Do This For Me Page 5

  They went on and on. People wondered if it was a gag, a parody, a viral marketing campaign for The Bug Doctor. As I skimmed the tweets, four more arrived. Then six. Then nine. Then eleven.

  One was from a science journalist with whom Aaron had become friendly.

  George McHenry

  @McGeorge

  Hey, @RealAaronMoore, people are confused. Can you explain this?

  Eight more tweets appeared. Then nineteen. Then twenty-three.

  Stop this, I told myself. You could ruin him.

  Ruin? my anger said. Like he ruined your marriage? Like he ruined your life?

  Right. I typed:

  That was a private message. I have no further comment.

  I hit Tweet.

  “The idea is we’re going to represent defendants in their criminal cases?” Amanda asked.

  “We don’t do criminal defense,” I explained. “This lawsuit is aimed at systemic deficiencies.”

  HuffPostScience

  @HuffPostScience

  @RealAaronMoore, are you admitting you tried to dm the Koch brothers?

  I replied:

  I’m not discussing a nonpublic communication.

  People jumped all over that, of course.

  What do u mean nonpublic? Its in ur public feed!

  This is satire. It doesnt sound like him.

  I always thought there was something suspicious about him. The way he burst out of nowhere with #LoveSong?

  Nah. Hes been hacked

  A botanist named Viv Westman, whose hippy-dippy flower book Aaron reviewed unfavorably a few months ago, weighed in.

  Concerned abt troubling Qs raised in @RealAaronMoore’s apparent twitter misfire.

  McHenry tried to help Aaron out.

  You need to clear this up, @RealAaronMoore. It looks bad.

  I responded:

  Good idea, George.

  I deleted the original tweet.

  Amanda asked a question about the Sixth Amendment. Emily responded. I clicked over to Aaron’s Facebook page, where his tweets were appearing in a steady stream. I posted an update:

  My Twitter has been hacked! Disregard all tweets!

  Cameron was waving to me from the sofa.

  “Strippers!” he whispered loudly.

  David looked back at him, startled.

  “What?” I said.

  “Hire a bunch of strippers! To go along with the clowns!”

  David gaped at Cameron, then at me.

  Tempting, but a little too on the nose. I shook my head.

  I toggled back to Twitter, checking the Mentions tab, which collected all references to Aaron across the site. By deleting the original tweet I had, of course, thrown gasoline on the fire.

  HE DELETED THE TWEET!!! HE DELETED THE TWEET!! #coverup

  No worries—I got a screenshot. ow.ly/JxQmR

  Is this for real?

  OMFG check out this press release from Galileo Fdn…Moore donated 25 grand! ow.ly/JxQmR

  I clicked on the link, which took me to a press release touting the large contribution and quoting glowing praise from “Aaron.” I hadn’t realized how nicely those donations would dovetail with Aaron’s Twitter snafu.

  I cant believe this is happening. #heartbroken

  Is that the $$ you got from the Koch bros, @RealAaronMoore? Decided to funnel it back to the cause?

  He’s saying on FB he’s been hacked.

  Yeah right. The first refuge of the twitter fuckup. #dmfail

  I clicked back to Aaron’s home screen and wrote:

  My message has been grossly misinterpreted and taken out of context.

  George McHenry quickly responded.

  Explain the context, Aaron. That’s all people want.

  I smiled. Then I looked up. Emily’s eyes slid away as she explained to Amanda, “We retained an expert to do a survey and identify statewide problems. This is his preliminary report.”

  Back in Aaron’s main feed, a handful of people were arguing that it must be a hack or a bad joke. They were being shouted down by the taunters and the mockers, as well as by more concrete evidence.

  OMG another donation! RT: @AmerPriorities: Bestselling scientist Aaron Moore donates $25,000 to the cause of fighting liberal hysteria with #RealFacts.

  Last chance, @RealAaronMoore. Explain yourself.

  I wrote:

  I refuse to be bullied. This is #fakenews!

  I clicked back to Aaron’s Mentions. They’d exploded with hundreds of tweets discussing, excoriating and defending @RealAaronMoore. As I scrolled, ten more appeared. Twenty-two. Forty-seven. Some people were amused. Others were concerned. More were offended, horrified.

  I kept refreshing the screen. The tweets kept coming.

  I thought about the woman who posted a terrible AIDS joke and became an international pariah. The man who lost his job when a sexist remark went viral. The comedian scorned for offensive jokes about gay people. I’d read about these unfortunates. I’d pitied them. Their punishments seemed so wildly disproportionate to their crimes.

  I just added my husband to their ranks. How did I feel about that?

  Be at the hotel in 45.

  I felt fine, thanks.

  The phone rang. Renfield stuck her head around the door. “The movers are on line one.”

  Emily couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Movers?”

  I picked up the phone. “Hello. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Arnault,” said a gravelly, accented voice.

  “You’re at the house, Arnault?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Good. The security code is 2739. I want you to do three things. First—”

  “Wait, please. I find a pen.”

