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“Santa?”
“That’s correct.” For days, Nina had been insisting we get Ellie’s photo with Santa. Her own mother had demanded it. Nina wanted to please her mother, and she also wanted to beat the crowds. I’d argued that it wasn’t even Thanksgiving, but my wife had vetoed my opinion by telling our daughter about the occasion.
“Did your wife question where you had been?”
“No.”
“Did she ever question your whereabouts?”
“No.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“I suppose because she was aware of my profession—of its unpredictability and its long hours.”
“Did you plan on seeing Mrs. Dunaway again?”
“I was her father’s physician, so I assumed I would.”
“Did
you plan on continuing the affair?”
“That was up to her.”
“And how did your wife seem during the visit to see Santa?”
I thought back to that night. Clearly, Nina was under a lot of stress. I know that more now than I did then. Maybe I should have paid more attention, asked more questions. But what good would it have done? The way she felt was apparent in the crease etched deep between her brows. It was obvious in the slight shake of her hands. I wasn’t blind. I’m trained to see these things, the subtle nuances that make up a person’s physicality. Nina wasn’t happy. Her workload had increased both at home and in the office. She felt in over her head. She didn’t have to say these things. I was aware of them anyway. Still, I can’t say, looking back on that night…I couldn’t swear under oath that she was all together unhappy either. “She seemed fine.”
“Describe fine to me, Dr. Hastings?”
I shrug. “She was her usual self.”
This is mostly true. Together, we were our usual selves, each of us falling easily into our respective roles. As you do.
“So there was nothing unusual about that night?”
“Not that I recall,” I say, which is pretty much how I remember it. We had dinner at Sullivan’s, although it was usually reserved for special occasions and also without Ellie in tow. But I can’t say it was an anomaly that Nina chose it. Afterward, we’d grabbed hot chocolate from a food trailer. It was a chilly evening, particularly so for that time of year. We went for a walk in the park, the three of us, each cupping our hot chocolate.
On a bench overlooking the lake, I recanted to Ellie the story of the Christmas her mother told me she was pregnant while both she and my wife pretended to listen.
“Did you have sex with Nina that evening?”
Most definitely. “I can’t recall. Probably.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My wife liked to dole out sex as a reward.”
“Were you rewarded often?”
I offer another shrug. “Whenever I did something she deemed respectable.”
“And taking your daughter to see Santa was one of those things?”
Yes. “I suppose.”
Dr. Jones looks puzzled. “You didn’t think she knew about the other women?”
