Padraig really has a beautiful wife

The summer of ‘01 was particularly blistering, but no amount of heat and wet, heavy air could keep the O’Reilly family from their annual vacation to the Jersey Shore. It wasn’t much as far as vacations went, but it’s what they could afford. Besides, all they really needed was sun, sand, and a roof over their heads—and each other.

The O’Reilly Clan, as its patriarch, a proud first generation Irish American, called it, was the epitome of the nuclear family: Padraig, his wife Connie, their two kids Eileen (11) and Perry (7), and of course, a golden retriever named Darby. They lived in a modest three bedroom brick house in Bloomfield, New Jersey with, you guessed it, a white picket fence and a lovely rose garden that was the envy of the neighborhood. Nearly every day of the year, aside from one glorious week at the beach, Padraig took the bus into the city to work a hapless desk job at an advertising agency while Connie, a poet and part-time adjunct professor at the local community college, did the hard work at home: raising the kids, caring for the dog, keeping their home and life clean and organized. If you had asked them what they thought their life would look like when they were first married, neither would tell you anything like how it turned out, except for maybe the kids and the dog.

Padraig thought it would be exciting working in advertising. He pictured a 1950’s era smoke-filled office complete with beautiful secretaries and heavy-handed lunch cocktails. He pictured enthusiastic pitch meetings where no tagline was too zany, no character too wacky, no idea too out of the box to satisfy their clients’ needs. The reality was that Adworks Media Partners LLC was a mid-size office on the seventh floor of an old building with a shaky elevator in the heart of midtown, right at the intersection of blank-faced confused tourists who seem to have never gone anywhere in their lives and the sweaty men dressed in frightening off-brand character costumes accosting them for “memorable New York City family photos” starting at $20 a pop, so the walk from the bus stop to the office was always irritating and bustling. The office itself held no charm. Rather than the mid-century dark wood open plan he imagined, there were three-walled cubicles oddly placed in star configurations under glaring fluorescent, sometimes flickering, lights, especially in that one conference room where they were verboten to bring clients.

Padraig spent his days staring at spreadsheets, trying to discern if his client-facing counterparts were bringing in the medium bucks with their mediocre ideas like an anthropomorphized kitchen sponge with nerdy glasses taped in the middle and a red, white, and blue sweatband perched on top of its angular head named Scrubby McWash meant to fight grime the smart way (without scratching cookware) whose tagline was “Hehehe, muck ain’t got nothin’ on me!” as he swept over a lasagna-crusted dish, or a cool (indicated by sunglasses) horse playing the saxophone like some equine version of Bill Clinton hawking adult diapers (lines so smooth, no one can tell that what you’re wearing under there isn’t exactly underwear). He knew that if he just had one chance to prove to his boss that not only did he have good ideas, but he had the ingenuity and creativity to pull them off, he could help bring Adworks Media Partners LLC into the black, but whenever he broached the subject with his manager, it was never “the right time.” So he was stuck, sitting in his cube, drinking just okay coffee, looking at just okay numbers, writing just okay reports for a just okay salary.

Connie seemed to flourish at home. An adjunct poetry professor at the local community college, she had the flexibility to be home with the kids every summer, saving the O’Reilly family on the astronomical camp fees, not that Eileen or Perry seemed to have any interest in riding a bus to an outdoorsy summer camp. The O’Reilly children were like their mother: imaginative readers preferring any time spent in the sun to be leisurely and relaxed—laying on the lawn reading, floating on noodles in their above ground pool, swinging lackadaisically on their play set. Connie and Padraig loved that their children often had heady conversations, wrote and performed their own plays, drew elaborate seascapes with sidewalk chalk on the driveway. There was something about having creative children that made both of their hearts surge with pride. It inspired Connie. She spent her mornings sipping Barry’s tea seriously listening to her children describe their vivid dreams and, after breakfast, she’d sit at her desk in their small den and jot down flowery lines that she’d later work into endearing poems on motherhood, youth, and love.

When they had Eileen, Padraig worried about Connie when she said she wanted to leave her publishing job in the city and stay home with the children. She was never good at staying in one place, she needed stimulating conversation, needed to move around and experience the world. He thought that being home all day with a baby might make her resentful toward him, and in some ways it did, on those days where Eileen was teething, or missed a nap, or sick, or being difficult, but in truth, she loved the freedom being home afforded her. As Eileen grew more independent, Connie was able to take longer and longer moments to herself, and was even able to write an entire book of poetry for publication.

