But no.
Of course I would never do such a thing, because it would hurt Zack more than it would hurt Alan, because Alan is dead. Besides, I’m not a vindictive woman. At least I’m trying not to be. This is my anger talking. I need to beat that spiteful little devil down with a big fat Oprah stick.
When everyone is in bed, Carla pulls two of Mom’s best crystal snifters from the top shelf in the dining room and pours us each a brandy from the bottle we picked up on the way home. We sit down at the kitchen table to talk, and I tell her all the sordid details about my day—the things I didn’t reveal when we spoke on the phone, like how I practically carried Paula out of the bar and what the bartender said.
None of it seems real to me now as I sit across from my sister in my mother’s cozy kitchen, where Alan and I created so many happy memories together. We came here every weekend, ever since Zack was a baby, and for all those years, I truly believed that I was blessed to have the most loving, devoted, loyal husband a woman could ever dream of.
Now I have to accept that for him the lure of this town in recent years was not my mother’s delicious Sunday dinners or the fun we had as a family. It was Paula Sheridan and whatever they did together. Whatever plans they made to meet up with each other in secret.
By now, I’ve lost count of how many times Carla has refilled our glasses. I let my forehead fall forward into my hand and squeeze my eyes shut. “How could I not have known? Am I really that stupid? That blind?”
Carla reaches across the table and takes hold of my hand. “Abbie, you’re not stupid. You’re a good person, and you see the best in people. You’re trusting because you have faith that people are decent and honorable. You believed in Alan because you’re an optimist. Don’t let this change what I love most about you.”
I feel drunk and sleepy. My body feels like a heavy slab of iron. I can barely lift my head.
“You’re looking at the glass half-full,” I say. “You see me as an optimist, but maybe I’m just naive. I don’t know which is better. To be blind and optimistic—to wear rose-colored glasses and allow yourself to be vulnerable—or to be realistic and cynical? To be prepared for someone to disappoint you? To have your guard up and not be taken by surprise?”
Carla sits back. “Being an optimist doesn’t make you blind. A cynic can be blind too—in even worse ways. A cynic can miss out on something wonderful because they only see the dark side of it, so they steer away from a good thing because they expect it to go wrong eventually.”
I’ve had too much to drink, and I can’t fully comprehend what my sister is saying to me, although I know it’s very wise.
We sit in silence for a long time.
“It’s nearly two in the morning,” Carla says. “You should get some sleep.”
I nod in agreement. Though I still haven’t decided what I’m going to tell Zack—if anything. The problem is that if I don’t tell him, I’m going to have to learn how to become a better liar, better at hiding things, like Alan was, and I don’t like the thought of that.
But I’m in no condition to make any important decisions tonight. I just need to get some rest so I’m not so tired tomorrow.
As soon as I wake the next morning, I call the veterinary hospital. Ruby tells me that Winston is doing much better and I can pick him up anytime. I take a couple of Tylenols to take the edge off my brandy headache, and then I ask Zack if he wants to come with me. He says yes.
I don’t see Dr. Payne that morning because he’s out back performing a canine dental extraction, which is just as well because I feel a bit awkward about our conversation the night before. It’s not my habit to reveal the skeletons in my family’s closet to perfect strangers, and I certainly don’t want Zack to sense that I’ve shared something private with a stranger before I’ve told him about it.
Thankfully, those worries fall away when the door opens from the treatment room and Ruby leads Winston out to the reception area. Though he still wears the cone around his head, he’s on his feet, tail wagging, excited to see us.
Zack and I make a big fuss over him, and then I pay the bill, and we take him to the car. He jumps into the back seat, just like his old self, delighted about a ride in the car.
“He seems a lot better,” Zack says as we buckle in and pull out of the parking lot.
I glance at Winston in the rearview mirror. He’s smiling from ear to ear, tongue hanging out while he trots back and forth from one window to the other, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Maybe we should take him for a short walk today, down to the waterfront.”
