Anders is struggling to connect with his wife and daughters, and is about to face a reckoning.
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This is how it ended. In late March, Anders took his wife and daughters to Lake Erie, on the New York side. It was supposed to be a quiet week when he and Cynthia could visit a few wineries and take Lily and Harper to dinner. He’d imagined it as a sort of reset for everyone, especially him. He’d been feeling tense, worn out by work, on edge. They needed some time away.
But the trip was a failure. On the second night, at a local restaurant (a stone cottage by a lighthouse), Anders was the only one not staring at his phone. They were like zombies, all three of them. He set a timer, just to see how long it would last: seven full minutes without a word from any of them, broken only by the waiter’s voice saying, “Careful, hot plate.” The phones went down momentarily as they prepared to eat, and, in that brief communal moment, Anders couldn’t help himself.
“Did nobody find that strange?” he asked.
“What?” Harper asked.
“Seven minutes and eleven seconds. That’s how long you were all staring at your phones. During family dinner.”
“Jesus,” Cynthia said, “you timed it?”
“That’s the part you find strange?” he asked. Lily, following her mother’s lead, rolled her eyes and picked up her phone again.
The whole week was like that until finally Anders started taking solitary walks to the small beach a few blocks away. He’d stay there for hours: It was a long expanse of sand that terminated at high cliffs, the water stretching out like the ocean, only grayer and sad. As he sat there, acutely aware of his own solitude, Anders grew angry. He’d given up everything for his family, and now he had nothing, not even them.
Things became explicit a month later. He was brushing his teeth when Cynthia entered the bathroom and said it: We need to talk. He paused, returned her gaze in the mirror, and nodded. While they finished their morning routines and got the girls off to school, Anders felt the rage grow inside him, anticipating her remarks. She would come armed with her list of grievances, her face tight, her body stiff. It was always his fault.
He walked the girls outside, waved goodbye, breathed deeply, and prepared for battle. Cynthia sat at the dining-room table, legs crossed, fingers interlocked, forearms resting gently on the table’s edge. She looked like a head of HR.
“I’m not looking forward to this conversation,” she said.
“And yet you insist on having it,” he said, sitting down the far end of the table.
“This isn’t working,” she said.
She made the pronouncement matter-of-factly. He was being terminated, laid off. That’s what pissed him off: she thought she could fire him.
“Was it my performance or just changing market needs?”
“Please don’t,” she said, rubbing her temples, signaling her infinite patience in tolerating him. Anders leaned back, resting his right ankle on his left knee.
“Honestly,” he said, “I’m not surprised.”
“Really?”
Don’t act so surprised, he thought. You think I’m a complete idiot, that I don’t notice anything, ever?
“I’ve been feeling it for several months.”
“Only months?” she asked.
He laughed. She could be so bitchy that he had to appreciate it.
“Is there someone else?” he asked.
“That’s not really the point.”
“But there is.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
“Interesting,” he said. Part of him wanted details: who was it, where did they do it, how often, in what positions, what did they whisper in each other’s ears? The other part of him wanted to beat her brains out with a candlestick.
“You have a lawyer?” he asked.
“Yes. We don’t have to discuss that now. I just wanted to let you know. As a courtesy. I want this to be amicable. We’re adults, okay?”
“I’m not sure you get to dictate the emotional tenor of my reaction here,” he said, and the indignation had found its way into voice, the strident, lecturing tone she resented so much.
“Don’t be a baby.” When he laughed, she said, “I’m serious. Please try to be civil about this? I think I deserve that much.”
“You don’t get to do that,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Act morally superior when you’re the one fucking around. When you’re the one breaking up this family.”
“As if you care about this family,” she said.
“Oh, fuck you.”
He really raised his voice with that one, uncrossing his legs, sitting up now in the chair, elbows on the table, index finger pointed. Cynthia paused, seeming gratified.
“You barely even speak to the girls.”
“That is a gross exaggeration,” he said.
“You avoid them.”
“You turned them against me!”
“It’s my fault you don’t know how to talk to your own kids?”
“What I’m saying is, they follow your lead. And you need to take responsibility for that.”
Cynthia opened her mouth but then thought better of it.
“What?” he asked. “What is it? Come on. Let me have it.”
She wiped the beginnings of a tear from her eye and rose from the table. Outside the dining room window, a hummingbird hovered at a small red feeder. Water from the sprinklers still glistened on a viburnum bush’s serrated leaves. Cynthia left the room. There was the jingle of her car keys, the front door closing, her car backing out, and then silence.
