a bit farther out into the world without the other. Our phone calls and visits became less frequent and at some point along the way, we agreed to see other people, testing the waters of single life while staying married. Our predicament was odd—nothing felt horribly wrong, but nothing felt right either. The essential dilemma for me was whether I could become the person I wanted to be—someone who lived a creative life, openly searching for meaning—within the confines of our marriage. I doubted it. Jack wanted simply to live his life, not examine it endlessly. We were wired differently. In August of 1997, four years into our living at opposite ends of the country, we agreed to divorce, promising to remain close.
Deciding it would be best to break the news to our parents in person, Jack and I visited them together on Cape Cod in early 1998. We hoped to alleviate their fears of a fractured family by showing them that we remained friendly and wanted only the best for each other. Our split would not cleave the family. We could behave civilly at holiday gatherings; in fact, we would be genuinely glad to see each other.
Malabar and Ben had been married just over four years by this time, and although my mother never fully forgave him for staying with Lily when their affair was discovered, their passion went undiminished. They had fallen into an easy domestic routine with traditional roles: Ben made the cocktails, stoked the fires, grilled the meats; Malabar orchestrated the home, their social calendar, and everything else. And although she spent far less time in the kitchen than before, my mother could still, seemingly effortlessly, produce extraordinary meals. On this night, she prepared roasted lamb chops, bulgur tabbouleh, and sautéed greens, a succulent and hearty dinner.
Shortly after we all sat down at the table to eat, Jack cleared his throat and delivered an eloquent monologue on how, despite the affection he and I felt for each other, we’d decided to go our own ways once and for all.
“Have you filed yet?” my mother asked.
Even though my mother and I were still cool toward each other—the fight we’d had in my apartment always fresh in my mind when we were together—I was caught off-guard by the question’s practicality. “Not yet,” I said. “I mean, we plan to soon, but we wanted to let you know first.”
“Well, thank God the decision is finally made.” Ben lowered his large hands to the table with a thud. “I don’t think I could have stood another year of limbo.” He reached for the mint sauce and spooned some over his chop. “Malabar, you’ve outdone yourself, as usual.”
“Isn’t the lamb fantastic?” my mother said. “If you can believe it, it’s from New Zealand.” Then she added sotto voce, “We bought it at Costco.”
Jack and I had been living on two different coasts for years, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that our parents had anticipated the demise of our marriage. Still, I was expecting a more emotional response, along with some assurance of love and support. Not only were Ben and Malabar unfazed by the news that our marriage was officially over, they were uninterested in discussing the matter further.
What did endlessly fascinate them, however, was the scandal unfolding at the Clinton White House. Malabar dissected the incriminating stain on Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress. Ben ranted about Bill’s boundless libido. And both castigated Hillary for her unseemly ambition, which somehow, to them, made her culpable in her husband’s philandering.
“You know what just galls me?” Ben said with disgust.
Malabar put down her fork and gave her husband her full attention.
“That no one considered Chelsea’s well-being. Not for one minute,” my stepfather said.
My mother shook her head.
Jack squeezed my knee under the table and we locked eyes. This was the aspect of our parents’ affair that had always horrified Jack most: not that they had betrayed their spouses, not the elaborateness of their deceptions, but that they had used me to facilitate their relationship and never acknowledged the pain that had caused me.
A door slammed shut in Jack. I could see it in his eyes. He’d forgiven our parents their affair and tolerated their speedy marriage, but this was too much.
“You know what galls me?” he said, as calmly as if he were asking about the weather. He folded his napkin and placed it alongside his plate. “Hypocrisy.” Then he stood, nodded goodbye to me, and left the table and their house for