“That sounds good.”
We drive in silence for a moment, and then Zack turns to me and asks tentatively, “Mom, when are we going to go home? I mean . . . now that the funeral’s over.”
I glance at him briefly. “You don’t want to stay another day or two?”
“I’ve already missed a lot of school.”
“I’m sure your teachers won’t expect you to come back right away. They know what happened. They’ll make allowances for that.”
“I know,” he replies, “but I’d still like to be at home. Sleep in my own bed. I want to start figuring out how we’re going to live.”
“You mean . . . without your dad.” My stomach turns over with dread because I’m not sure I’m ready to face this new future.
Zack gazes out the window at the houses as we pass. “It’s going to be weird. Especially when we walk through the door the first time. But I want to get through it, you know?” He turns to me. “Don’t get me wrong, Mom. I love being with Gram and Aunt Carla and the girls, but I keep thinking about the fact that Dad’s sneakers are by the front door. I noticed them when Maureen came to pick me up, but I couldn’t bring myself to move them. I’m kind of dreading seeing his stuff when we get home—like his clothes in the closet and his medical magazines on the coffee table. It’s hanging over my head.”
I understand exactly what he’s saying because I’m dreading it too. “You want to face it head-on.”
Those were Carla’s words to me.
“Yes,” Zack replies. “Let’s just get it over with. And after we get through all that hard stuff, I was thinking . . . maybe we could do something special for Dad.”
My stomach starts to actually hurt, because I’m not sure where Zack is going with this, and doing something special for my lying, cheating husband isn’t exactly at the top of my priority list right now. I just want to figure out how to get up in the mornings without wanting to smash our framed wedding portrait against the corner of the kitchen table.
“What do you have in mind?” I ask, wrestling my true feelings into submission.
“I don’t know. Maybe we could brainstorm. But I was thinking about a scholarship fund for students in need. Maybe for kids who have abusive parents. Or even foster kids. I think Dad would approve of that because of how he grew up. He was lucky to get away from Grandpa and go to college and live a better life. I mean . . . seriously, Mom, we had a perfect life.”
A perfect life.
I bite my lip because I feel as if I’m being ripped in half, straight down the middle. Part of me is proud of my son for recognizing the challenges his father faced as a child, for wanting to do something to help other kids in the same position, and most of all for reminding me how rough Alan had it growing up. I can’t ignore the fact that he was raised by a cruel and heartless man who probably played a significant role in Alan’s need to feel adored. Maybe he genuinely needed the adulation Paula gave him when I was too busy at work or fielding Zack’s activities.
Another part of me doesn’t want to spend a single second of my time analyzing why Alan needed Paula—because he had a wife at home who loved him—nor do I want to expend effort to create a lasting legacy in Alan’s memory, where he will be honored for years to come . . . revered as a generous, courageous, loving family man.
Yeah, right.
There’s a heavy pounding in my ears, and my stomach burns.
/> “That might be awkward,” I say, “considering he was a drunk driver.”
The heated words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I want to take them back, but I can’t.
Zack darts a look at me, and my cheeks flush.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s fine,” he replies. “You’re right. I didn’t think of that.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Why was he drunk, Mom? It makes no sense. I never thought he would ever do something like that.”
There are a lot of things I never thought Alan would do, but here we are.
We’ve almost reached my mother’s house, but I decide I should keep driving and continue this conversation. I flick my blinker and head up the hill toward the old Lunenburg Academy.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” I say. “Something I found out yesterday.”
“What is it?”
I pull over onto the side of the road and shut off the engine, then find myself becoming very selective about what truths I wish to reveal. I suspect I’ll have to tweak certain details.
“On the Friday before the accident,” I say, “Dad found out he had cancer.”
Zack’s mouth falls open. “What? Cancer? And you didn’t know? You only found out yesterday?”