They decided to tell the girls three days later at dinner. Lily acted annoyed and barely looked up from her phone until Anders walked over and pried it from her hand.
“Jesus, dad, ouch.”
“I barely touched you,” he said.
“You ripped it out of my hand. It hurt.”
“Give her the phone back,” Cynthia said.
“We’re having a family dinner,” Anders said. “No phones.”
Lily scoffed and stared at her plate.
“Girls,” Anders said, “your mom has decided to divorce me.”
After a shocked pause, Harper started crying and ran to Cynthia, who inexplicably began crying as well. Lily just stared at her plate. No one spoke, as they waited for Anders to elaborate.
“Some things in your life will change, but a lot won’t,” he said.
“Will we stay in this house?” Harper asked.
“No,” Anders said.
“We don’t know that yet,” Cynthia said at almost the same moment.
Without looking up, Lily said, “Sounds like you two have some details to work out.”
“Don’t be a brat,” Anders said.
Cynthia turned on him. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Lily got up from the table and ran to her room.
“Great job,” Cynthia said. “Really nice work.”
“You were undermining me,” he said.
“Oh my god,” she said. “You live in an alternate reality.”
“You can’t afford to stay here.”
“That’s not really your concern,” she said.
She stopped looking at him and leaned close to Harper, kissing her cheek. “Why don’t you go play in your room, baby.” Harper hopped off her mom’s lap and jogged away without looking at Anders.
Once they were alone, Cynthia said, “You absolutely ruined that.”
“This is my fault?” he asked.
She exhaled, buried her face in her hands, and looked up.
“Have you thought any more about seeing a therapist?” she asked.
“Don’t act self-righteous.”
“If you could just see yourself,” she said. “If you could hear how angry you are.”
“It’s always me? There’s never anything wrong with your behavior?”
“I’m not doing this with you,” she said. “You’re not my problem anymore.”
The argument went on and on, and then he didn’t really know why he did it – he wasn’t even that mad – but he picked up his water glass and threw it at the wall. A little bit of water splashed on Cynthia and the glass shattered several feet from where she was standing.
“Jesus Christ, Anders. What is wrong with you?”
“You’re a bitch,” he said and left the house.
The next day, Cynthia asked him to move out. He said he’d consider it. Three days after that, Cynthia filed a protection-from-abuse petition, which was served on Anders at work. On page one, the lawyer described Anders’s alleged outbursts and violent behavior.
After calling his daughters derogatory names, Respondent hurled an object (a full glass of water) at Petitioner, narrowly missing her before the glass shattered dangerously on the wall. Such outbursts have become a regular occurrence in the marital home, endangering the safety of Petitioner and her two minor daughters. Divorce proceedings are underway, but Respondent has refused to move out of the family home, despite requests to do so.
As he read it, Anders began shaking with rage. He called Cynthia, but she declined the call and texted that all future communication must go through her lawyer. So he called the lawyer, Steph Newman, who informed him that the PFA hearing would occur the next week.
“And my client is requesting you not return to the house until after the PFA hearing, if at all.”
“The house?” Anders said. “You mean my fucking house?”
“Please don’t be hostile with me. I’m merely passing on my client’s request. And may I ask, do you have a lawyer? Because it might be a good idea to get one.”
“Fuck you,” Anders said and hung up.
He texted Cynthia again and said he was coming home to pack a bag. If you don’t want to see me, leave until I’m done.
But she was there when he arrived, guarding the doorway, her arms crossed, her weight shifted to one side.
“I don’t want you in this house,” she said.
“You want me to buy all new clothes?” he asked. “Where are the girls?”
“At my mother’s.”
Anders pushed past her, careful not to make physical contact, and went to the stairs. He took a large suitcase from the closet and began throwing in clothes and shoes. He got his toiletries from the bathroom. He made more noise than necessary and imagined Steph Newman describing the scene: Respondent violated Petitioner’s request and re-entered the house in a rage, slamming doors and throwing objects across the room.
Anders dragged the suitcase down the stairs behind him. Cynthia hadn’t moved.
“I want to see the girls,” he said.
“Out of the question.”
“According to who? You have no legal right to do this.”
“You don’t even have a lawyer,” she said.
“I don’t need a lawyer to tell me that you can’t keep my kids from me. Just because you filed some bullshit PFA.”
“It’s not bullshit. You actually scare me.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” he said.
“You have your clothes. Get out.”
Anders checked into an extended-stay motel on a busy commercial road, intending to get an apartment the following month. His first night there, the guest next door blared music past midnight and then was visited by a prostitute around one a.m. Anders lay awake thinking of how expensive his marriage had been, how expensive his divorce would be.
