When the Rose Briar Blooms

Chapter 1

It was raining the day my life fell apart. I used to love the rain. If it rained on a weekend, I’d park myself on the sofa with baskets of not-yet-folded laundry and a movie and call it time well spent. If it was a weekday, I’d open my office window a few inches – even if it was chilly – so the sound and the smell of it would fill the space. Forget lemon and eucalyptus oils. Rain, to me, was always the scent of productivity.

They even took the rain from me.

Where’s Holly? Is she ready? I asked Matthew, shaking the droplets from my bright yellow umbrella before stashing it in the stand in our mudroom. I’m starving. Just let me change. I slipped out of my waterproof clogs and stepped into the kitchen, where Matthew was sitting at the island, a half-full bottle of Dos Equis in front of him.

It was a Friday, the night dubbed by Holly to be family-dinner-but-no-one-cooks night. When she was four, no less. Even then, she was using clever strategies to avoid eating her peas. But it was still my favorite night of the week, despite the recent undercurrent of tension between Matthew and me. Or maybe it was my favorite night because of it. Because in public with Holly, I could still pretend there was nothing wrong.

Matthew took a swig from his beer. Holly’s sleeping over Monica’s house tonight, he said. It’s just us.

I paused, surprised. Really? Isn’t six a little young for wanting to ditch your parents on a Friday? I rested my forearms on the island and pushed back on my heels, enjoying the feel of stretching in sock feet.

Matthew didn’t smile. I set it up with Monica’s mom after school, he said. We have to talk, Kay.

The familiar weight I’d been carrying around in my stomach grew denser. This was it. After three months of replying it’s nothing, Kay, just work, when I asked what was wrong, Matthew was finally going to tell me. My mind doomscrolled through the possibilities: health, money, another woman. I sent up a silent prayer to whomever would listen for it not to be Door Number One.

Matt, are you sick? I blurted.

He started, seeming surprised. What? No.

I looked at him, suddenly unsure if I should feel relieved at the answer.

OK, I said cautiously. I reached one hand across the island and squeezed his wrist. "Then what’s going on? Tell me, Matt. You’re not you, and I miss you."

He covered my hand with his free one, and gently freed his wrist. Door Number Three creaked open.

I’m leaving, he said. Tonight.

I held his gaze, waiting for him to say more. He broke eye contact, looking down to examine the white marble of the island.

You’re leaving, I said. He nodded slowly – once up, once down – not looking at me.

Just like that?

Matthew looked up, a hint of defiance in his face. No. Not ‘just like that.’ Things haven’t been good for a while. You know that.

I reached over, grabbed the Dos Equis by its sleek green neck, and drained it in a series of gulps as I turned away from my husband. I walked the three steps from the island to the sink, tapping the bottle’s base lightly against the matching marble countertop encasing the stainless steel. We’d picked out the marble four years ago, together.

I thought of the date nights he missed while our daughter took tap and ballet.

It’s nothing Kay. It’s just work.

The distance when we were alone.

It’s nothing Kay. It’s just work.

The recent lack of intimacy.

It’s nothing Kay. It’s just work.

You know it, Kay.

Matthew’s voice shook me to the present. Months of pent-up anxiety swelled inside me, turning to rage. I whirled around, inverting the bottle with my fingers, and hurled it at the wall behind him. The green glass shattered against the kitchen’s whiteboard and rained onto the floor, a few chips catching in the tray housing the dry erase markers. The residual beer ran through the October calendar I had made up the weekend before, causing streaks of blue ink – or whatever it was inside dry erase markers – to run through our family schedule.

Matthew ducked, covering his head. He turned to the whiteboard and then back to me, eyes wide.

Things haven’t been good? I yelled. And why is that, Matt? Could it be that every time I tried to talk to you, you insisted it was work? Could that be it, huh?

Matthew stared at me, open-mouthed, brushing at his t-shirt to remove nonexistent Dos Equis shrapnel.

I guess now we both know it wasn’t work, I added. Who is she, Matt?

His mouth snapped shut. He turned away again, looking guilty for the first time. It doesn’t matter.

I must know her, I thought. A mom at Holly’s school.

Holly.

The image of our daughter’s sweet face shook me out of my fury. Everything we had made in this house since our wedding nearly eight years ago – the traditions, the silly jokes, the quietly comforting habits – was for her, for us. What was I going to tell her? What was I going to do?

Look, Matthew ran his fingers through his blond hair quickly, twice. He always did it twice when he was stressed. We need to figure out what we’re going to tell Holly, and how we’re going to handle the next few weeks, or months or whatever, until this is all settled.

I swayed slightly, the kitchen walls shifting in my vision. Every ounce of me screamed run! I shook my head, drew in a quick breath and looked at my future ex-husband.

