A Curve in the Road

by Julianne MacLean

  Suddenly I’m on my hands and knees, weeping over my husband’s grave and wishing he hadn’t been taken from us. Maybe there was a chance he and I could have worked everything out and grown stronger through the hard times. I don’t know.

  All I know for sure is that I miss what Alan and I had—the laughter and love and constant support. That’s what I want to remember. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days drowning in venom when I think of him.

  Zack kneels beside me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. He doesn’t say a word. He just sits and holds me.

  I realize that I still want to shield my son from this sordidness. I don’t want him to suffer what I’ve had to suffer, to doubt his father’s love for him or for us. That’s the one thing he can still cling to.

  I firmly decide that I won’t tell Zack. I’ll never tell him. I’ll continue to shoulder this burden alone. I’m certain now that it’s been the right decision all along. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to take Alan’s infidelity to my own grave.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  On Monday morning, I drive Zack to the airport, and it’s harder than I imagined to say goodbye. I hug him outside the entrance to security, and I miss him as soon as I turn away.

  When I return to Lunenburg, Mom has lunch prepared. We sit down at the kitchen table, but we don’t talk about Zack or sad things. We make light conversation and speculate about the weather over the next few days.

  When we’ve almost finished lunch, she leans back in her chair. “You know . . . I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other night, after you came home from your date with Nathan.”

  I reach for my water and take a sip. “Oh?”

  “I’d still love to go to Venice. I’d love to travel more, maybe even go south for a few months in the winter, but you know what holds me back?”

  “What?”

  “This house.” She looks around. “All my money’s tied up in it, and it’s a big responsibility. There’s so much to maintain. Either the driveway needs to be shoveled, or the lawn needs to be mowed, and my garden needs tending. I don’t ever feel like I can leave it for more than a week or two. But I’ve been hanging on to it because it was my home with your father, and this is where all our memories were. Also because it’s your childhood home, and I always wanted you to feel that if something terrible happened in your life, you’d always have a place to come home to.”

  I chuckle softly. “Was that a premonition, do you think?”

  “Who knows.” She rises from her chair, collects our empty plates, and carries them to the counter. After she sets them down, she faces me. “But here’s the thing. My memories of your father aren’t in this house. They’re in here.” She taps her temple with her index finger. “And here.” She makes a fist over her heart. “So maybe it’s time I lived a little. If I downsized to a condo in a retirement village, I’d have more freedom financially, and I could meet some new people, make new friends who might turn out to be travel companions. Freedom from taking care of this big house would be nice, I think.”

  I look at her and smile, because I love the idea of my mother embarking on a new adventure at her age.

  I rise to my feet and cross the kitchen to pull her in for a hug. “I think that’s a great idea, Mom. And I would love to help you. As soon as you’re ready, we can get busy decluttering the house and figuring out what we need to do to get the best possible price for it, so you can live your dreams with that money.”

  Her cheeks flush red, and her eyes twinkle. “Really? I was so afraid you’d be upset. Because this is your home too.”

  My eyebrows fly up. “Of course I’m not upset! I want you to be happy. And I agree—this house is a heavy load. You shouldn’t be carrying it all on your own. You did your bit. It’s time for you to kick up your heels.”

  She hugs me even tighter. “Okay. Let’s do it then.”

  We tidy the kitchen together, but I feel tired afterward and retreat to my bedroom for a power nap, because if I’ve learned anything over the past year, it’s that sleep is a great rejuvenator. As are dreams. We always get a fresh start when we escape for a short time. Then we wake up, ready to move again—and clearly there’s going to be a lot to do around here, so I’m going to need all the energy I can get.

  I come around to the sensation of Winston’s wet tongue on my eyelids, and I lean up on an elbow on the bed.

  “Good boy,” I say as I stroke his thick fur and glance at the clock. He’s become very good at judging how much time has elapsed and waking me about thirty minutes after I lie down. I never trained him for this, so I can only presume it’s instinct or intuition. Somehow, he knows what I need, and he keeps me on track.

  My laptop chimes with an incoming email, and I wonder if it’s work related. Dragging myself off the bed, I sit down at the desk and open my email program.

  The subject line on the newest message says, in all caps, CAN WE MEET?

  My belly does a sickening flip because the sender of this message is Paula—the last person in the world I want to hear from.

  She hasn’t contacted me since our conversation at Alan’s apartment last year, so I wonder what this is about. My heart starts to race, and my blood boils with that familiar anger I’ve been trying so hard to purge from my life lately.

  I click on the message.

  Hi Abbie. I’ve been thinking of you. Holidays are rough.

  I suspect you’re not thrilled to hear from me, but please consider meeting me to talk. There’s something I would like to tell you. Let me know when you’re available.

  Paula

  I sit back in my chair and stare at the computer screen. “Let me know when you’re available”? Isn’t it a bit presumptuous to assume I’ll say yes? Because I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of sitting down and chatting with the woman who was sleeping with my husband for three years. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.

  Winston lays his snout on my thigh and peers up at me. He blinks a few times. His golden brow furrows.