The next morning, he called off work and met with several lawyers. He retained the cheapest one, Eric Taylor, a man with two first names, who agreed to handle both the PFA and the divorce. Anders gave his side of the story, while Eric took notes on a computer. That night, Eric called while Anders was eating Chinese takeout and watching television.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“There’s nothing to interrupt,” Anders said.
“Okay, so I just spoke to your wife’s lawyer. And I think we might be making some headway on the PFA side of things.”
“Seems like good news.”
“Yes and no.”
“Why no.”
“She says she’ll drop the PFA, but only if you give her full custody.”
“What?“
“That’s the downside.”
“What the fuck.”
Anders stared at the silent TV.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “Can I?”
“It’s up to you,” Eric said. “I’ve read her lawyer’s PFA motion, and, I’ll be honest, I’d be cautious here.”
Anders was flabbergasted. “On what basis?”
“You threw a glass at her head.”
“I threw it at the wall.”
“I mean that’s the thing, though. Once you’re arguing about where you were aiming when you threw the glass, it’s already problematic. Do you see that?”
“So I just give in and let her steal my kids from me?”
“I’m not saying that. But you should be aware of the consequences. A PFA is a permanent civil record. It will follow you around.”
“Can we fight it?” Anders asked.
“We could try to get it dismissed, definitely. If we lost, then we’d go to a hearing. But her lawyer made clear that if we do that, the settlement offer comes off the table.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning, if we don’t get it dismissed, there’s no going back. It’s just riskier. Totally your choice how we proceed.”
Anders woke the next morning, and, because he didn’t know what else to do, he went to work. But he knew it was a mistake as soon as he walked in the door – he wasn’t in the right frame of mind. He’d been waiting three weeks for a team member, Samantha, to finish a grant proposal. That morning, he sent her a gentle nudge. When she hadn’t responded within the hour, he walked past her cubicle, which was empty. He stopped by three more times and found it empty. Finally, he heard her laugh from the other side of the floor, so he followed the sound and discovered her in Connor’s cubicle, the two of them watching a video on his phone.
“I assume this is a work matter?” Anders said.
“Just taking a break,” Samantha said, barely acknowledging him. It was one thing to procrastinate on work – she wasn’t the first person on his team to be late with an assignment – but her blatant disregard of authority was toxic.
“Seems to me like your whole fucking day is a break,” he said.
Connor, a big guy in his late twenties stood up and took a step toward him.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
For Anders, this was beyond enduring, having to confront this fragile male ego.
“Get the fuck out of my face, Connor.”
“You need to leave,” Connor said, stepping between Anders and Samantha, like he was the cubicle’s bouncer.
Anders backed away and said, “I’m reporting both of you for waste of corporate resources and insubordination.”
Later that day, Anders was behind closed doors with his boss, Michelle, and an HR rep.
“This isn’t a first-time occurrence,” Michelle said, shaking her head like a disappointed parent.
“It baffles me that I’m the one sitting here,” he said.
“You were screaming profanity at two employees. How is this a surprise?”
“Oh, come on, I wasn’t screaming.”
“I heard it, okay? I was in my office. With my door closed.”
The HR rep stepped in.
“We’re placing you on a leave of absence.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“We don’t really have a choice,” Michelle said. “But in any case, I think you need it.”
“How long?”
“We don’t know yet,” the HR rep said. “After we’ve had time to consider the case, you’ll be contacted.”
“So like a week?”
“I would plan for longer.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
They told him to leave his laptop, but they allowed him to take a few personal items from his cubicle. The whole office watched security escort him to the elevator bank. He imagined striking each curious face with a wooden bat.
Back at the hotel, Anders’s neighbor was having some sort of party. Anders could smell marijuana coming from his own room. Death metal was blaring, and several people were shouting over the percussive electric guitar. It was three in the afternoon. Anders wanted to take a short nap, just to clear his head, before calling his lawyer. But the music was inescapably loud. He screamed into the pillow and then got up and put on his shoes.
He stepped outside and knocked on his neighbor’s door. When it opened, standing before him was a man, mid-twenties, thin but muscular, his skin more tattooed than not.
“What?” the man asked. Behind him, four other guys who looked just like him sat around a table, a pile of white powder in the center of it. The curtains were drawn, the room was dark and smoky, bottles littering every surface.
“I’m in the room next to you,” Anders said.
“And?”
“And your music’s loud. I’m trying to sleep.”
“It’s the fuckin’ afternoon, man.”
“Be that as it may, your music is way above acceptable volume.”
