All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,4
truly was not suspicious, nor did I doubt Robert’s character in any way. This was just a game I began as a lark and then became accustomed to playing every morning. Once I typed in the wrong password, the computer blocked access to the portal for thirty minutes and automatically opened the screen saver, which was a picture of Magic Johnson shooting a hook shot against the Celtics. Robert loves the Lakers. He was born and raised in Los Angeles and doesn’t care much about football or baseball or any sport except basketball and, specifically, the subset of basketball that is the Lakers. So, every morning I pour myself coffee and toss a handful of granola into a bowl, cover it with yogurt and some berries, and then I sit at the desk and say good morning to Magic. It’s fun. And it’s harmless. Or it was, until this morning in Hawaii.)
I long ago decided his password had to be related to the Lakers, so every morning I try some combination of Lakers names that require thirteen letters: KobeMagicWest; MagicJohnson1; Worthy&Jabaar; PhilIsAGenius; LakersForever. None of them worked and I never expected them to. That’s the thing: I really never cared what might be behind that locked door. Until this morning in my bridal suite in Kauai, with the palm trees swaying and the parrots chatting, and the surf and sea and a masseuse awaiting, when in the midst of all my bliss a funny thought entered my mind. I counted the letters in my head; four, then five, then four. It added up to thirteen, and it was just too funny not to try. So, with the innocence only possible in the soul of a newlywed, I took a sip of my coffee and entered the password that unlocked my husband’s secrets.
FuckLarryBird.
And there I was, behind the locked electronic door, inside a passageway leading to god knows where. It was probably completely illegal, what I had done. Like seriously illegal. My husband might actually have to arrest me, prosecute me, and send me to jail. A little smile crossed my lips at that thought and I knew I had to figure out how best to leave no evidence I had been in the portal.
Then I started to laugh. Fuck Larry Bird? Seriously? I don’t even know where I came up with that. Robert’s stock joke is that he doesn’t hate criminals; he merely seeks justice, so the only people he hates are the Boston Celtics. But I’ve never heard him specifically say, “Fuck Larry Bird.” In fact, he rarely swears at all.
Then I noticed the Microsoft Outlook icon. It was blinking, in an unusual way. If such a thing is possible, the icon was blinking at me suggestively. I had to click on it. I had to. So I did. And that’s where I found the photo that seemed so out of place. And that’s when the thought went through my mind: Who the hell is this naked woman? And what is she doing in my husband’s inbox?
KATHERINE
FUCK HIM.
Those were the first words out of my mouth this morning. Which should come as no surprise since they’re the first words out of my mouth every morning. They have been for nineteen years, since the last time I saw Phillip alive.
I love saying it that way. Phillip is still very much alive, and he’s better-looking than ever and insanely wealthy, too. Not that I’m bitter, much. But when I say “the last time I saw Phillip alive,” what I mean is the last time I saw him before he became dead to me.
Anyway, still in bed, and after I say “fuck him”—with the emphasis on him—I think of Dr. Gray and Thich Nhat Hanh, and I take three long, deep, cleansing breaths. I count to five on the first inhale, and curl my lips into a half-smile. Then I count to five on the exhale. Then I inhale for six, and exhale for six. Then in for seven, out for seven. And the half-smile on my lips puts my head in a peaceful place. Then I sit up tall and let my feet slide off the bed and rest firmly on the hardwood floor, and I place my palms together firmly in front of my chest. Then I take four more deep breaths, and on each exhalation I repeat The Meditation.