No, I said. "You can figure out how to tell our daughter why you’re walking out on us. I pointed to the mess behind him. Clean that shit up and get out. Be gone when I get back."

I headed for the mudroom, pausing to yank my purse from its hook, and ran through the ongoing downpour to my car. I reversed, screeching the tires, and slammed the brakes once in the road. The pedals didn’t feel right.

Did he do something to my car? I thought, irrationally. No. I’d left without my shoes.

I extracted my phone from my purse. Call Anna! I shrieked.

Calling Anna, my phone chirped dutifully. I swerved to avoid a water-filled pothole and clutched the phone to my ear. Voicemail. I hung up and threw it into the passenger seat footwell.

When I finally pulled up to Anna’s duplex, I was crying. Enormous, shuddering sobs wracked me. Tears made wide, messy rivers on my face. I swiped my cheeks and staggered out of my car to her door, giving it a cursory pound before using my key to get inside.

Anna was standing in her living room, frozen. An open copy of Real Simple hung from one hand, her favorite blue blanket pooled on the floor at her feet. I’d frightened her.

Kay, she stuttered.

I drew in a deep, watery breath. Matthew’s leaving me, I told her. He’s been cheating on me, and now he’s leaving me. I crumpled to my knees, cradling my head in my hands.

Anna stayed standing, dropping her magazine onto the plum chaise where she’d been reading. He’s cheating? That’s what he said?

I lifted my head to face her and nodded. I asked who it was. He said it didn’t matter.

Anna grimaced and looked away. Coward, she muttered.

I resumed crying, distantly aware that I should ask my best friend for a tissue, if only to protect her expensive carpet.

Coward?

I lifted my face again, a silent roar in my head. My body felt like parchment, the moisture baked out of it.

Coward?

Anna stood, looking at nothing.

The realization that the last eight years of my life had been obliterated by a nameless, faceless woman had sent me running, sock footed, through sheets of rain to this house, this haven. Were the last 20 years of my life gone as well?

Anna?

She raised her eyes to her ceiling, shaking her head slightly. It was several moments before she could bring herself to face me.

I’m sorry, Kay. He was supposed to tell you.

The last thing I remember before fainting was vomiting a few mouthfuls of beer onto her gray oriental rug.

* * *

Then (Portsmouth, New Hampshire — 1997)

Have a good day? Mom said, as if it was a suggestion I might consider.

I rolled my eyes as I unbuckled my seat. M’kay, I said, yanking my backpack out of the footwell. I shut the door and trudged toward school, fixing the strap on my denim overalls.

Middle School. The fifth-grade classes of Portsmouth’s three elementary schools were now flung together as sixth graders. Already we were the lowest in the pecking order; the eighth graders were firmly in charge, and the seventh graders – relishing their elevation to the middle ranks – would be flexing their muscles, seeing how much power they really had. And us at the bottom? We’d be figuring out our own social caste system, jockeying for position – whether we wanted to or not – to see who emerged as The Smart Ones, The Funny Ones, The Athletic Ones, The Artsy Ones, The Weird Ones, or The Hopeless.

At least, the others would be doing the jockeying, each relying on support and reinforcement from their cadre of elementary school pals. I was on my own, stripped of the safety net of my three best friends, who’d decamped to the Catholic school one town over. Without them to vouch for me, it was up to the masses to decide where I’d land.

I took out the slip of paper with my locker number and combination and found my way to the right hallway. About ten feet in front of me was the thick neck and comically round head of Billy Arthur.

Perfect.

I stepped in line behind a gangly and as-yet-unknown fellow bottom-runger to avoid being seen. Billy and I had been classmates since kindergarten at Little Harbor Elementary. Six out of those seven years had been unremarkable, then Billy developed the unnerving habit of monitoring which of his female classmates were now wearing bras. He gained playground notoriety for predicting exact cup sizes, and then recruiting accomplices to cajole the answers out of the targeted girls.

Ignore him, my mom told my friend Bethany, unhelpfully, one day after school at my house. He probably just likes you.

Having developed myself over the summer, I was in no rush now to discover if Billy and I would share a homeroom.

Locker 024. My home for the next three years.

I reached for the combination dial, when my hand was knocked out of the way by a flash of red plaid canvas.

Oh, hey! Sorry. You OK? The girl asked, regaining control of her backpack.

She was tall, with dark brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail and a smattering of light freckles across her cheeks and nose. She was wearing high waisted black pants and a black crop top, Girl Power emblazoned across it in pink.

Fine. S’OK, I replied nonchalantly. Inwardly, I was full of questions. Who is she? Is she important? Was that on purpose? Did I piss her off? Crap. I took a half step to my right, giving her more room to open her locker, which was right to mine. She gestured back, after you.