“Why don’t you fuck off,” the guy said, leading his friends to chuckle.
“No, no, I don’t think I will. I don’t think I’ll fuck off today. I paid for this room, and I need to sleep right now. So please turn that shit down.”
The man bit his lip and looked back to his friends. Two of them stood up.
“What’s your name, man?” Anders didn’t answer. The man said, “Turn around and get the fuck out of my room.”
“I’m not even in your room,” Anders began to say. But before he’d finished the sentence, a left jab was connecting with his nose, breaking it instantly. It was so swift Anders didn’t see anything before the moment of impact. Then everything was blurry and red. He fell backwards against the railing, and then two guys grabbed his legs, dragging him into the room. The first guy turned the dial on the stereo to maximum volume.
“How’s the music now?” he asked. “Is it too loud, you fuckin’ bitch?”
Then there were feet kicking every part of his body, steel-toed construction boots beating the air out of him. Someone pulled Anders’s shoe off and began beating his face with it. And then Anders passed out.
He woke up several hours later, lying prone in his own hotel bed, his face stuck to bloody sheets. The room next door was silent. When he tried to sit up, pain shot through his midsection, and he thought for a minute, I’m going to die in this shitty hotel. But he reached for the phone and dialed zero. When the front-desk clerk answered, Anders said, “Help,” and it felt like a nail being driven into his jaw.
“I’m sorry?”
“Room two-eleven,” he said. “Help. Dying.”
Soon the paramedics were in his room, followed by policemen asking questions he could barely answer. He told them to check next door, but the room was empty. Anders later learned that the occupants had paid the night clerk in cash several days earlier and had given no driver’s license. Worse, the hotel’s only camera, located in the lobby, was automatically wiped every forty-eight hours. There was no remaining footage of their arrival and they’d apparently left out a back exit.
The paramedics drove Anders to the nearest hospital, where he was given a CT scan and then wheeled to the trauma bay. He had a broken nose, a fractured jaw, and four cracked ribs. And he was bleeding internally around his heart. The surgical team operated quickly, and, when he awoke from anesthesia, on a metal cart in an unfamiliar room, he was very, very thirsty.
They wheeled him to a recovery room. Because the hospital was old and had insufficient rooms, Anders had a roommate on the other side of a thin curtain, a boisterous fat man who kept the television on constantly.
Anders’s floor nurse that first day was a man in his mid-thirties, whose deeply furrowed brow disguised his general affability.
“They fucked you up pretty good, huh?” he said to Anders.
“Yeah.”
“People you knew?”
“No.”
“That’s a bitch, man.”
“It’s been a bad few days.”
“Sometimes the universe just takes a shit on you.”
Anders woke up the next morning to five white-coated residents surrounding his bed. They lifted his shirt and prodded his belly and nodded in unison whenever he spoke. When he asked for oxycodone to ease his aching chest and jaw, they had the morning nurse fetch him a single white pill in a plastic cup.
The oxy quickly brightened his outlook, enough to make him reach for his phone and tap out a short message to Cynthia. He was surprised when she responded a few minutes later saying she was bringing the girls right away.
They arrived shortly before dinner, Lily and Harper both uncomfortable, unused to the sight of sickness and aging and the human body’s ultimate decline. They grimaced when they saw his face. Cynthia began crying. She came close to the bed and clasped his hand lightly.
“Jesus,” she said, “what did you do?”
He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time in fifteen years. The visit was short, maybe twenty minutes, with Anders asking the girls about their days and telling them a truncated version of what had happened at the hotel. Cynthia didn’t say much, but he knew she was feeling guilty – for cheating on him, for leaving him, for the PFA.
After they left, Anders ate his food and then went to the bathroom, passing his neighbor, who, he noticed, had only one leg. The other, he said, had just been amputated.
Then Anders sat in his bed for several hours before calling his lawyer.
“I’ll take the deal,” he said.
“Okay, are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Can you make it happen first thing tomorrow?”
“Not a problem.”
That night, Anders couldn’t sleep. Feeling restless, he walked down the hall again, pacing the floor, peering into open rooms, where patients sat waiting – it wasn’t clear what they were waiting for. Walking hurt, but Anders liked the pain. Most everyone ignored him, the nurses stationed at their portable computers, a few other patients wandering about in hospital gowns. The place smelled like cleaning solution and hospital food and also vaguely of shit. It was nearly midnight, and they’d dimmed the lights. At the end of the hall, there was a window facing downtown, and he stared at the lights in the distant buildings, the blazing signs, the yellow bridges crossing the river. He stayed there for a long time, just looking.
