I looked up at Charles’s smile as he now sat next to me on the floor, gently placing his hand on my back. I sat up, and he put his arm around my shoulder.
“I wrote something today that I wanted to give to you. It’s from my heart and soul.” He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and as we sat closely on the floor, his arm still around my shoulder, I read:
Thanksgiving
I never knew before you that I could talk heart-to-heart with my partner, and I never knew it was possible to laugh with one another as we did.
You made it possible to find the way out of my cult, by not pushing me.
Having children had been a theoretical goal, not a real wish, until you.
You endured unspeakable pain, unwavering, to bring children to us.
You have given of yourself to them, ceaselessly, lovingly.
You have given us all an enriching, lovingly beautiful house to enjoy.
At festive times, you have produced wondrous, rich meals, celebrations of life. And at other times, you taught me that restaurants are to be enjoyed.
You have helped me by modeling a truly thoughtful way of being a therapist. You have navigated into areas of cognitive functioning totally new to me.
And now you are modeling courage, in a way that can never be forgotten.
For these things from you, and more, I am forever grateful.
Forever yours,
Charles
The words were there, but they sounded hollow. They didn’t feel real or true. I wanted them to be true, I wanted to believe that he loved me, but I felt empty. In truth, there was no mention of love, only flowery words disconnected from real feelings.
“Di, I am forever grateful to you for so much. I really want you to know that.”
“Thanks. It’s lovely.” And as I spoke, that same empty feeling came over me and I turned quickly to the toilet so I could throw up again.
Later that evening, after the kids were in bed, he again handed me the books. “Di, pick a place. It’ll be fun, just like it was before the kids.”
Why was he doing this? It was crazy-making. Nevertheless, I started looking through the books. Maybe he did mean these things. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe he did love me. Maybe he did want things to work out between us. Maybe he wanted to try.
At about ten o’clock, Charles said he was going to take Knaidl, our old yellow Lab, out for a walk. The kids were asleep, and I said that I’d go along with him.
There was a long pause. Then he said, “Di, I just feel like having some time to myself.” He smiled, picked up his cell phone, put it in his pocket, picked up the leash, got the dog, and walked out the door.
“Damn you!” I yelled as the door closed. “You’re such a sadistic prick! You’re driving me crazy!”
And so it was.
The next morning, Charles came and sat down on the bed as I awakened. “Di, I know we talked about your waiting awhile before having reconstructive surgery, because of your loss of income if you’re out of work. But I was thinking that even if it means being out of work a bit longer, you might feel better if you have it now.”
I didn’t understand this change. Suddenly he had become so solicitous, so kind and gentle . . . and then I saw an e-mail he had left out, which Victoria had written to him:
Bear, as much as I love you, and you say that you love me, I want to be sure that you have given your relationship with Di every chance it can have. . . . I need to know that you have done that before I can give myself to you.
Vic
I found a bed-and-breakfast on Martha’s Vineyard and made reservations for four nights. We hadn’t been there for years, and, despite everything, I was still hoping; despite knowing, I was still wishing.
That same night, I went to the computer and found an e-mail that he had written to Victoria.
I love you, Vic. You know I will do all I can to be with you in time. I have made efforts with Di, but my love for you colors all else.
Bear.
Chapter Twenty-One
AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER, WE COMPLETED OUR FILING for bankruptcy, which Charles had convinced me we needed to do while I was still going through chemotherapy. The day after we went to the courthouse to sign the final documents, Charles told me that he didn’t think we should go away for our anniversary.
“I’ve been trying so hard, Di, and you’re just so unresponsive to all of my efforts; it doesn’t make any sense to spend all that money when you really aren’t interested,” he explained.
I looked at him and said, “Okay,” feeling like an idiot; he had played me again.
About a week later, I was sitting in my bedroom. I looked up and was startled to see Sam standing on the landing above me.
“Mom, were you crying?” He peered down, his huge brown eyes, his curly hair, and the downturn of his mouth looking so much like his dad’s.
“No, Sammy, I wasn’t crying. What made you think I was?”
“’Cause you’re so sad and I sometimes hear you cry when Dad yells at you.” His long lashes accentuated the size of his wide eyes as he spoke.
“It does make me sad, but he wasn’t yelling at me this morning. Did you think he was?” As the words came out, I knew things were only going to get worse.
“I don’t know. I don’t know when it’s a dream and when it’s real,” he went on.
“I know things here haven’t been so easy. First I was sick, and then we moved from our house that we all loved, and now you and Elli are at new schools. It’s been hard for everybody, even Daddy. I do get sad when Daddy yells at me, but I’m okay. When I think about you and Elli, that makes me happy—the happiest person in the world.”
He stood looking at me, a calm expression on his face, and then said, “Mom, I don’t like it when Dad yells at you or when he yells at us. . . . You know, when Dad dies, I’m not even going to give him a funeral. I’m just going to dig a hole and throw him in. I’m not even going to cover it with dirt!”