I nod my head. “That’s right. He didn’t tell me. I’m not sure why. Maybe he was planning to, but I think that’s why he was drinking that day. He was upset.”
Zack stares at me, mouth agape. “What kind of cancer was it?”
“It started in his kidneys, then it spread quickly to his lungs, liver, and bones. I’m told there were no symptoms. Apparently he went to see his doctor about a mark on his shoulder, which he thought looked suspicious. That led them to the root of the problem, and by then it was too late. The cancer was very aggressive, and they didn’t expect him to live more than a few months.”
Zack frowns in disbelief. “So he was going to die anyway?”
“Yes.” My voice breaks.
Zack turns away, covers his eyes with his hand, and weeps.
It kills me to see him in pain. I want nothing more than to make everything better, but that’s not possible. His father is dead, and it’s tragic. There’s no escaping it. All I can do is lay my hand on Zack’s shoulder and wait for him to get over the shock of what I just told him.
“How did you find out?” he asks.
My heart lurches because I can’t possibly tell him the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“The doctor told me,” I lie.
“Because of the autopsy?” Zack asks.
We don’t even have the autopsy results yet. We won’t have them for at least another week, but Zack doesn’t know that. I simply nod my head.
“Why didn’t you tell me last night?” he asks, sounding hurt and incredulous.
I scramble for a reply. “I’m sorry. It was late when I got home from the vet, and I was barely keeping it together after what happened with Winston. I just needed time to sleep and put myself back together. I was a wreck. I’m so sorry, honey.”
At least that much was true.
I’m relieved when Zack accepts my explanation. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay, Mom. You’ve told me now.”
I raise his hand to my lips and kiss the back of it. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I wish everything could be normal again.”
“Me too,” he replies, “but it’ll never be normal again. We just have to get used to it. Are you going to be okay, Mom?”
I love him so much for thinking of me when he has his own grief to manage.
“I don’t have much choice, do I? I’ll have to be.”
We hug each other tightly. Then I sit back and think about what to do next.
“If you want to go home, we’ll go home,” I say. “Winston’s okay now, and Carla and the kids are leaving tomorrow anyway.”
Zack nods at me. “Can we go today?”
“That soon?”
“Yeah, I’m restless here, Mom. I can’t sleep. Even though the funeral’s over, I still feel like the worst is ahead of us. I just want to deal with it.”
I stare at him for a moment. “Okay,” I say reluctantly. “We’ll pick up a rental car, pack up our stuff, and go after lunch.”
And just like that, ready or not, I am back on the road, heading for home. The only problem is . . . it doesn’t feel like home anymore, and I don’t know if it ever will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on the house that would become our family home. Alan and I had been hunting for weeks but couldn’t find anything that felt right. Then a new property came on the market. When we pulled up in front of it to meet the real estate agent for a viewing, the exterior was strangely familiar to me, as if I’d already lived in it, or maybe I recognized it from a dream. I’m still not sure where the feeling came from, but I just knew that this was meant to be our house.
It was a century-old Tudor revival with a multigabled roof and decorative half-timber framing in the elegant, upscale South End of Halifax. Alan and I both fell in love with it instantly, and we shared a look as we got out of the car. This was two months before Zack was born, and he was kicking in my belly as we climbed the steps to the front door. We made an offer the same day, even though the house was run-down and in desperate need of an update.
We spent the next few years tidying up the ivy-cloaked exterior and renovating the inside with a modern, updated kitchen and fresh paint on every wall, while we retained all the gorgeous Renaissance-style embellishments we loved—like the arched board-and-batten front door with hefty metal hardware, the exposed ceiling beams in the main living area, and the leaded-glass windows with diamond-shaped panes.
And when Zack was three, he loved trains, so we decided to redecorate his room with a steam-train wallpaper border. But first, we had to repaint the walls blue, so we were up early one Saturday morning, dressed in our painting clothes and caps, with a plastic tarp spread across the floor. I remember—just as if it were yesterday—how thrilled Zack was by the crinkling sound it made when he jumped on it. His sweet cheeks flushed bright red as he laughed and bounced across the floor.