Then came Perry and they were back to square one babyhood, but this time there was a big sister “helper” to consider. Eventually, as both children started school, Eileen found the openness of her days to be heavier than the nonstop schedules of baby and toddlerhood, so she found work at Lakeshore Community College, teaching two classes: intro to poetry and advanced poetry workshop a couple of days a week. The schedule worked for the O’Reilly family. She dropped the kids at school, swung around to campus to teach, wrote during office hours, then picked the kids up for an afternoon of creative activities, snacks, and rest before Padraig came home for dinner and bedtime. She didn’t teach during the summer, and especially on sweltering mornings, Padraig felt a pang of jealousy that she got to be home with Darby and the kids as he buttoned a shirt he would soon sweat through on the bus.

Unlike other women her age, Connie seemed to grow more beautiful as she aged. She never developed the mommy pooch in her low belly, a turkey neck, or fine lines around her eyes and forehead. Her arms and legs were toned, there was no flapping when she waved, no jiggling when she ran. When other women asked what her secret was, trying to get her to admit to surgical interventions, she merely said “good genes!” and laughed off further questions. Even Padraig questioned her beauty, not that he was complaining, but he’d seen the women in her family and knew that good genes certainly did not play a part in her almost-too-good-to-be-true appearance. As far as he could tell, she really only used face wash (Olay) and cream (Ponds), and a little bit of mascara. He did find a mystifying little glass dropper bottle in her medicine cabinet. Its liquid was pearlescent and its label was French—Teinture de Jeunesse, whatever that meant. He proudly told her she was a natural beauty every chance he could get, though he privately worried that his own just okay looks, middle aged Irishman belly, slight double chin, and newly receding hairline turned her off.

As such, while he always looked forward to their week in Wildwood Crest, every year he became more and more anxious leading up to their time away. He knew he’d spend a lot of time in his swim trunks (orange with blue sharks, matching Perry’s) and that if he tried to wear his shirt on the beach, Connie would ask him what’s wrong until the end of time, or until he finally removed it, whichever came first. He hated being self conscious, and hated even more that the couldn’t admit it to his own wife because she seemed not to have any issues in that particular area. And she was always going on about not engaging in negative self talk in front of the children so that they didn’t develop damaging ideals concerning their own bodies, so he just had to endure having a beautiful wife and a big ol’ belly. Like one of those sitcom families, you know, King of Queens, etc.

The drive from Bloomfield to Wildwood Crest wasn’t terribly long, but as usual for the O’Reilly family, they left too late to avoid Saturday shore traffic and so they arrived at their final destination hungry, irritable, and inexplicably sweaty. They checked into their deluxe efficiency suite at the Seashell Shack Motel at precisely three pm and so their trip began. Padraig and Connie took the double bed closest to the air conditioner and Perry would sleep in the adjacent bed. A pull out couch in the living area, opposite the small refrigerator and kitchenette, would be Eileen’s bed. It made her feel like a big, independent girl in her own hotel room, though she could hear her father snoring through the walls every night. Their room opened up to the shared balcony overlooking the rectangular pool with plastic loungers and blue white striped umbrellas. To their left, the beach. Sure, they could afford to spend a few more bucks and rent a house a couple of blocks in, but staying at the Seashell meant that beach access was immediate, and that was a convenience they just couldn’t overlook with kids. Plus, Padraig’s arms appreciated not having to haul the cooler and towels and chairs and umbrella and toys across several blocks of broiling asphalt.

Connie promised the kids they could have some beach time before dinner at the Captain Monty’s Beach Bar & Grille, and Padraig gladly volunteered to run to ShopRite and the liquor store to pick up some essentials. Their first evening passed without incident. Eileen and Perry watched some Chris Farley movie on TBS before bed while Padraig and Connie sat on the balcony sipping Corona listening to the waves crashing against the shoreline. He looked over at her and felt that familiar pang in his heart. She really was beautiful, even more so in the summer twilight.

Their first full day in Wildwood Crest was bright and hot, but not too humid. There was a nice breeze coming off the water and, as they finished their pancake breakfast at Uncle Bill’s at nine thirty am, Connie declared it would be the perfect beach day. They headed back to their room to change into bathing suits and slather on some SPF. Padraig noticed that Connie took her suit to the bathroom, opting for a level of privacy that usually meant she was on her period, but he thought maybe the kids were getting a little too old to see their nude mother rubbing sunblock into her thighs and belly, a sight he wished dearly to see. He helped Eileen cover her back and told her to doublecheck her streaky face in the mirror. He covered Perry’s entire body and plopped a hat on his head. He excused himself to the small bedroom to change and put some sunblock on himself while the kids hopped from foot to foot in the kitchenette chanting “BEACH! BEACH!”. He made ham sandwiches, filled the cooler with ice, waters, juices, and fruit, packed chips and cookies in the bag with the towels and toys. All the while, Connie was in the bathroom. Just as Padraig was starting to worry, she emerged, more stunning than ever in a tasteful and age appropriate bikini and matching knit cover up, carrying a small garbage bag. He told her not to worry about taking out the trash, that the cleaning lady would take care of it, and she just waved him off as she put her beach bag on her shoulder and stepped into her flip flops.

