The Klone And I: A High Tech Love Story

Book by Steel Danielle

My first, and thus far only, marriage ended exactly two days before Thanksgiving. I remember the moment perfectly. I was lying on the floor of our bedroom, halfway under the bed, looking for a shoe, with my favorite well-worn flannel nightgown halfway to my neck, when my husband walked in, wearing gray flannel slacks and a blazer. As always, he looked immaculate, and was impeccably dressed. I heard him say something vaguely unintelligible as I found  the glasses I'd been looking for, for two years, a fluorescent plastic bracelet  I never knew was gone, and a red sneaker that must have belonged to my son, Sam,  when he was a toddler. Sam was six by the time I found the lost sneaker. So much for thorough cleaning at our house. Apparently none of the parade of cleaning ladies I had ever looked under the beds.

As I emerged, Roger looked at me, and I politely rearranged the nightgown. He looked embarrassingly formal, as I glanced at him, the top of my hair still sticking up from my foray under the bed.

"What did you say?" I asked with a smile, unaware that one of the blueberries  from the muffin I'd eaten an hour before was delicately lodged next to my eyetooth. I only discovered it half an hour later, when my nose was red and I was  crying, and happened to see myself in the mirror. But at this point in the saga, I was still smiling, with no inkling of what was to come.

"I asked you to sit down," he said, eyeing my costume, my hairdo, and my smile, with interest. I have always found it difficult to discuss anything intelligent with a man when he is dressed for Wall Street, and I am wearing one of my well-loved nightgowns. My hair was clean, but I hadn't had time to comb it since the night before, my nails were trimmed and also clean, but I had given up  wearing nail polish sometime in college. I thought it made me look more intelligent not to wear it. Besides, it was too much trouble. After all, I was  married. At that point, I was still suffering from the delusion that married women don't have to try as hard. Apparently, I was sorely mistaken, as I discovered only moments later.

We sat down across from each other in the two satin-covered chairs at the foot of our bed, as I thought again how stupid it was to have them there. They always looked to me as though we were meant to sit there and negotiate going to  bed. But Roger said he liked them that way, apparently they reminded him of his  mother. I had never looked past that statement for a deeper meaning, which was,  perhaps, part of the problem. Roger talked a lot about his mother.

He looked as though he had something important to say to me, while I carefully buttoned up the nightgown, sorry that I had not yet made it into a sweatshirt and blue jeans, my daily costume much of the time. Sex appeal was not foremost on my mind. Responsibility was, my kids were, being Roger's wife was important to me. Sex was something we still played at, once in a while. And lately it had not been often.

"How are you?" he asked, and I grinned again, somewhat nervously, the mischievous little blueberry undoubtedly still twinkling naughtily at him.

"How am I?  Fine, I think. Why?  How do I look?" I thought maybe he meant I  looked sick or something, but as it so happened, that came later.

I sat, waiting expectantly to hear him tell me he'd gotten a raise, lost his job, or was taking me to Europe, as he sometimes did, when he had time on his hands. Sometimes he just liked to take me on a trip as a surprise, it was usually his way of telling me he'd lost his job. But he didn't have that sheepish look in his eyes. It wasn't his job this time, or a holiday, it was a different kind of surprise.

The nightgown looked a little frail as we sat in the satin chairs, me sliding slowly forward uncomfortably. I had forgotten how slippery they were, since as a rule I never sat there. There were several small tears in the ancient flannel  I was wearing, nothing too revealing of course, and since I get cold at night, I was wearing a frayed T-shirt underneath. It was a look that had worked well for me, for thirteen years of marriage with him. Lucky thirteen, or at least it had been till then. And as I sat looking at him, Roger looked as familiar to me as my nightgown. It felt as though I had been married to him forever, and I had, and of course I knew I always would be. I had grown up with  him, had known him when we were both kids, and he had been my best friend for years, the only human being I truly trusted in the world. I knew that whatever other failings he had, and there were a few, he would never hurt me. He got cranky now and then, as most men do, he had trouble hanging on to a job, but he had never seriously hurt me, and he was never mean.