“Hey, buddy, do you want to do some painting?” Alan asked, kneeling low and offering Zack the brush.
I was busy with the roller, but I paused for a moment to watch.
Zack went still, and his eyes grew wide. He moved forward to take the brush from Alan, who led him to the center of the wall opposite the window and helped him dip the brush into the paint can.
“Great job,” Alan said as he held Zack’s hand and gently guided the brushstrokes up and down. “What do you think of this? Do you like painting?”
“Yes, Daddy. I wuv it.”
“It’s fun to paint together, isn’t it? You, me, and Mom. The Three Musketeers.”
I remember the intense rush of love that coursed through me as I watched my husband look at our little boy with unbridled joy and adoration. Tears of happiness filled my eyes, and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be married to such a good man and such a loving father to our son.
As Zack and I pull into the driveway, for one blissful moment, my anger toward Alan dissolves as I recall how happy we were. Then it all comes charging back when I think of Paula Sheridan and their secret love nest.
Zack presses the button on the remote control to open the garage door. The door slowly lifts, and I drive the rental vehicle inside.
It’s only been a week since I was last here, but it feels like a lifetime ago. I’m not the same woman I was when I drove off with Winston in the back seat of my SUV. I was so content and eager to spend the day with my mother, oblivious to my husband’s infidelity. Little did I know that my so-called perfect life was about to be blown to smithereens.
I shut off the engine, and Zack presses the button again to close the door behind us. Winston is beside himself with anticipation, pacing in the back seat, impatient to
jump out and run inside—to see Alan, no doubt, the fourth member of our pack, who threw the tennis ball farther and faster than anyone.
The mood is somber as Zack and I get out of the car and open the trunk to retrieve our suitcases. Neither of us speaks a word, while Winston jumps against the inside door to the laundry room, wagging his tail and whimpering.
I lug my bags out of the trunk and open the door to the house. Winston darts inside and disappears into the kitchen, then runs from room to room, up the stairs, all around the house, sniffing and searching.
Zack and I share a look.
“He’s going to be disappointed,” Zack says.
I set down my bag, then make my way to the kitchen and turn on some lights.
The house feels like a tomb. I glance over at the computer desk in the family room, where Alan used to sit while Zack and I watched television. His water bottle is still there, half-full, standing on a bunch of papers—bills and such that will need to be taken care of. I wonder suddenly if Alan ever sent messages to Paula from that chair, when I was only a few feet away.
Winston trots down the stairs and completes a second sweep of the ground floor, then the basement—to no avail. When he comes back up the stairs, I approach him, drop to one knee, and place my hands on his cheeks.
“Sorry, baby, he’s not here. You’re going to have to get used to it being just the three of us.”
Oddly, I believe he understands. He’s searched the house from top to bottom. Somehow, he knows. This is final.
I give him another pat on the head, then rise to my feet and go check what’s still good in the refrigerator. Winston follows me like a shadow.
Over the next few days, Zack and I try to ease ourselves back into some of our normal routines, but it’s not easy. Each morning I wake up, glance over at the empty pillow on Alan’s side of the bed, and feel a giant, gaping hole in my existence. The early part of the morning seems so quiet. It’s strange not to hear Alan in the shower or ask him what time he’ll be home from work as he gets dressed.
During the day, I can’t go anywhere in the house without being reminded of Alan because his personal possessions are everywhere—his bicycle in the garage, his shoes piled in the front hall closet. It hurts to look at them, and when I do, I find myself staring in a daze, not knowing what to do with his things or how not to feel this pain, which is more confusing than ever now that I’m home, because I’m so angry with him for cheating on me, yet I can’t bear his absence and wish he were here.
A Curve in the Road Page 14