They spent the entire day on the beach, only returning to the room to pee and grab more waters and snacks. Around dusk, they headed back to the motel to shower for dinner at Calypso Diner. That evening, like the previous, the kids dozed on the pull out bed watching some silly movie while Padraig and Connie played cards and drank beer on the balcony.

The next day and the day after that were more of the same. Curiously, Padraig noticed Connie was spending more and more time in the bathroom getting ready, each time coming out with a small yet bulging garbage bag for the dumpster near their car.

On their fourth day, Connie and Padraig announced to the slightly sunburnt and definitely exhausted children over a late breakfast that they would be spending the afternoon and evening on the boardwalk in Wildwood. With four piers of rides, games, arcades, and an endless selection of treats, the kids were over the moon to “watch the tramcar please!” for an entire day. The O’Reillys wisely chose the middle of the week for a boardwalk day, breaking up the monotony of beach days for the children with a little bit of excitement. In truth, Padraig could hardly wait for the day when they were old enough to enjoy the boardwalk without him. It just wasn’t his scene. It reminded him of the chaos of Times Square on his daily commute, something he hardly wanted to think about while on vacation, but Eileen loved the squirt gun races and Perry loved the mouse coasters and both loved potato tornados and the go kart track, and Connie loved her orange vanilla twist from Kohr’s Custard, so to the boardwalk they went.

Again, Connie took her time in the bathroom. She came out wearing an adorable knee-length red polka dot dress that somehow made her look younger and more radiant than ever. Again, she was carrying a small garbage bag. She saw him looking at it with questioning eyes and waved him off as she slipped on her espadrilles and opened the door.

They stepped onto the boardwalk at noon just as the sun was highest in the sky. Padraig immediately started sweating and immediately regretted the decision to spend the hottest day of their trip so far away from the water. He glanced at his wife for some moral support, but she looked comfortable with just a little rosiness in her cheeks. The kids also seemed fine, but they were young and always handled the heat better than him. They followed Eileen and Perry from game to game—squirt gun horse races, squirt gun water balloons, ring toss, rubber ducky races, go fish—then from ride to ride—pirate ship, haunted house, mouse coaster, Ferris wheel, merry-go-round—all the while Padraig was getting hotter and hotter.

Eventually, around four pm, Connie began to show signs of discomfort. She started tugging at her dress, fanning herself with its collar, pulling the straps away from her shoulders, reaching up under it to pull at…something? He thought maybe she was wearing shorts underneath her dress, she did that sometimes, especially on hot days. She told him that wearing a little pair of bicycle shorts under a dress kept her legs from rubbing together too much, and she liked to avoid chafing as much as possible. But then he realized that it had been years, and thirty or so pounds, since she’d felt the need to avoid chafing. Now, her legs so muscular and toned, he didn’t think they actually touched at all when she walked. He’d seen her in shorts and a bathing suit all week and knew there was a noticeable gap between her thighs, so what was she tugging at? It must be shorts, he decided, because he saw a flash of a peculiar roll of flesh-colored fabric as she tried to cool herself down.

She noticed him watching her and suggested they all take a break from rides to get humongous lemonades. He waited on line with the kids while she excused herself to freshen up in the bathroom. Padraig thought it odd she willingly went in there—she regularly lamented the cleanliness or lack thereof of public restrooms, especially on places like a boardwalk. He hoped she wasn’t in some type of emergency situation, and worried through the rest of their time on line, through ordering and paying for four gargantuan fresh squeezed lemonades, through standing awkwardly across from the facilities, but when she emerged, Connie looked dewy, younger even. Her smile was radiant as she gratefully sipped her sugary sweet drink. She grabbed Perry’s hand and walked ahead of Padraig and Eileen. He thought he saw something—a piece of skin?—hanging from the back of her knee, but one absent scratch as she walked wiped that away.

Padraig woke early the next morning to take a walk along the beach. On his way back, he picked up the newspaper, a dozen donuts, iced coffees for himself and Connie, and fresh OJ for the kids. Overall, he was enjoying their trip. For what felt like the first time, Eileen and Perry were like actual people, rather than just little kids, and he felt like things were falling into place. He was having a lot of fun reliving boyhood with Perry, and even seemed to enjoy the mystifying swings of Eileen’s tweendom. He wanted to spend the whole day with his boy, and suggested as such when he waltzed back into their suite. Connie was happy to take Eileen for lunch and some shopping in Cape May so that he could take Perry crabbing on a pontoon boat in the bay. It felt good to have a plan, and even better to know that their kids were finally old enough to do things like this with.