  “With any luck, the state will make changes based on initial discovery,” David was telling Amanda.

  I jumped in. “If they don’t, we’ll be prepared to move directly to trial.”

  Arnault came back on the line, and I finished instructing him. “Any questions?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be there in two hours.” I hung up.

  What an asshole. #deadtome

  A traitor. In it for the money.

  Lets burn his stupid-ass books.

  “Raney?” Emily said. “What’s going on?”

  I swiveled away from my computer and picked up the report. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I know you, okay? I know this place. Those elevator doors open into Crazytown, and there’s no going back. But this is different. Clowns? Movers?” She looked around, bewildered. “What the fuck is happening here?”

  I understood. I did. From the outside, things probably seemed strange.

  But from where I was sitting, everything was great. I’d never felt better.

  “We could come back another time,” David suggested.

  “Of course not.” I opened the report. “Let’s dive in.”

  FIVE

  Twenty minutes later, Amanda showed Emily and David out.

  “Paralegals.” I swiveled my chair to face them. “Give me a status report.”

  “We canceled your electricity, heating oil, telephone, Internet, cable television, garbage collection and home alarm system,” said the girl paralegal. “Your husband’s cell phone was cut off. And Jamie says the car is at Murray’s Auto Body in Bedford Village.”

  “Jamie?”

  “The, um…” She pointed at the empty space next to her on the sofa.

  “Jamie.” I nodded. “Right. What else?”

  It was Cameron’s turn. “We canceled two debit cards, three Visa cards and a Discover. When his flight lands, your husband will be met by eleven clowns and a videographer.” He paused, with a slight smile. “In case you want documentation for posterity.”

 
“Good thinking. How would you both like to do a little shopping?”

  I handed them a (functioning) credit card and an address in Brooklyn. They trooped out. Marty entered. “Congratulations!”

  “What for?”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “Gaia Café, of course.”

  Oh, that. I reached under my desk for my bag. “You were right all along.”

  “You know how much I love saying I told you so.” Hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels. “What are you and Aaron doing to celebrate?”

  I leafed through a few file folders. “Getting a divorce.”

  “Naturally.” He walked out, chuckling.

  Next came Amanda, knocking hesitantly on the doorframe. I tossed a sheaf of papers into my bag. “I’m taking the rest of the day off. You’re clear on what I need for the Hyperium meeting tomorrow?”

  “I think so. I’ll e-mail you the memo tonight.” She paused. “Are you…okay?”

  I was instantly enraged. How dare she ask me that? Who was she? A new associate. A nobody. She had no right to feel sorry for me. She—

  Easy, I told myself.

  She was innocent. And feeling intensely awkward, no doubt. Stanford Law School doesn’t offer a class on how to act when a partner’s marriage falls apart in front of you.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Good. I didn’t say anything to anyone about—”

  “Thank you.” I zipped my bag. “I don’t care, but thank you.”

  She nodded. I straightened some papers until she said goodbye and left. I pressed the intercom and asked Renfield to order my car.

  Before packing up my laptop, I checked Twitter, clicking on Aaron’s direct messages. He’d received dozens—from friends expressing support or confusion, from fellow members of the climate change committee requesting clarification, from the media. A reporter from the Associated Press asked whether he’d really received funding from the Koch brothers. The Wall Street Journal queried whether he’d interfered with the results of the NCSC study. A producer from Fox News guaranteed him a fair hearing if he’d be willing to sit for an interview.

  And there was this, from Aaron’s literary agent, Eve:

  Aaron??? Your phone says it’s disconnected, emails to your account are bouncing back. Can you please call me?

  Renfield came in and watched me shut down my computer.

  “The Times called,” she said. “That reporter who followed the trial. She wants to talk to you about the verdict.”

  “I’ll call her from the car.” Renfield handed me a few other messages. I flipped through them.

  “I haven’t gotten those names for you,” she said. “Those divorce lawyers you wanted.”

  “Okay.”

  “You can fire me if you want.”

  I stopped tidying and looked up at her. “You know I’d never fire you.”

  “Aaron?” she said mournfully. “I can’t believe it.”

  How I longed at that moment to let go. To stand and allow her to wrap her arms around me. To rest my cheek on her shoulder and inhale the musty smell of her cardigan while she patted my back and muttered and swore.

  Instead, I picked up my bag.

  “Thanks for your help today. See you tomorrow.”

  Downstairs, Jorge was waiting. He opened the door for me, then hurried around the idling car.

  “How you doing, Miz Moore?”

  I buckled my seat belt. “Fine. Yourself?”

  “Not bad, not bad. Knocking off early today, huh?”

  “I’ve got some personal matters to take care of. I’m leaving my husband.”

  Jorge twisted around, eyes wide. “You mean like, leaving him leaving him?”

  “Yes. Could you start driving?”

  “Uh, sure.” He pulled into traffic. “Where we headed?”

  “To my house. Then we’ll pick up my daughters from school. Then we’ll come back to the city.”

