by Dan Kolbet
"For sure," she says, grinning.
"Maybe returning to our old stomping grounds was a good idea," I say. "I always liked coming here with you."
"How do you mean?" she asks, still smiling, but with a faint questioning look on her face.
"The Wolfe Creek Lodge and the park."
As the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake. I'm such and idiot. I've never been here with Michelle. Ever. Sure, we went to the steakhouse on prom, but never the park. In high school no one would never drive all the way to Coeur d'Alene just to take a stroll. It's too far. I'd come here with Jane when we were married, with our child. I feel about two feet tall.
I can clearly see a picture of the park in the summer time with my wife and daughter both sitting on the swings. But for some reason I can see Michelle too. The young Michelle I used to know. She's there too. Walking in the park. Sitting on a blanket.
I feel dizzy, but try to hide it. I'm not used to this. I'm not ready. Not by a long shot.
"You came here with Jane, didn't you," she asks. "It's OK. I understand how your past can sometimes mix you up. Our history is what makes us who we are today and as we become old—like we are—it's harder to separate out where those memories come from."
"Sorry, I wasn't thinking," I say.
"So you associated me with your wife? The person you lived with and loved for years. The person you had a child with? How is that a bad thing?"
She's taking this way better than I think I would have.
"You're pretty awesome, you know that?" I say.
"That's what my parents keep telling me," she says, bumping me with her shoulder. "I think it's called only-child syndrome."
"You're pretty well adjusted for being the center of your parent's world."
"Don't let me fool you."
"Can I be honest with you?"
"That sounds ominous."
"It's not that bad," I say.
"OK."
"I have a hard time talking about my past and not mentioning Jane," I say. "We were together for so long and had Aspen. Nearly everything in my past—except for the past 12 years were spent with her. Good times and bad."
"I get it."
"I don't want to paint over it because it's me. It's my life. But I also don't want to make you think that I'm lost in the past, trying to relive the memories that I had."
"Like I said, our past makes us who we are. I understand," she says.
"But that's just it. I don't know who I am without . . . I just. It's been a long time. It's hard."
She lets that settle in for a bit before speaking again.
"You mentioned making mistakes and I only ask because you brought it up just before dinner arrived. Jane died in an accident, so what are you so sorry about? You didn't have anything to do with that. Did you?"
I swallowed hard. I knew eventually she'd ask.
"If it wasn't for me, Jane and Aspen would still be alive. So, yeah I did."
Chapter 25
I stand there looking at Michelle. My jacket draped over her shoulders. Wondering if this is the time that I should really unload on her about what happened. I've never really told anyone the full story. It's been wrapped up tight inside me, choking the life out of me. Turning my insides sour. Poisoned.
The day Jane and Aspen died I was in New York City. So were they. It's not something I want to talk about. Not something I have talked about. I'm embarrassed and ashamed. More than anything else, goddamn it, I'm guilty. Guilty of being a lying piece of shit who threw away every last bit of good in my life and flushed it. Guilty of being the person I hated. Guilty because I shouldn't have let this happen.
I said it before. Jane and Aspen's deaths were my fault. Alone. It's the reason I left and the reason I shouldn't let anyone get close to me. It's the reason I didn't want to stay in Spokane and take on the responsibility for my family. Because they are better off without me.
I'm weak. Always have been. Jane and Aspen made me stronger. They let me be better. I was on top of the world with my family. I still believe this. This liar. This guilty man. This is what I believe. This embarrassed and ashamed jerk. Even today. Even after I ruined it all. I just didn't know it then.
Why? Too easy a question for such a complex answer. Why do I feel this way? Or why did I let it happen? I let it happen because I was a clueless dolt who got drunk with self-importance and let my personal desires trump everything else.
I'm not this man anymore. I won't be this man again. If you've stuck with me this far, you deserve to know the truth. Michelle does too, so she can stay as far away from me as she can.
Here's what happened.
* * *
"Jane and I were not in a good place," I tell Michelle as we sit on a bench overlooking the lake. We're huddled together because it's cold and the wind coming off the lake is penetrating. This position also means that I can talk about what happened and not have to look at Michelle directly. It's just easier I guess. Holding her close, sharing my secrets.
"My book had been out for a few years and it had done really well," I say. "I was writing full time. Jane continued to work too. I was writing in the attic above our house, closed off from everyone else. We didn't see each other that much, even if we were in the same house. The money we made from the book sales was slowly trickling off and things were getting tight. I never planned on being a success, but with it came the pressure of doing it again. Otherwise, I'd have to go back to selling insurance or some other mind-numbing job. I couldn't have that. So I wrote—a lot."
I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts.
"In the three months before Jane died, I wrote three novels," I say. "Granted, they were raw, unedited works."
"I don't know much about writing novels, but that seems like a lot," she says.
