Page 41 of Look on the Bright Side

A blue balloon read, I do miss you, but I have to stop. I love my wife and I don’t want to make a huge mistake. I’m sorry.

The gray balloon below it said, I can’t believe you’re just going to throw this all away. Please, please reconsider. There were no further messages.

That was from Camille Dupont. Weird. Ellie didn’t know anyone by that name. She didn’t think Gerald did, either. Could these be someone else’s messages?

Her legs suddenly felt weak and wobbly. Don’t look, said a distant voice in her head. But no, already her eyes were roaming around the screen. She wasn’t terribly familiar with personal pages on Facebook, since she didn’t use hers much. But there, in the upper-right-hand corner, was a picture of Gerald.

It was a nice picture. A picture that, if you expanded it, would show Ellie standing right next to him, both of them smiling. It had been taken at the family picnic last summer. But in this image, Ellie had been cropped out.

So her husband did have a Facebook page. Gerald R. Smith, member since last year. He’d posted three times, all shots of the water—sunset over Mayo Beach, the autumn colors over by the kettle ponds and a storm rolling in on the ocean side. That was it. No photos of the kids or grandkids…or her. The biographical information listed him as a graduate of Nauset High School and Boston University. He was married. Was friends with twelve people. No one she knew. Wait. Jack Farraday, that name was familiar. He’d been a high school buddy who used to live in Orleans. She and Gerald had met Jack and his wife (Karen? Caroline?) a few times way back when. But the Farradays had divorced years and years ago, and they hadn’t stayed in touch. Luis Gonzalez, right. A fellow nurse from Gerald’s hospital days. Otherwise, no one she knew. None of their kids. Not his cousin, Cynthia. Not his own father, who had quite an active social media presence.

Ellie had a page for the gallery, of course, but that was all. She was on Instagram for work, and also so she could see what the kids were up to from time to time…mostly Addison posting pictures of the girls, which made that platform worthwhile. Otherwise, she generally posted and left.

Back to Gerald’s messages. Jack Farraday had said, Hi, Gerald, how’s the fam? I live in Florida now! You should visit. Great fishing!

Gerald had replied, Everyone’s great. I’ve got three grands now, can you believe it? Glad you’re doing well. No further chatting.

Otherwise, just messages from this Camille Dupont person. There were so many balloons. This didn’t…this didn’t make sense. Hands shaking, she clicked on Camille Dupont’s picture and came to the woman’s page.

Camille was attractive. Long, straight brown hair, artfully highlighted; a big smile. Good makeup, probable Botox or just excellent genes. She was pretty. Here she was in Times Square with a female friend. On horseback in Wyoming. She had gone to Bali. She did yoga. Gerald missed and cared about her.

Ellie stood up fast and took a step back, as if she could walk away from the knowledge, and hit her head on a beam. She barely noticed.

On September twenty-fourth of last year, Camille had reached out to Gerald. OMG, I can’t believe you’re finally on social media! How ARE you, Gerry?

Gerry. The very first time she’d met him, he’d introduced himself as Gerald, and she’d called him just that. A week later, he told her he hated being called Gerry, and appreciated that she used his full name. She had never, ever thought of him as Gerry. His parents never called him Gerry. His coworkers didn’t, either.

But Gerry had reached right back. The words blurred, and between the stifling air up there and the vise that seemed to be crushing her chest, Ellie thought she might faint.

Then he called out, and she stuffed the iPad under the box and went down the stairs.

Was she dreaming? She was happily married, right? But the iPad…

All night long, as Ellie lay in Harlow’s old bedroom, her brain bounced away from what she had found—those messages she had read, the ones she hadn’t yet. I must have misinterpreted something. There has to be a mistake. It felt as if millions of tiny bees had made a home under her skin. She couldn’t hold a single thought, since too many were banging at the door of her brain. Then something mundane and irrelevant would appear. Had she asked Meeko to repaint the back wall? She had, right? Was she supposed to babysit Esme and Imogen this Saturday, or next? Wait. Hold on. Had Gerald slept with that woman?

This couldn’t be real, could it? It was almost like waking up from a dream…a dream that had lasted her entire adult life…only to find that she wasn’t a wife, a mother, an artist. To find that she was washing dishes in a Waffle House on a bleak secondary highway in Tennessee or Kentucky, and all that happiness, all that love and security, was as ephemeral as fog.

Obviously, she didn’t sleep.

•••

The next morning, Gerald went for his usual five-mile run. The second she heard the front door close, she yanked down the attic stairs and retrieved the iPad. She’d take it to work, where she could read everything, then make a decision about what to do. Her mind was blurry from fatigue, and her whole body felt the sick buzz of adrenaline.

He would be gone for only about forty minutes. She threw on some clean clothes, grabbed her bag, stuffed the iPad deep inside it and headed for her car, tears of rage and anguish blurring her vision. Got behind the wheel, slammed the door and tore out of the driveway so fast, she nearly took out the mailbox.

Not an hour later, she had learned a lot.

At 8:43 a.m., Gerald texted to ask how her headache was.

Better, she replied.

Want me to bring you lunch today?

All set, thanks.

When Meeko got to the gallery at 10:12 a.m., she was already locked in her office. “I have a lot to do today,” she said rudely. “Earn your keep and don’t interrupt me unless there’s a fire or a tsunami.” She closed the door in his face, relocked it and grabbed her thermos of coffee.

Before today, she had loved her office, which had a skylight and a view of the courtyard. After today, it would be the place where she’d learned about her husband’s betrayal.

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