I sensed her taking me in as I twisted the dial. What was she seeing? My First Day Outfit, carefully curated to make it look like I didn’t curate it at all. Two blonde ponytails, denim overalls covering up a white Union Jack t-shirt, and Doc Martens. I kept the books and folders I’d need for my first two periods, shoved everything else inside, and slammed the door shut. Finally, I met her gaze. She was smiling. Just barely, but it was there.

Baby Spice? She ventured.

A grin flashed across my face before I could stuff it down again. I shrugged, then took in her First Day Outfit with fresh eyes.

Sporty?

She executed a shallow mock curtsy, then pointed at me.

I know you, she said. Were you at that art camp in July?

I nodded, recognizing her. We had been in the girls’ bathroom, and I happened to have an extra maxi pad just when she’d needed one.

"You saved me that day. Me and my white shorts. I, like, really owe you."

I laughed and shook my head, no big deal. Who was this girl? Could she send some of that twelve-going-on-twenty-one confidence my way?

You in Room 111 for Homeroom? she asked.

I nodded. Yeah.

Same here, she said. Bell’s gonna ring. Let’s go. I’m Anna, by the way.

Kay.

"I can’t wait for Spiceworld. My cousin was in England last year for college, and she…"

We fell into music shop talk while choosing seats for homeroom. Room 111, I now discovered, was the art studio. Instead of desks, four tables had been pushed together to create a single large square in the center of the room, with chairs spanning its perimeter.

Hey, Barrett, Billy Arthur’s smug greeting reached me, coming from behind Anna.

Oh, no.

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure the teacher hadn’t entered the room yet, and grinned at me, looking pointedly at the bib of my overalls. A second chin peeked out as he nodded at me.

Wow, you graduated to an A-cup over the summer I see. He glanced around, seeking approval from the other boys, before finally noticing Anna. She was studying him, her face neutral.

What? Billy asked.

Anna shifted in her seat so she was fully facing him. She peered closely at his New England Patriots t-shirt, and then looked up at him, smiling.

And you’ve graduated to a B-cup, she said. How’s the underwire? I’ve heard it pinches.

Snorts from around the room. Billy’s face hardened, turning crimson. Who are you? He challenged.

Anna didn’t blink. Anna Becker.

Pecker? Billy said, smugness creeping back into his voice. Your name’s Pecker?

Anna rolled her eyes and shook her head, as if she’d hear this a hundred times. Which I figured she probably had. Unfortunately for Billy, she was ready for it.

"No. Becker. It means ‘user of axes.’ She leaned in again. Want me to prove it? Keep talking, dipshit."

Billy glanced around again – more desperately this time, I thought – for support. No one volunteered. He focused on the paper schedule on top of his notebook, muttering into his second chin.

Anna turned back to me, grinning. I overheard my mom say that once, she whispered. I’ve always wanted to use it.

I smiled, awestruck. Who was this girl? I thought again. I don’t think any girl has ever talked to him like that, I whispered back. Thank you…Sporty.

Anna grinned wider. Girl Power, Baby.

Chapter 2

Zzzzzzzzzt. Zzzzt-zzzzzzzzzt!

My phone was a hornet’s nest of notifications. Pawpermint Patty (Minty for short), my sister Joy’s orange tabby cat, leaped from my lap in protest, throwing a final you’re-dead-to-me-for-the-next-half-hour scowl before stalking into the bedroom.

I was sitting cross-legged on Joy’s chocolate suede sofa, cried out (for now), showered, and dressed in her flannel pajama bottoms and Salem State sweatshirt. Upon arriving – dripping in rain and snot – at her apartment just under an hour ago, I managed a garbled synopsis of my short conversation with Matthew and even shorter non-conversation with Anna. Then I sank to my knees.

Just as I had done at Anna’s.

Joy held me, still on the floor, as I cried. My initial release at Anna’s had been choked off by her revelation. This time I gave into it fully. We huddled on the unforgiving tile of her foyer, my head buried in her thick cotton tunic, until I was spent. She calmly talked me out of showing up at Monica’s house to collect Holly, reasoning that my daughter would have a far better time at the sleepover while I rode out the initial shock. Then she gently steered me to her bathroom and ordered me to take a long, steaming shower while she brewed us both tea.

I might need something stronger, I said, the heel of my hand pressed against my left eye where a post-crying headache was forming.

Tea first, Joy said firmly. And maybe a glass of water. We’ll open the wine after that, if you still want it.

I obeyed – the good little sister – and emerged later, clean of both rain and snot, to accept a mug of chamomile from Joy and a snuggle from Minty.

Joy sat on the opposite end of the sofa, facing me, her legs stretched out nearly to my lap. Matthew called while you were in the shower, she said, between quick shallow sips of the hot tea. ‘Good Day Sunshine’ was coming out of your bag. She gestured to the end table next to me, where my handbag sat.

