The week after I followed Maryam to the diner was tough.
Twice at dinner I spilled a glass of wine, and once I yelled at Miss Ritu
for undercooking the fish. The truth is that Maryam probably didn’t even
notice. She had reverted to a formal manner of speaking, all “please” and
“thanks so much” and “if you don’t mind.” Not just formal — she was
absent, and it was a fair assumption that she was pondering my conduct:
Liar. Philanderer.
Also: Maryam always received a lot of texts from the hospital when she
was on call — I was used to our meals being interrupted — but now her phone
would ring, and she would glance at her screen and quickly silence the call.
Only after five or six of these calls in a row would she sigh and disappear
into her study, and I’d hear her murmuring. Afterward, her face would be
flushed, and she’d appear agitated. At first, I thought that Epps was calling
her — but then why wouldn’t she take his calls?
Another mystery — but I was sure it was linked to my imminent
downfall.
The worst part was that we still watched hospital shows together. After
dinner, Maryam and I huddled together under a blanket, Nussie climbed
into her lap, and all three of us stared at the massive television screen:
Teams of good - looking doctors raced down long corridors, dealing with
gunshot wounds, odd neurological conditions, diseases that defied
diagnosis. What was the appeal of these shows? My theory was that viewers
were frightened of hospitals — and by watching these dramas, they could
confront their worst fears.
Until very recently, I had enjoyed these shows, too. It was pleasurable to
put my arm around Maryam, pull her close, and from this secure position,
watch the mayhem on the screen. Now I sat a few inches away from her,
trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
During my darkest moments, I would take off my platinum Panerai and
stare at the engraving on the back: TO MY BELOVED HUSBAND AT THE START OF
OUR MARRIAGE. Maryam had known I would wear these words every day
next to my skin — and now they were null and void.
Epps was out there — compiling evidence that would doom me — and I
cursed myself and my weakness.
The days passed in this state of suspended animation: me, paralyzed, and
Maryam, growing more and more distant.
After a week, I could not tolerate this charade anymore — I had to act.
This time I r eplaced my tweed Italian overcoat with a down puffer jacket
and a Knicks baseball