In the end, I have to go. Work is waiting. I set out a glass of water for her and squeeze her upper arm under the covers, then I leave her there in the dark. I feel guilt and self-reproach—and relief that I finally told the truth, that I’m not living a lie anymore. But also—maybe most of all—it hurts me to see my wife like this. Yet after all is said and done, tears and apathy are better than the alternative. I think of the scar on her stomach and shudder.
I discovered it the first time we were naked together, but it took a couple of weeks before I asked her about it. She reeled off a story about an accident when she was a kid, something about a barbed-wire fence, and that was the end of it. Maybe I should have smelled a rat even then, asked more questions and scrutinized her face as she explained. But I was in love and saw only what she wanted me to see. I used to kiss that scar when we were in bed together, and now, after the fact, I remember that she always pushed my head away on those occasions. Later on she told me the truth, and now I’ll never be able to look at that scar the same way.
When I return home, no one comes to greet me. The lights are off in the front hallway and in the kitchen. My wife is still lying in bed, in the same place and the same position as this morning. The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark and stuffy. I try talking to her, asking her how she’s doing and if there’s anything I can do, but she’s unresponsive.
I neither want to nor dare to intrude. I have no other choice than to be understanding and give her a little time. But at the same time… she can’t stay in this state for however long she wants. Two or three days max, I think. Then I’ll need to do something, bring in outside help. When it’s time for bed, I get ready, fold back the covers, and lie down on my side of the mattress. It’s an odd sensation, sharing a bed and yet not, being as close as two people can be and at the same time separated by a chasm.
Of course I could sleep by myself in a different room or on the sofa. Isn’t that what people do in situations like this? But, no. If there is a template for how spouses should behave when one of them has cheated on the other, it doesn’t apply to us. In our case there is no comfort or guidance to be drawn from other people’s experiences, no conventional pattern. We’re not like other people.
I hear her even breathing and wonder what she’s thinking. I realize that I have no idea, that maybe I never had any. I fold my arms under my head and stare at the ceiling. No, we’re not like other people, but that is not because of me. We’re different because my wife is different.
22
Evening turns to night, and I don’t even attempt to go to bed. There’s no point. I still won’t be able to fall asleep. The energy surges around inside me, searching in vain for some release. I move through the house, finally pausing in the doorway to the living room, my eyes scanning the moving boxes stacked along the walls. I ought to unpack at least a couple of them before my sister comes over. That would give me something to do, somewhere to put my hands.
But I’m drawn to the bookshelf instead, where I take out books and assign them new places. This is pretty much automatic now: sort books, sort thoughts. I stretch up onto my tiptoes to reach the top shelf, but books aren’t the only thing I’m reaching for. I’m reaching for my mother.
“What should I do?” I whisper to her in the darkness.
If only I could feel her arms around me one more time, feel the calm in her fingertips as they tuck my hair behind my ear. But here I am, sleepless and hopeless and alone with the few (albeit critical) choices that remain.
I’ve memorized Peter’s email and now know every single sentence, each word, by heart. He ended by asking if I would consider meeting. Without any demands or expectations, just to see each other and talk a little. I miss you so much. Every time I think about those words, it’s like being sucked into a whirlpool, as if I’m spinning faster and faster in a spiral of suppressed emotions only to ultimately be tossed back up to the surface. He wants to meet. He misses me. I press my palms against my chest, feeling the warmth spreading into my palms. I think of Peter’s tender meditation on the little girl he thought looked like me, the one who could have been ours. And then the desperation that shone through the sentences that followed, the same desperation I myself feel. What are we doing here? What have we done?
My hand moves on its own, and before I have a chance to understand what’s going on, I’ve slammed my fist against the wall beside the bookshelf. I back away, staring at my fingers as if they belonged to someone else.
Then I suddenly hear it—my mother’s voice.
Work is the best medicine.
And in a flash, I understand what I need to do.
I abandon the books even though I’m only halfway through sorting them. In the kitchen, I start my computer and draft a response to Peter. I write without first reading through his email again, without weighing my words or working through my thoughts. I explain that I can’t meet him right now, that there’s something I need to finish first. But that then, after a bit of time has passed and what I need to do is finished, maybe we can get together and talk, if he still wants to. As soon as I type that last bit, I hit “Send,” not giving myself a chance to reconsider and possibly regret anything. That’s how it is now. That’s how it has to be.
I open the file with the text I began a few days ago. I started it purely on impulse, without knowing where it would lead. Now I know.
I will finish writing it, combining the fragments into a narrative—yet another one. Because I’m an author and that’s what authors do. I will write my way through the darkness, giving this text everything I’ve got, hoping that when the last chapter is written I can crawl out the other side. Whatever happens after that, whoever I end up being then, remains to be seen.
I can just make out the hazy contours of someone sitting across the kitchen table from me, anxiously bouncing one leg up and down. Leo. I look up, and there’s no one there. The chair is empty. I turn my face and look out the window. The house across from me is just a dark silhouette now with no lights on to illuminate the rooms. The only clearly visible thing is me, centered in the bluish glow that emanates from my computer. I scroll down to the last sentence I wrote, and my fingers assume their starting positions on the keyboard. Then I begin.
The words take shape beneath my fingertips, almost on their own. Night races by as page is added to page. When the fatigue gradually starts to whistle through my head, I move to bed, setting my computer on the floor underneath and sleeping for a few hours, a fitful sleep filled with muddled nightmares. In the middle of one particularly violent sequence, I wake up, pick up the computer, and write another few pages before I fall asleep again. This same pattern is repeated until the day dawns and I return to the kitchen table. I eat stale bread with the last remnants from the marmalade container and drink tea, noting in passing that I really do need to go shopping today if I’m going to offer my sister anything sensible for dinner. And then I keep working.
Peter sends a response. Do what feels right to you. Take the time you need. I’m here when you’re ready. I read it and keep working.
It’s not until late in the afternoon when I see Leo outside that my fingers take a brief break. What should I say to him? How should I explain that today’s not a good day? That I’m going to be busy for the foreseeable future? Then I realize that he’s not coming over here at all, but rather heading in the opposite direction, home to his place. There’s something strange about the way he moves, and when I crane my neck, I see that he’s not wearing any shoes. No shoes? I stand up halfway from my chair and lean closer to the window. But my eyes are not deceiving me. Leo is wearing only socks as he walks along the flagstone path. Why… How…? He doesn’t look up once, merely stares at the ground. Then he disappears into the house across from me.