I don’t remember much about this day, but I do remember my parents’ reaction when I told them what had happened that morning. I also remember arriving at work after telling D that he had to find someplace else to live for a few days. Mercifully, he agreed, without much of an argument – something that was simply a relief then, but now seems like a “duh!” moment.
My parents had arrived around noon, and were waiting for me outside my building, in their rental car. I got in and may have said “hello,” I’m not sure, before launching into:
“I found a text message on D’s phone this morning. It was from a woman. A friend of his. And it was…” I can’t get through the sentence without starting to cry. It is my parents, after all, and if I can’t cry with them, then I can’t cry. At all. So I cry. All the while, my dad carefully navigates the rental car through downtown traffic. They say nothing, waiting for me to tell them what has upset me. I know that they're dying to hear what I have to say, but respect the fact that I'll get to it in time.
I breathe deeply after a bit, and try to continue. “…It was really, really obvious that it was inappropriate and it was just…” I couldn’t use the word “sexual” around my parents, not even in this moment. I was just so ashamed. “The text message was explicit and filled with innuendo.” There, I finally said it. Only I’m not yet really sure what it is I’m saying.
My dad, driving, stares straight ahead. My mom, in the backseat, visible through my passenger-side mirror, stares out the window. Neither of them say anything for half a minute. Then my mom speaks up, carefully, asking infinitely non-judgmental, clarifying questions. “Do you think that something bigger’s going on?” “Who is this woman?” “Where is D now?” “What about the little one?”
I answer, calmly and quickly, in line. No. She’s an old friend of his. He’s at a hotel in the next town. The little one is fine, playing at daycare.
Dad, still expertly maneuvering around mid-day traffic, chimes in. “Well, okay then. What do you want to do next?”
This thought, until now, really had not occurred to me. Even when I realized that Sally was my blessing wrapped in layers of defecation, I had not yet thought about what that would mean to my existence. After nearly a decade of being with D, I could hardly fathom how being away from him might make me less miserable than being with him. And at this point in the marriage, Miserable and I were old friends who knew way too much about each other.
The only thing I could think of was: “I think I need to eat something. I haven’t eaten yet today. I should try.” My stomach had no want of food, but I was getting jittery. Food would be something I could rely on to at least do what it was supposed to do, and feed me. If only physically. We ate, and then picked up my little one at daycare.
By the time we arrived at my house, D was gone. He had packed up what he needed in the duffel bag I’d given him to use. He had been remarkably agreeable, all the while paying close attention to whether the hotel he was going to (which I would be paying for) had wireless. He couldn’t go a night without playing his computer games, after all.
As I walked up to my front door and opened it, I looked inside my house, inhabited at that moment only by a skittish cat and two needy dogs. I wasn’t afraid to go in. I didn’t automatically feel depleted, knowing D was inside. It occurred to me then that the energy in the house had shifted, and that, if I wanted it to, this was what my life could look like. I could be mistress of my own domain, just my little one and me, with no D around to tell me how I was messing up or what I was lacking or how I was responsible for his alcoholism and unhappiness. Again.
My parents, standing behind me, figuratively and literally, ever stoic, were determined to help. They offered to stay with me, in case I was worried about being in the house all alone with just the dogs, the little one, and the cat. (I was, but I didn’t want them to be concerned about it.) I told them I’d be fine, and resolved that I would be, as fine as I could be. Given the absurd circumstances, of course.
At this moment, though, sadly, I just wanted him back in the house. And I wanted Sally to disappear. I wanted to believe that this was all just a one-time occurrence, and that the little voice in my head really had been wrong when it told me that this all mattered, gravely.
I really wanted to believe that it was just flirting. I really thought being miserable together would be better than the unknown quantity of being alone. But then I got the phone bill.
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