  I don’t know what it is about this dog, but sometimes I believe he can see into my soul. Today, he looks at me with sorrow because he recognizes the jealousy and bitterness I still feel toward this woman.

  Or is it pity that I see in his eyes?

  I gaze out the window at the gentle breeze in the treetops and realize that if I’m ever going to be truly happy, I need to focus on a far bigger picture.

  I think of my son. I remember him as a baby in my arms—the sweet smell of his soft head beneath my lips when I kissed him good night before setting him down in his crib. I think of him as a young boy scoring the winning goal in a hockey game and raising his stick over his head with triumph. I think of how frightened Alan and I were when he was fourteen and fell off his skateboard and was rushed to the ER. But he was okay in the end.

  I think about what a good man Zack has become.

  Then I think about my walks along the seashore with Nathan, the girls, and our dogs, running and frolicking on the beach while we search for rocks with fossils in them. I can almost hear the sound of the ocean waves breaking onto the rocky beach, mixed with the girls’ laughter.

  I love being with Nathan and his daughters. I also love being with my mom. I love our Sunday dinners and my mother’s kindness and wit. Her cooking. Her love, ever since the day I was born.

  We live in a beautiful world.

  I’m thankful for my life.

  I give Winston a pat, lean down to kiss him tenderly on the head, and begin to type my reply to Paula.

  As I get out of my car on the main street in town, I hope I’m doing the right thing. Maybe it would have been better to meet Paula in a private location rather than a public coffee shop, because I certainly don’t want to cause a scene. Not that I plan to fall apart or get into a screaming match—I would never lose control like that, not now—but it’s hard to know what she plans to say or do.

  Yet here I am, sitting down at a table at Tim Hortons, waiting for her to arriv
e.

  The door opens, and she walks in out of a strong wind that blows dead leaves in the street.

  I forgot how beautiful she is—with long, flowing blonde hair and giant blue eyes. That alone causes heads to turn. Today, she’s dressed in an ivory fisherman’s sweater, faded jeans, and sneakers.

  Our eyes meet, and she approaches my table. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I reply coolly.

  We stare at each other. I have no idea what to say. I don’t even know why I’m here. I hope she doesn’t think there’s a chance we might bury the hatchet and become friends, because as much as I want to put my anger to bed forever, I’m quite certain the only way I can do that is to leave all this behind and stop wrestling with it.

  At least this isn’t a dive bar, and she’s not passed out after guzzling multiple glasses of wine.

  She tells me she’s going to get a coffee. Then she approaches the counter. I sit there, tapping my finger on the table, waiting.

  A moment later, she returns and sits down. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I couldn’t very well say no,” I reply with a hint of antagonism I’m not proud of, because I hate being rude, and Lord knows I’m trying to rise above all this. “The suspense was killing me.”

  Paula peels the brown plastic lid off her coffee cup to let the steam escape. “Sorry. I just thought we should meet in person.”

  “Why?” But I believe I already know the answer. I’m guessing she’s had time over the past year to reflect upon the choices she’s made, and she wants to apologize for the pain she caused me and ask for my forgiveness.

  If that’s the case, I’m just going to give it to her, because I’ve already decided that the time has come to move on.

  So here we are. I’m staring at the light at the end of the tunnel. I want to reach for it. I suspect Paula wants to reach for it too.

  But she doesn’t apologize for anything, nor does she ask my forgiveness. She reaches into her purse, withdraws a photograph, lays it on the table, and slides it toward me.

  I gaze down at it and feel a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. Why is she showing me this? Has she not trespassed enough? And how did she come upon it?

  I pick up the photo of Zack as an infant, look at it closely, and frown at her. “What are you trying to do here?”

  Her eyes fill with wetness. “I just want you to know.”

  “Know what?”

  Then suddenly I realize that I don’t remember this baby picture. I certainly never took it myself, and if Alan had, he would have shown it to me. And why would he have given it to Paula anyway?

  As I look more closely, the shock of discovery hits me full force. My eyes lift, and I meet Paula’s troubled gaze across the table. “Is this what I think it is?”

  She slowly nods her head. “Yes. That’s my son.”

  My heart is pounding so fast I’m afraid I might fall out of my chair. The resemblance between this child and Zack is uncanny.

  It’s obvious that the baby belongs to Alan. There can be no denying it.

  I drop the picture onto the table as if it has just burst into flames.

  Paula struggles to explain. “I’m so sorry, Abbie. I didn’t know I was pregnant when I met you in the bar that day. I found out a few weeks later, and I haven’t had a drink since. Michael kicked me out when I told him, but not before he lost his mind with rage. So I’m not sorry to be rid of him. I’m living with my mom now, and I’m getting a divorce.”

  I stare wordlessly at her. I’m still numb with shock, and anger is swirling around me again. I feel like I’m being sucked back into the vortex of my grief and bitterness.

  “I’m telling you this,” she continues, “because we’re connected. And I’m sorry that I ruined your life, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Alan was so good to me. He was such a decent guy. He wasn’t anything like my husband, and I don’t think you know how lucky you were.” She holds up a hand. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I wanted to say to you today. What matters now is that we have these two boys who are half brothers, and I just couldn’t keep that to myself.”