Roger had never been a raging success in his career. He had played at advertising when we were first married, had a number of jobs in marketing after  that, and invested in a series of less than stellar deals. But I never really cared. He was a nice man, and he was good to me. I wanted to be married to him.  And thanks to the grandfather who had set up a trust fund for me before he died, we always had enough money not just to get by, but to live pretty comfortably. Umpa's trust fund had not only provided well for me, but for Roger  and the kids, and allowed me to be understanding about the financial mistakes Roger made. Let's face it, and I had years before, when it came to making money, or keeping a job for more than a year or two, Roger did not have whatever it took. But he had other things. He was great with the kids, we liked  to watch the same shows on TV, we both loved spending our summers on the Cape, we had an apartment in New York we both loved, he let me pick the movies we went to once a week, no matter how sappy they were, and he had great legs. And when we were sleeping with each other in college, I thought Casanova paled in comparison to him in bed. I lost my virginity to him. We liked the same music, he sang in my ear when we danced. He was a great dancer, a good father, and my best friend. And if he couldn't hold on to a job, so what?  Umpa had taken the sting out of that for me. It never occurred to me that I could, or should, have  more. Roger was enough for me.

"What's up?" I asked cheerfully, crossing one bare leg over the other. I hadn't shaved my legs in weeks, but it was November after all, and I knew Roger  didn't care. I wasn't going to the beach, only talking to Roger, sitting at the  foot of our bed on those stupid, slippery satin chairs, waiting to hear the surprise he had for me.

"There's something I want to tell you," he said, eyeing me cautiously, as though he secretly knew I was wired with an explosive device, and he was waiting for me to blow up in a million pieces. But discounting the stubble on my legs and the blueberry in my teeth, I was relatively harmless, and always had been. I'm pretty even-tempered, a good sport most of the time, and never asked a lot of him. We got along better than most of my friends, or so I thought, and I was grateful for that. I always knew we were in it for the long  haul, and figured that fifty years with Roger would not be a bad deal.  Certainly not for him. And not even for me.

"What is it?" I asked lovingly, wondering if he had gotten fired after all.  If he had, it certainly wasn't anything new to either of us. We'd gotten  through that before, though lately he seemed to be getting defensive about it,  and I'd noticed that the jobs seemed to be shorter and shorter. He felt he was  being picked on by his boss, his talents were never appreciated, and there was  "just no point taking any more crap at work." I had figured one of those moments  was heading our way again, as I'd noticed that he'd been crabbier than usual  for the past six months. He was questioning why he should have to work at all,  and talking about spending a year in Europe with me and the kids, or trying to  write a screenplay or a book. He had never mentioned anything like it before  until recently, and I figured he was having a mid-life crisis of some sort, and  contemplating trading in the daily grind at an office for "art" instead. If so,  Umpa's trust fund would have to get us through that too. In any case, so as not  to embarrass him, I never talked about his frequent failures or countless jobs,  or the fact that my dead grandfather had supported our family for years. I  wanted to be the perfect wife to him, and even if he wasn't the wizard of Wall  Street, he had never promised to be, and I still thought he was a good guy.

"What's up, sweetheart?" I asked, holding a hand out to him. But to his  credit, he didn't let me touch him. He was acting as though he were about to go  to jail for sexually harassing someone, or exposing himself at one of his  clubs, and was embarrassed to tell me. And then it came. Roger's Big  Announcement.

"I don't think I love you." He stared me right in the eye, as though he were  looking for an alien in there somewhere, and he was talking to that person,  instead of me with my torn nightgown and my stray blueberry.

"What?" The word shot out of me like a rocket.

"I said, I don't love you." He looked as though he meant it.

"No, you didn't." I stared back at him, my eyes narrowing. And for no reason  in the world, I remember noticing that he was wearing the tie I had given him  last Christmas. Why the hell had he put that on just to tell me he didn't love  me?  "You said you think you don't love me, not 'you don't love me.'  There's a difference." We always argued about stupid things...