“Hmm. I guess you’re kind of angry at Daddy.” And though I knew all of the other things I should have said, the things about their dad’s loving them in spite of how he was acting, I said none of them. “I know. I sometimes feel kind of angry at Daddy, too. It’s not easy being angry at someone you love, is it?” I asked, not really directing it to Sam, who had silently disappeared, probably off to his room to build with Legos.
Elli, on the other hand, was the one who seemed truly lost, much more obviously devastated. Changing schools for her was much harder. She was remote and distant and didn’t want to get together with her old friends; she also wasn’t making any new friends. Elli was so very aware of Charles’s comings and goings; she so wanted him to be the attentive father she remembered from when she was a little girl.
When we lived in the cottage, before Sam was born, Elli was about two. Her morning ritual was to help Charles make his coffee. She would toddle downstairs, right to the kitchen, where Charles would be waiting for her. She would go get the canister with the coffee beans from the pantry and bring it to the old dough table. Charles would lift her onto the bench and give her the measuring cup. She would scoop out the beans and put them in the grinder, and together they would giggle as she pressed the button and said, “Coffee ready soon, Daddy.”
She loved her daddy so much.
She still had the same round face, the same perfect features, and the same white-blond curls, but without the smile, she no longer looked like a sunflower.
That evening, after my conversation with Sam, I realized that Charles had left open one account, with a $12,000 line of credit.
“We’re obligated to close that,” I told him.
With contempt, as if talking to a stranger, he replied simply, “We need to have funds available for emergencies.” Then he left the room.
The next morning, there was a letter on the pillow next to my head. I kept many pieces of paper, but I can’t seem to remember where that one is. I do recall that it very clearly stated that Charl
es had no interest in continuing our marriage and that we had “no chance of reconciliation.” He went on to say he would speak only with a third party, “in relation to matters regarding the children.”
I heard the door close as I read the letter. I threw back the covers, rushed to the door, and screamed at his back as he walked down the path, “Get back here! Don’t you just leave this for me and walk away! You planned this!”
But walk away is just what he did. He got into his car and drove off to work, without even glancing back. I ran back into the house, sobbing. Then I put my wedding ring in my jewelry box and called Dr. Putman.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“CHARLES, NEXT SATURDAY I HAVE A DOCTOR’S APPOINTment in Washington and I want to meet a friend for lunch afterward, so I would like you to be with the kids for the day.” I said, catching him one morning before he left for work.
His response surprised me: “Sure, that’s not a problem. I want to have more time with the kids.” And so I made my plans for the following week.
After my appointment that morning, my old friend Donna and I met for lunch. It was about four o’clock when I got on I-95; traffic was at a standstill. I would have been about an hour from home if it had been moving, so I decided I’d better check on the kids. I dialed my cell, and Elli picked up on the first ring. “Where are you, Mom? When are you going to be home?” she screamed into my ear; I could hear Sam yelling loudly in the background.
“Calm down. What’s going on? Where’s Daddy?” I tried to keep my voice steady as I looked out the window at the gridlock of cars surrounding me.
“He left a long time ago for the office and said to call him if we need him. Sammy won’t listen to me, and Dad’s phone is busy and I can’t get through. I’ve been calling him over and over again for over an hour. Mom, when will you be here?” she pleaded.
“I’m on my way, but it may not be for an hour. I’ll get through to your dad. Put your brother on the phone.”
“Mom, it’s not my fault,” Sam said when he picked up. “Elli took the remote for the TV and broke it, so I punched her, and then—”
I interrupted him, “Sam, right now I don’t care whose fault it is. I want you to go up to your room—play with your Legos, read a book; right now, it’s calm-down time, away from Elli. Do you understand what I’m telling you to do?”
“Yes.” He breathed deeply. “Okay, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetie. Please put Elli back on and then go upstairs.”
“Here, Elli, Momma wants to talk to you. I’m sorry for punching you,” I could hear Sam saying to his sister as he handed her the phone.
“Yeah.” The sadness in Elli’s voice was palpable.
“El, I think everything will be calm now, and I will get through to Dad, but you call my cell phone if there are any problems at all. I’m going to hang up so I can call him, okay?”
“Okay,” she replied, and the connection was gone.
I dialed Charles’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer. Then I dialed his business line at the office, and it was busy. Unsure what to do next, I settled on calling my friend Allyson in New Jersey.
“Allyson, I went to DC today and Charles was supposed to be with the kids. Instead, he left them at home and has been on the phone at the office for hours—with ‘Vic,’ I’m sure.” God, I can’t imagine what they can talk about for so long. Oh, I know: Should they or shouldn’t they have a relationship? “Anyway, the kids are going crazy. They can’t reach him, neither can I, and I can’t break into his conversation ’cause I’m on a goddamn cell phone. Can you call the operator and have her interrupt their telephone sex and tell him his kids need him?” I swallowed hard as I finished speaking.
“Oy, he is such a bastard! Of course I’ll call. I’ll get back to you. Love you, Di. You don’t deserve this!” she said as we hung up.
Finally, the traffic started to move and I decided to stay on the highway and hoped I wouldn’t get a speeding ticket. I passed the remnants of the accident off to the left on the shoulder. As I sped by, Allyson called back to let me know she had gotten through and Charles had said he would go home to the kids. Even knowing that, I still pushed the limit with my foot on the gas. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the driveway, thinking Charles’s car was probably in the garage.