"Yes, it was," I say. "Letting your mind drift and staying in other worlds for a sustained period of time is very difficult. The life around you suffers. The little things that impede your meager progress become difficult to deal with. Better people—people other than me—know how to handle this, how to live a double life. Jane didn't understand. When we were together we fought. When we were apart, I wrote. There wasn't much middle ground.
"I needed someone to talk to. Someone who could understand how I felt. My agent, Monique was there for me. She took a chance on me. I was a nobody until she got me published. So I drifted toward her."
"You had an affair," Michelle said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I breathe out, hoping that if I say it quietly enough it wouldn't be so wrong. "When the book first started to do well, I had to travel a lot to do signings or meet with people in the publishing industry to get publicity. Because I was a first-time author, I needed someone to tell me what to do. It doesn't come naturally to me to put on a face or a show for the cameras. Sometimes she traveled with me. We spent a lot of time together. She helped me through those first few months. And I made a mistake. It was one time on a trip to Atlanta. We drank too much and I messed up. It never happened again."
"That's not really an affair," she contends.
"I don't care what you call it," I assert. "It shouldn't have happened and it did. There's nothing I could do to undo it."
"But you did, right? You said it was one time. People make mistakes, Billy," Michelle says.
"I should have found a new agent, but I didn't. For a long time I tried to pretend it didn't happen. I had a hard time facing Jane. I didn't tell her. It would have crushed her and ended my marriage instantly. We were rocky in the first place. She was distant and distracted."
"Don't you think that she knew something was wrong? Women have this sense. They know something is off, even if they can't pinpoint why."
"This isn't making me feel any better," I say, thinking that if Michelle is right, then it didn't matter that I didn't tell Jane about the affair; she knew.
"I don't think this should make you feel better," she says. "You're the one who screwed up, right?
"Yes
."
"So what happened?"
"I tried to avoid talking to Monique—it was just business, but when I started to struggle with writing, with the pressure, I went to her for help."
"Did it help? With the stress, I mean?"
"Not really," I say. "She read my draft novels and gave me notes on them, but said that she couldn't sell any of them."
"I don't know what you mean."
"An agent's job is to be your first filter before an editor or publisher gets ahold of your book. They are sort of like a gatekeeper. They form the relationships with the publishers and cut the deals so authors make money—hopefully. If they don't believe an author's work is good—or more importantly worth anything to a publisher, then you can't sell the book."
"So she rejected all your novels?" Michelle asks. "Why didn't you just get a new agent?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I thought that she was my best shot at success again. We did so well the first time out and we'd sold the movie rights, that I figured it needed to happen again through her. So I stayed with her."
"You really are a man, aren't you?" Michelle now turns to face me.
"What?"
"You really didn't see what she was doing?"
"She wasn't helping me, that's for sure."
"I can't believe I have to spell this out for you," she says. "You rejected her by being with her once, but never again. Then you still went to her when you needed something. Tell me, is she an agent for any other authors?"
"Yes, several."
"And are they any good? Do they sell a lot of books?"
"They do very well and are regularly on the New York Times Bestseller list."
"So, she didn't need you as much as you needed her?"
"I guess not, but I don't see how . . ."
"She used you Billy. You rejected her, so she rejected you. Do you really think your draft novels were worthless? None of them were worth a shot?"
"I don't know. Monique is the only person who read them."
"You didn't show them to anyone else? Not even Jane?"
"No," I admit. "Well, that's not entirely true. My niece Kendall read a few of them without me knowing."
"And what did she say?"
"I doesn't matter, she's just a—"
"Don't say she's just a kid. If she's the only other person to read the novel, or novels, then her opinion matters. What did she say?"
"She liked them."
"OK. So why did you believe Monique when she rejected them?"
There were so many reasons, but none I want to say to Michelle. I was afraid of her being proven right. I was sure my first success was a fluke. I thought maybe I only had one novel in me and the rest were junk.
"I don't know. I just did."
"That's a cop-out answer," she says. "It's fine. I know you're opening up for the first time about this stuff. But I also believe you know the answer and you're just not saying it."
We sit there for a long while, huddled together. I'm kicking myself for telling her the truth. Ending a great night out with a therapy session, isn't how I imagined the night would go. Me spilling the beans about how I was a terrible husband. I'm sure she is ready to run now that she knows the truth.
But she kisses me, again, which surprises me.
"There was this guy I used to know way back in high school," she says. "He was a good guy. Smart. Well-intentioned. I saw myself with him for a long time. But we were kids and took different paths. It happens. Billy, I still see you. The you that I remember from back then, before all of this happened to you."
"Thank you, I mean that, but this didn't just happen to me," I say. "I made it happen. These are my mistakes."
"And you intend to punish yourself for the rest of your life for it? You're going to push everyone away?"
"That's not fair."
"No, it's not. That's why I said it."
"I don't want to hurt anyone else," I say.