My eyes filled again. Guess I’ll have to change the ringtone for his number, I said. I turned to my sister. Any suggestions?

I dunno. Lily Allen’s ‘Fuck You’?

I chuckled and swiped at my eyes with the sleeve of Joy’s sweatshirt, then pulled my phone out of my bag’s side pocket. Three missed calls. All from Matthew.

Well, he can wait, I muttered, more to myself than to Joy.

That was when the buzzing started, sparking Minty’s outrage. Texts from Matthew.

Buzz. We need to talk.

Buzz. We need to be on the same page with how we talk to Holly about this.

Buzz. Where are you?

Buzz. Kay, WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

I flicked over to my phone’s settings and selected Do Not Disturb, then dropped my phone onto the end table, marveling at the time. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. Two hours ago I was pleasantly tired from work and about to go out to dinner with my husband and daughter. Two hours ago I was happily married. At least I was happy. Apparently, Matthew was not.

I know I need to deal with him, with all of this. And soon. Like, tomorrow soon, I began. But I can’t do it tonight. I turned to Joy, seeking her approval. I can’t.

She nodded. You can stay here. Are you hungry?

I tilted my head back and forth. Meh. Sort of?

You want our favorite comfort food? Joy asked. She shifted deeper into her end of the sofa, bringing her fleece-socked feet into my lap. Her warmth and closeness was reassuring. I have a big fat order of dumplings arriving at eight.

I shrugged. I guess.

We sat in silence for a moment.

Kay.

Joy sat up and leaned forward, a lock of her shaggy blonde-and-silver hair falling from behind her right ear.

Did you know? Did you suspect?

"I knew there was something going on, I said, my eyes focused on the framed map of Acadia National Park on the opposite wall. It started over the summer. He started working so much more. I grimaced. Working. A new client. A big new client and suddenly he doesn’t want to have sex. A big new client and he can’t make our Wednesday happy hours when Holly has back-to-back dance classes. But there’s time for CrossFit! I drained my tea and showed Joy the empty mug. You said there was wine if I wanted it. I want it. And if you have vodka, I want that more."

Joy remained on the couch. Did you suspect Anna?

I stopped, my next big new client rant evaporating. Anna? No. Why would I? I mean, I paused, rewinding the last few months of lunches, drinks, and texts. "She’s just been…I don’t know…Anna. Nothing’s changed."

"Everything changed," Joy corrected. She stood up and collected our mugs into one hand. In the foyer, the doorbell rang. I flinched. Was Matthew here?

Joy held up her hand. Calm down. It’s the food. I’ll fix our plates and get the wine. She looked at me pointedly. "Wine, not vodka. One glass. You have a big talk tomorrow. You need to be focused."

Joy left to answer the door. Minty decided that I had been punished enough – if she only knew – and returned to my lap.

Everything changed.

I scratched Minty’s neck. So, either Anna’s an amazing actress, a clinical sociopath, or I’m not a very observant friend.

Minty butted my hand. Pet me, human. I obliged.

What did I miss, Minty? I asked.

Scratching the tabby with one hand, I picked up my phone in the other. One more text from Matthew.

Please call me.

Instead, I opened Facebook and scrolled to Anna’s name.

It wasn’t there.

I sat up taller and checked again. Not there. Did she delete her account? No, she posted something this morning. A photo of the foam heart in her cappuccino. I commented on it.

Yum! Enjoy!

She blocked me, I whispered to the cat. "She blocked me."

I exited Facebook and found Anna’s number in my Contacts folder. I pressed the Call icon. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail. Instead of her recorded greeting, I was met with a robotic please leave a message.

I laughed, my voice still hoarse from crying. "She screws my husband, and she blocks me?"

What?

Joy is standing in the doorway to the kitchen holding a serving platter piled with pan-fried dumplings, two forks tucked into one side.

Nothing, I said. I’m going to send exactly one text to Matthew, and then I’m turning off my phone.

I DON’T want to talk tonight. Leave the house. I’ll get Holly tomorrow. Do NOT pick her up. I’ll tell her that you’re away for work. We’ll talk Sunday after she’s gone to bed.

I paused, then sent a follow-up.

If you don’t like that, tough. You did this to us.

As I put the phone away, a wave of exhaustion hit me.

I looked at my sister. Will you come get Holly from Monica’s house with me tomorrow?

She nodded.

Then let’s eat, I said. This looks really, really good.

We dug in, studiously avoiding any talk of marriage, infidelity, and my future.

It didn’t occur to me until later – much later – to wonder why Joy had already ordered enough dumplings for two or three people before I showed up at her door.

A lot of things didn’t occur to me before my life fell apart.

* * *

Then (Portsmouth, New