“Hi, Mom. I’m glad you’re home.” Elli put down the book she was reading, and Sammy rushed down the stairs from his room as he heard her speaking to me.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, looking around, seeing no evidence of his presence.
“Oh, he called, but everything was quiet, so he said that he would stay at the office and just use a different number for his phone calls; that way, we could get through if we needed him.” Elli smiled. I knew that she knew something was going on with her dad.
“Why don’t you both get dressed, and then we’ll go out and get some dinner? How does that sound?” I asked, just wanting not to be in the house when Charles returned.
“Yeah, can we have sushi?” Elli asked, while Sam ran upstairs, shouting, “Pizza, pizza, pizza!”
“We’ll decide on the way. Let’s just get going, ’cause I’m starving!”
Within fifteen minutes, we were in the car and heading out the gate of the townhouse community. Just as we pulled through the gatehouse, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charles’s Suburban pull in the other direction. I kept my eyes straight ahead and kept on driving, not noticing a thing.
“I think I just saw Daddy drive in.” Sam twisted in his seat to look back.
“I doubt it,” Elli replied.
We all agreed it would be fun for us to try the new Japanese restaurant in town, where there was a rotating sushi bar. I thought it would be different enough to help us put the last few hours behind us, at least for a while.
By the time we arrived home several hours later, we were all laughing and telling funny stories. There stood Charles, a forced smile on his face, very much in control. He gave the kids hugs and told them he thought it was time they got ready for bed. I didn’t know whether the kids knew the subtleties of his moods and his tones of voice, but I certainly did.
“Will you come up and read to me?” The words tumbled from Sam’s mouth.
“Sure will, and then I’ll come in and we can talk, Elli.” He sounded so smug and sure of himself as Sam raced up the stairs.
Elli was looking at me, rolling her eyes. “Sure, Dad.” She turned to him and smiled sweetly; then she, too, climbed the stairs.
Charles turned to me. “Can I ask you why you couldn’t wait for me to get home for dinner? Then again, you never think of me; it’s always all about you, isn’t it?” He spoke calmly and rationally, in the tone he used whenever he wanted to provoke me into a rage.
I looked at him, smiled, and said, “We were hungry and didn’t know where you were or when you’d be back. Nowadays, we never know when you’ll return,” I still had that tight, frightened feeling in my chest, the feeling that I was being told I was a bad child, that I had again done something wrong. The only difference was that now, despite the feeling in my chest, I was beginning to notice the fogginess in my head, which had served to blur my thoughts and perceptions of what was really going on. Now I could respond in a way that at least presented the illusion that I felt okay inside.
“You’re a master with words, Charles,” I said matter-of-factly, as he climbed the stairs. He looked back with a smug, puzzled look. As I turned and walked into the bathroom, I felt awful, but this time I did not rage.
I walked over to the toilet and lifted the lid. It hadn’t happened for a long time, but once again there it was: a bowl full of shit. The same thing had happened when we were living on St. John’s Lane, the year before I got sick.
Charles always took a long time in the bathroom in the morning; one morning, a while after he left the bathroom and I went in, I saw that he hadn’t flushed the toilet. Not thinking it was anything other than forgetfulness, I flushed it down and forgot abou
t it. Not too long afterward, it happened again, and then again and again. I don’t know how many times it happened over several months before I began to suspect that this gesture was not quite forgetful or accidental. Eventually, I was being confronted with a bowl of his shit several mornings a week. I finally said something: “Charles, you must really be deep in thought lately when you’re in the bathroom in the morning, because you’ve been forgetting to flush the toilet.”
I was trying to be sensitive to his feelings, but that wasn’t how he heard it at all. Within a day, he had moved his things into the hall bathroom and began to complain that I had thrown him out of our bathroom in the master suite. That wasn’t true at all. I was just asking him to try to be aware and flush the toilet! Now, again, this was how he was letting me know he was angry.
The next day, I received an e-mail from Charles:
Di,
I have given it much thought, and I think I would do much better with you, and perhaps you with me, if I moved into the basement. We don’t even have to say anything to the children, and I can still use our bathroom, but I can use the basement to relax, work at home, and sleep. I think this will be a much better option than how it has been.
Charles
His arrogance was beyond belief; nevertheless, each thing he did always surprised me—I could still never quite believe it.
By Monday evening, he was sleeping in the basement. I still had little energy, but I was trying to build my practice and feeling as if I were a rat on a wheel, going nowhere. At the end of the week, I called Allyson and said, “I am so tired. Charles keeps telling me I’m doing nothing. He thinks I should have a full caseload of patients already. What should I do?” My head was spinning. The dread I felt now was in some ways worse than the dread I had felt a year earlier when Dr. Braken had said, “Diane, it’s cancer.”
“It’s one o’clock Friday afternoon, Di. The kids will be done with school at three, right?” Allyson didn’t wait for a response. “I want you to throw some things in the car for you and the kids, pick them up from school, and come here for the weekend,” she stated firmly.
Lost in the Reflecting Pool Page 14