  “You got it.” He glanced at me a few times in the rearview before focusing on the road. I contemplated the sky above the river. Aaron was probably somewhere over Nevada by now. And he didn’t have a clue.

  I felt a qualm.

  This is not how I normally behave. I’m not vindictive and lacerating and cruel. Stranding my husband financially? Dismantling our home? Attacking his reputation? Was I being too extreme?

  xoD

  Goodbye, qualm.

  I switched on my cell phone. The latest of my many, many new texts read:

  —WTF Aaron’s twitter?

  Sarah. I wanted to call her, tell her everything. But I’d barely held it together with Renfield—I would dissolve completely in the face of Sarah’s empathy and outrage. I typed a quick message.

  —He cheated on me. Not joking. Going to pick up the girls. I’ll be in touch.

  I took out my stack of messages and started returning calls.

  * * *

  —

  The movers were finishing up when we arrived. I met Arnault, a tall, somber Frenchman in a red T-shirt and lumbar support belt. Per my instructions, Aaron’s clothes and books would be sent to his mother’s house in Vermont. The rest of our belongings were in a huge truck parked in the driveway, waiting to follow us into the city. I walked through the empty rooms with the realtor Renfield had found. She raved about the design, the layout, the view. She was sure it would sell in no time.

  Back in the car, Jorge tapped the address of Kate and Maisie’s school into his GPS, and we were off. I leaned back in my seat, relaxing my muscles for what felt like the first time in hours. The house was dealt with. Soon I’d have the girls, and we could head to Brooklyn, where—

  The girls.

  The girls.

  What was I going to tell the girls?

  In the last four hours, as I systematically demolished my husband’s existence, it hadn’t once occurred to me to consider the possible effect of all this on our daughters.

  I always think of everything. But I hadn’t once thought of them.

  I berated myself for a few minutes, silently and viciously. Then I shook it off. I made a mistake. It happens. And it’s not like I don’t love my daughters. I love them desperately. For the first three years of their lives I woke every night and tiptoed into their room to make sure they were breathing. I still do that occasionally. (Regularly.) My love for them is a little convulsive, a little hysterical. Every moment I’m with them I’m basically physically restraining myself from pouncing on them and smothering them with overwhelming maternal adoration.

  They know it, too. This is not that story, okay? This is not the story of an ambitious, soulless career woman who chases every brass ring of professional success to the neglect of her affection-deprived, rudderless and emotionally crippled offspring.

  No. This is the story of an ambitious, soulless career woman who chases every brass ring of professional success and whose offspring are only too aware that she loves them.

  The girls had just turned one when I started at the firm. Most associates—men and women—wait a few years before starting a family. Some put it off until they make partner, or transition to a more forgiving job. I didn’t have that luxury, because…well, I’ll get to that. The point is, most people delay parenthood because law firm life is all-consuming. Six-day weeks are the norm. Sixteen-, eighteen-hour days are standard. Canceled holidays, postponed vacations—those things come with the territory. You are captive to the schedules of the courts, the needs of your supervising partner, the machinations of the opposing side.

  From the very beginning, I excelled. I rarely made mistakes. I went above and beyond, over and over again.

  (Swaggering…)

  I was equally committed as a parent. I put the girls to bed every night I wasn’t traveling. I got them ready for school every morning. I never missed a birthday party, a s
chool play or a doctor’s visit.

  How? Sheer force of will. Constant exhaustion. Giving up things other people enjoyed: hobbies, pastimes. A social life. I didn’t want to be a great lawyer and a bad mother. I didn’t want to be a bad lawyer and a great mom. So I threw myself into both with the same determination. It got easier as they got older. By the time I made partner—

  The car hit a bump in the road, jolting me back into the present. Instead of reminiscing about my maternal glory days, I needed to be figuring out how to inform Kate and Maisie that life as they knew it was over.

  How do people tell their children that they’re getting a divorce? This was too important to trust to instinct. I needed research.

  I googled “explaining divorce to children.”

  The search yielded “about 6,190,000 results.”

  There’s a real dearth of guidance out there, I guess.

  The first result was “How to Tell Your Children You’re Getting a Divorce: 20 Tips.”

  Twenty tips? Who has time for that? Retirees, maybe. The incarcerated. Not me.

  The next result was from a site called Babycenter.com. Maisie and Kate weren’t babies. I wasn’t about to start talking down to them.

  Next: “Three Things to Tell—”

  Forget it. If twenty was too many, three was too few.

  “The Idiot’s Guide to Telling Your Children About Divorce”? Sorry, no.

  The next one looked promising: “Seven Steps for Breaking the News of Your Divorce to the Kids.” Seven—a totally manageable number! I skimmed the list as we joined a line of cars in the school drive. The moving truck pulled in behind us. Children streamed out of the main building. I caught sight of Kate, slim and sandy haired, loping along in the company of two boys. I powered down the window and waved her over. She froze. Her eyes widened. She approached slowly, trailed by the boys. They gathered around the car, gawking at me.