All That and Then Some

ALICE - Here Comes Your Man

I BURST THROUGH THE front door, holding a champagne bottle and wearing my floppy hat.

"Where is he?" I demand, like a doctor who has been called to the scene of an emergency. Vivian and Tim are in the living room, each sitting cross-legged in front of the coffee table. Tim is holding Vivian's hand and appears to be putting the finishing touches on a manicure. "Where's your dad? Where's Vic?"

Tim/othy replies smoothly, not looking up from Vivian's topcoat, "My father has retired to his room for the evening. I believe he was feeling unwell."

Right. I kick off my boots and prepare to take the stairs two at a time, but Vivian calls out, "Alice! Wait."

I pause, one foot already on the stairs and look back at her.

"I don't know what you said to Leslie, but... thank you. I think you must have helped. I don't know what happens next, but at least we're talking again. You're my hero."

"Yes, thanks for that, mother," Tim/othy mutters under his breath.

I blink, unaccustomed to being called a hero once, never mind twice in a single evening. All I'd done was explain some home truths about my best friend to my arch-nemesis over a cup of coffee and food court cinnamon bun crumbs. If that's heroism, bring on the medals, I guess.

"You're welcome! I'm glad... well, I'm glad I helped. Makes a change."

She smiles at me, sharpie lines almost completely faded now. "It does. Now, go see if you can help Vic too."

Bolstered by her appreciation, I sprint up the stairs. As I turn the corner, heading toward our bedroom, I'm stopped short when I see my husband lying face-up on the hallway floor. He's wearing his workout clothes and staring intently at the ceiling.

"Vic? Oh my god, Vic, are you hurt? Are you having a heart attack?"

He doesn't answer — doesn't even lift his head to look at me — so I move myself into his sight-line and say, more gently this time: "Vic? Can you hear me?"

"There's a crack in the ceiling," he says darkly. "Everything's going to fall down around us."

I peer up at the crack. It's the same crack I'd noticed weeks ago.

"That's a little dramatic. It just needs a fresh coat of paint. Why are you lying on the hallway floor?"

He lifts his hands helplessly.

"Pulled a muscle in my back. Peloton-ed too hard."

"I heard you were cycling like a maniac while eating a bag of cheeseburgers. What's up with that? You're always the first to tell the kids to sit down when they're eating so they don't choke. Did you choke?"

"No," he says, but his voice sounds all chokey to me.

I kneel beside him in my floppy hat, set the champagne bottle down on the floor and pick up his clammy hand.

"Vic, what's the matter, really? Can you just tell me? I know it's something. There's been something the matter for weeks now. You're moody. You're exercising like crazy. You're eating salad for your main at French restaurants. And you've been so distant with me." I pause, but when it appears no response is forthcoming, I push further. "Listen, I know things have been a little... hectic. Chaotic. I mean, a lot of people coming and going and lego everywhere and blue walls all of a sudden — although I think they grow on you, don't they — and we never seem to have a chance to talk about anything before decisions need to be made, you know? And it's never the right time for a big conversation because one of us is always coming or going. So, I'm thinking, yes, you're probably mad at me about, well, a lot of things possibly. Too many things to quite put my finger on what the main thing is, but I guess that's—"

"Alice," he interrupts me. "Alice, stop talking. Please, just stop for a second. That hat's going to fly right off your head if you get any more worked up."

I whip it off my head. "Sorry," I say reflexively.

"Don't be sorry. Don't be. I'm not mad, Alice." He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment against any potentially embarrassing masculine emoting. "I'm not mad at you. Why would I be? I'm mad at myself."

Sensing a trap, I squint at him. "For what?"

His face moves around like he can't decide what he wants it to express. Finally, he gives up and leaves it set to something between disgust and regret.

"You're so busy. You've got all these things going on. Always something new and—"

I gasp. "You feel like I'm neglecting you!"

"Al, would you stop interrupting? That's not it. I feel like I'm stagnating beside you. Doing the same thing, day by day, inching toward retirement, plodding along like some middle-aged, plodding... plodder. It's all falling apart on me. I'm going gray. I have to run and run and run just to keep the one spare tire from becoming a full set. And look at you." His other hand covers mine, which is still clutching his. "As beautiful as you ever were. Smart. Driven. Fearless. Generous."

"Please! My face is practically melting. If it weren't for a rigorous face yoga regime, I'd look one hundred."

"That's not even remotely true. And anyway, you'll always be beautiful to me. Beautiful and exciting as hell. But I do worry that you're bored to death of me. That you'd rather be living some big, glamorous life with—"

"I'm not. I don't."

"—someone like Joss Carvil. I'm ashamed to tell you, but Maeve probably already has so there's no point hiding it; I went to Union station today. I thought... well, I don't know what I thought. That I'd catch you there, with Joss? Or I'd just catch him there, waiting for you, and that I might throw another punch like that time with Peter Brady proving that I haven't grown or changed a bit in the last five years. That I'm still not the man you need me to be, and you deserve—"

I interrupt him with a kiss.

"You're interrupting me again," he tries to say around our mouths. But it doesn't stop me.

When you've been married this long (and you're lucky enough to still be in love), all it takes to get over a mountain of hurt is one good long kiss.

I pick up the champagne bottle, help Vic off the floor (he actually has pulled a muscle in his back) and lead him to the bedroom where I plan to take very, very good care of him.