Padraig enjoyed his crossword, coffee, and a Boston Cream donut while his family buzzed around preparing for the day. Again, Connie spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, but that was fine, no one was howling for the loo or anything. Perry was racing about the bedroom getting dressed, filling a small bag with whatever a seven year old thinks is important to bring onto a boat (action figures, sunglasses, teddy grahams). Eileen rifled through her duffel bag to find “the cutest possible outfit to wear around the cutest possible town.” Connie opened the bathroom door and stepped out holding another garbage bag. He couldn’t imagine how she could be producing so much trash on a daily basis, but the look in her eye told him it was none of his business so he went back to the puzzle. It wasn’t until after she and Eileen left that he let his curiosity get the best of him.

He told Perry he had to use the bathroom and then they’d head to the marina for their boating adventure, and quietly popped into the bathroom. He did have to go, but he was on a fact finding mission first and foremost. He looked around the small room; nothing really seemed out of place. The walk in shower had the family’s assortment of shampoos, conditioners, body washes, and Connie’s in-shower lotion. The single sink in the long countertop had been wiped clean. A glass to the right of the faucet held their toothbrushes and toothpaste. To the left, Padraig’s toiletry bag. No need to snoop around in there, he already knew it contained his shaving cream, razor, and an assortment of over the counter remedies for various stomach issues: tums, Pepto-Bismol, and Imodium. Connie set her own bag as far away as possible from the sink in the corner by the toilet. He hesitated and then unzipped. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but was a little disappointed to find Olay, Ponds, some blemish patches, tweezers, mascara, after sun, mousse, and the Teinture de Jeunesse. It was a curious little bottle on further inspection. There wasn’t any other writing besides the carefully hand-printed Teinture de Jeunesse—no expiration date, no ingredient list, no legal small print, no brand. The bottle was only half full, so she must be using it, but he didn’t know how. Was it something she rubbed on her skin? Was it something she ingested? He couldn’t tell and he didn’t really have a way of finding out, so he put it back where he found it, feeling uneasy. He snooped around a little more. There was something next to the empty garbage can. When he picked it up, it reminded him of a piece of snakeskin that had been sloughed off, but that couldn’t be right because there weren’t any snakes in Wildwood Crest, that he knew of at least. There certainly weren’t any snakes in the deluxe efficiency suite at the Seashell Shack Motel because his children would absolutely scream bloody murder if they spotted one. Perry banged on the door and yelled that he wanted to catch some crabs, so Padraig resigned himself to the mystery. He dropped the skin in the bin and quickly did his business and took his boy on a boat trip.

Friday was their last full day in Wildwood Crest. Usually by the end of vacation, Padraig and Connie were more exhausted than when they got there, eager to return home to their own bed, back to the routine of every day life, but this particular trip has been so easy and fun that they shared the wish that vacation would never end with their kids. The week had gone by so quickly and easily. No one had a meltdown, no one had a sunburn, no one felt sick. Connie was, as ever, gorgeous and in high spirits. She even managed to write a couple of poems for her next collection during moments of downtime. Even Padraig felt good. Under Connie’s approving eye, his insecurities practically vanished. He felt like the accomplished, smart, handsome man that she believed him to be. Everything just felt right, except one thing nagged at him in the quieter moments: the strip of skin in the bathroom. He tried his best to push it out of his mind, told him it was nothing, but something about it made him feel weird.

The family decided to spend their last full day at the beach, just like their first. They went for pancakes, then headed back to their suite to prepare for sun and sand. Again, Connie took her time in the bathroom while he got himself, the kids, and the cooler ready. Again, she emerged with a bulging garbage bag.

Padraig sent the kids outside and said, “Con, what is that?”

She make herself look busy, and he could tell that she purposely put on her confused face, “What?”

“Come on, every day you’ve been leaving the bathroom with a full garbage bag.”

“Pads, it’s garbage.”

“Okay, but what kind of garbage? What’s in there?”

“Nothing! Just garbage! Why are you asking?”

He shook his head, “I don’t know, it just seems weird to me that you have so much garbage every morning. Just wondering.”

Connie dropped the bag on the floor and put her arms around him. She looked into his eyes and gave him a deep kiss. “Oh you and your imagination. It’s just garbage, my love.”

