust. My friends have given
me lots of advice. Take one day a time. Be patient. All
things come to those who wait. But I’m beginning to
suspect it’s possible that with a betrayal like mine, trust is a pipe dream, out of my reach forever.
My question for you: Do you think there can be a
second chance for a marriage that’s gone bad?