  My head is swimming, and I feel sick as images of my late husband flash before my eyes.

  The first moment I laid eyes on Alan in the anatomy lab.

  His battered body on the table in the ER when I first realized he was the drunk driver who hit me.

  Zack’s grief as he laid flowers on his father’s grave just one day ago.

  I reach out and push the photograph away from me. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I don’t know either,” Paula replies as she slips the photo back into her purse. “I’m sure this is a shock to you. Just take some time to think about it, and if you never want to see me again, I’ll understand, but if you can find it in your heart to forgive me or to set aside the bad blood between us, I would love for my son to know his older brother.” She makes a move to rise. “So . . . you know where to find me. I’ll be here in town, and I’ll always be sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, Abbie, and for hurting your family. I mean that. Truly I do.”

  She gets up and leaves.

  I go home and finally tell my mother everything.

  Then I call Nathan, and we talk on the phone for hours while I struggle to sort out how I’m going to handle this.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  When I was pregnant with Zack and my belly was the size of a beach ball, Alan got down on his knees in the kitchen of our new home and felt our baby kick.

  “This one’s going to be a soccer player,” he said with a grin, “and he’s going to score lots of goals.”

  “Maybe he’ll want to be on the debate team,” I replied with a playful flicker of defiance in my eyes.

  “No,” Alan replied. “This boy’s going to be an athlete. But he’ll be book smart too. And he’s going to be a good person. He’ll be kind and open-minded and compassionate toward others.”

  I pulled my husband to his feet and took his face in my hands. “I can’t wait to bring him home from the hospital.”

  “Neither can I. And we’re going to be great parents, because the last thing I want is for our boy to grow up in a house like the one I grew up in. I want to set a better example. I don’t ever want our son to feel weak for being sensitive or caring.” Alan frowned and shook his head with disbelief. “I never understood why my dad thought he had to be cruel and beat somebody down in order to feel strong. That’s just not right.”

  “We’ll teach our son all that,” I said to Alan as I pulled him into my arms. “Just like you said, we’re going to be great parents.”

  Today, Zack is the best person I know. I’m proud of the man he has become. At least Alan and I got that right, and I have no regrets about the job we did and all the little decisions we made while raising our son together.

  But there is still so much that Zack needs to learn about life.

  He’s a strong young man. Maybe I need to give him more credit. Maybe I need to recognize that he’s stronger than I think.

  That night, as I’m brushing my teeth before bed, in my mind I see Alan walking away from me in the hospital after Zack’s head injury from the skateboard accident, when we almost lost him. I remember how I stood there with concern, watching my husband take long strides down the corridor until he was gone from sight.

  That was the worst of the times I felt Alan pull away from me emotionally. It was as if something snapped inside of him and he couldn’t bear the weight of what might have been if Zack hadn’t pulled through.

  It was early July, the start of Zack’s summer vacation, just before ninth grade.

  A thought comes to me—a sudden connection—and I stop brushing my teeth. Then I quickly spit out the toothpaste, rinse my mouth, and pad into my bedroom, where Winston is stretched out on the bed. I grab my laptop from the desk, carry it to the bed, and open my email.

  I stare at the message Paula sent me the day before. Then I begin to type a new message.

  Hi Pau
la,

  Can you answer a question for me? When did you and Alan start seeing each other? Do you remember the exact date, specifically? I can’t tell you why it matters. It just does.

  Abbie

  I hit “Send” and sit back against the pillows, scratching behind Winston’s ears and wondering if she’ll reply anytime soon. My laptop chimes five minutes later.

  Hi Abbie,

  It was July 7, 2014. He came into the store on a Sunday, which just happened to be my birthday. There was a cake for me and he had some. I hope that helps.

  Paula

  I stare at the message. Nervous knots form in my belly, because there can be no mistaking the date. That was the first Sunday after Zack’s skateboard accident. He got out of the hospital on a Friday, and we went to my mother’s house for dinner on Sunday.

  I remember how quiet and withdrawn Alan was that day. He went down to the basement to check Mom’s furnace filters and tidy up the storage room. I knew he was still shaken over Zack’s accident, so I simply gave him space and didn’t try to talk to him about what had happened. I left him alone to putter in the basement.

  Obviously, I missed something. I didn’t realize how badly he needed me that day. It could all be traced back to the fact that he had grown up with a callous father who had burst into his bedroom on the day his mother died and announced her passing like a dinner call. And then he’d forbidden his son from expressing any grief over the loss of the most important person in his life.

  There’d been no one to love Alan after that tragic day.

  Until I came along.

  I see now that Alan’s worst fear was the loss of us too. And something deep inside of him—something wounded and broken—needed to believe that there would still be love somewhere else in his life if the worst ever happened.

  Not that that excuses what he did. It was still wrong. But at least now I understand a little more about why he was vulnerable to Paula’s attentions that day when he walked into the hardware store and ordered the furnace filter.

  The following day, I text Zack at college and ask him to call me. I explain that there’s something important we need to discuss.