He melted. He accepted that it was just garbage. They grabbed their things and headed to the beach. Connie let Perry bury her in the sand while Padraig dozed and Eileen read. The kids splashed about in the waves while Padraig dug his wife out, sorry to ruin his son’s rather impressive sandy mermaid tail. Connie was giggling, imploring him to set her free, lightly singing that she wants to be where the people are, running, jumping, like Ariel. When he finally pushed away enough sand to see her body, it looked peculiar. Like there was a layer of gauze between the sand and her skin. She stopped singing when she saw him staring and looked down at her chest and belly and saw what he saw. She shrieked for him to keep his eyes on the children. Confused, he turned to watch them jumping over ankle-deep waves while she scrambled up and out of the pit. When he turned back around, she was hurriedly kicking sand over the place where she had just been buried, but he could still see the gauzy outline of her arms, torso, and legs, like a freakish 3-D police chalk outline perfectly in the shape of his wife’s body.

“Con—what is that?”

She stopped kicking and looked at him. Her easy smile replaced the panic look in her eyes, “What’s what? I’m just filling in the hole so no one falls in and twists an ankle.”

“No, like what was that stuff on top of you? I can see the shape of your shoulders still.”

“Oh that’s just sand, must’ve really stuck to me. Gosh, aren’t you hot? I think I’ll go for a dip to wash off this sand and cool off. Watch the kids!”

She ran to the water, jumped over the waves, dove in and made a show of enjoying the frigid water. Eileen and Perry squealed and joined their mother. Curiosity eating away at him, Padraig crawled over to the spot where Connie was buried and gently moved the sand around. Slowly, he uncovered the gauzy shape and was horrified to realize that it looked and felt exactly like the strip of skin he found in the bathroom the previous morning. He heard the voices of his family approaching and quickly buried the sloughed off skin and sat back in his chair. He tried to act casual and relaxed, but Connie had seen him crouched over the sand, had seen that he saw and knew she’d have to explain, or else her husband may go mad. She gave him a look that told him she’d explain later, and both of them tried to act as normal as possible for the rest of the day.

That night, like all the others, the kids stretched out on the couch, sun-kissed and tired, watching a movie while their parents sat outside with a couple of beers. Unlike the previous nights, though, there was no easiness between them. Padraig was frightened and confused by what he’d seen and couldn’t find the words to just ask outright like he had earlier, for fear that she’d just brush him off again.

So it was up to her to start the conversation. She cleared her throat. He glanced at her, but felt too nervous to really look at her. He knew that if he looked at her, saw features so perfect that they could’ve been carved out of stone, he’d believe anything she’d say.

“Paddy,” started Connie, “I owe you an explanation, I think.”

He grunted. Sipped his beer. Wiped his sweaty hands on his shorts.

“So you know how people are always asking me what my secret is?”

“Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper, “good genes, right?”

She touched his knee with her fingertips, “Now both you and I know that isn’t true. You’ve seen my mother, aunts, sisters.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, a couple of years ago, I went to a wellness center and discovered a tincture.”

“Uh huh, that little glass bottle in your bag?”

She sighed, “Yes, I guess you’ve seen it over the years. Teinture de Jeunesse is what it’s called. It’s like the fountain of youth!”

“Mmhmm.”

“So, I just take a drop of it every day and, well, it works. I look great, right?”

“No doubt about that.”

“Well the only thing is, when I take it, just a drop or two a day, I have to peel my skin off. Like all of it. It doesn’t really hurt, just kind of itchy. It’s like some exfoliating thing I guess. Usually it just comes off after I take it, but I guess maybe the humidity and sand caused some kind of reaction. I’m not really sure, the woman who sells it to me doesn’t speak much English.”

“So let me get this straight, Con, you bought a tincture from a woman who you can barely communicate with, it’s something you put inside your body that makes ALL OF YOUR SKIN fall off, and you’re just okay with that? What if it’s doing something else to you?”

“It isn’t, not that I can tell. I go for annual physicals. I’m healthy. I just want to be beautiful.”

“Well you sure are,” he said and he shuffled inside to get ready for bed.

He didn’t know why he let it bother him so much. He had a beautiful wife who was very happy and fulfilled. His children were healthy. Shouldn’t that be enough? As he fell asleep, he told himself it wasn’t a big deal, that he’d wake up the following day feeling renewed, still very much in love with his wife, ready to get back to his just okay life. But then he had nightmare about the sloughed off skin. He dreamed that he reached for Connie but all he was able to grasp was just the skin. He woke in a cold sweat, remembering the roll of what he now knew to be actual skin, under her dress.

He looked over to his sleeping wife. She looked serene, angelic, breathtaking, save for a small sliver of skin hanging from her ear.