"Billy, the only way people can trust each other—and I mean really trust each other—is if there is a bond that keeps them together. The threat of that bond breaking is at the heart of life and love. You can only feel strongly about someone if you know that your heart would be ripped out of your chest if you didn't have them there anymore. Love is hurting people. It's bubbling just below the surface all the time. It's risking that hurt every single day because you love them so much."
I don't know how she did it, but somehow that makes sense to me.
"So, did I push you away?" I ask.
"I think you've got a lot that you still need to deal with."
"True."
"But I'd like to be there with you as we figure it out," she says.
We watch the cold lake waves gently lap against the beach. We hold each other, just like it used to be years ago. This feels good, but I can't seem to shake the feeling that it could slip through my fingers in an instant.
Chapter 26
The next few months amble by at a turtle's pace. I'm absolutely dreading every minute at the Cedar House. Kendall and Gracie, for their parts are a complete joy. The one bright spot in this ordeal. No kidding. Kendall's sour attitude has been replaced with a large helping of silence. She has her moments, but I can still see that girl who helped me get ready for my first date with Michelle. Kendall's taken on a more active role with Gracie mainly because my mother has been forced to spend more and more time as a caretaker for my father.
He's slipping away. Mom won't say it, but it's obvious. The doctors told us that there was no reason to continue taking him to the physical therapy appointments. His muscles and joints are so deteriorated that they don't see the point. And even though he can't say it, it's causing him a great deal of pain. There's just no reason to put him through it anymore. This means my trips out of the house with him are no more.
My only escape is Michelle. We talk every day. Or at least text each other. I'm dumbfounded by this whole "texting" thing. Obviously I missed the technology wave that ushered in the texting era, because I can still remember using one central telephone—in the living room, no less—to talk to girls. Where every piece of your conversation was basically broadcast to the whole family. But today I can be sitting in a coffee shop and be having a private texting conversation with Michelle, without the 15 or 20 people around me knowing any part of our discussion. Maybe this shouldn't seem so groundbreaking, but for me it's brand new. So when my mom asks if I talked to Michelle today, she means on the phone. Texting doesn't count.
It's irritating at my age that I'm required to have these conversations with my mother, mainly because of my basic proximity to her.
"Why don't you just call her, William?" She asks almost daily. "Or does the phone part of your phone not work?"
"It works Mom, but that's just not how people talk anymore," I tell her.
"I'm people. Aren't I?" She asks, exasperated. "You don't see me punching those tiny buttons and trying to read words the same size as a fortune cookie paper!"
Everything small is constantly compared to the paper inside a fortune cookie. It's my mom's go-to small statement. I don't know why; but then again, why should I start understanding her now? She's not made my relationship with Michelle any easier. She continues to refer to Michelle as her, as in, "are you going out with her again." Or "if it wasn't for her, you'd be around more." Or my favorite, "Well, I guess if I was her, I'd be getting a lot of attention too."
Ridiculous. I thought it couldn't get worse. And then came Christmas.
* * *
Christmas morning is supposed to be a time of giving and good cheer. If you happen to get something nice as a gift, then great, be happy. But don't expect it, because invariably, you'll be disappointed. My cynical view of the holiday is shared wholeheartedly by my mother, probably because she's the one who imposed this view on my siblings and me every year when we were kids. She'd buy us the worst gifts—things we would never in a million years actually want—then watch us complain just so she could give us a stern talking to ab
out giving, not receiving.
Well, screw that.
I planned to give my family a great holiday. This year, I decided that I was going to go over the top with gifts to show Mom that I was all about giving. I did not have any expectations of getting presents in return. But it was a disaster regardless.
I bought Kendall a new laptop. She'd been spending so much time on her old one that I figured it was something that she could use. Besides, her old one was a four-year-old hand-me-down from her mom. I got her a brand new Mac and wrapped the box with a big bow.
Gracie was a bit harder to shop for, but then again, I was going for splash, not practicality. All she does is play with her dolls. She lines them up like little soldiers in her room. So I got her the best one out there—a $350 American Girl doll. The lady in the store said it was the most popular one; but then again, I think she probably worked on commission, so who knows? I bought the doll anyway.
I got my mom a pop-up greenhouse. She used to have a large garden when she and Dad lived in their own house. She would spend hours in the garden, then make these elaborate meals with fresh fruits and vegetables. I figured this way, she could do a little bit of planting on raised counters, so she didn't have to bend over and strain. It was perfect.
I got my dad new armrests for his wheelchair, which wasn't very exciting, but considering that he was in it most of the day, I thought it might mean something to him. The arm rests were embroidered with the Seattle Mariners logo and several baseball bats. He used to watch them all the time and even these days Mom occasionally turns on a game.
So, when Christmas morning rolled around, I was ready for a great day. I got up early and made pancakes. The presents were all under the tree. Eight thirty came. Then 9:00 and nobody was awake. My excitement was childlike, but slowly wearing off. Finally after I did a little stomping around in the hallway outside the girls' bedrooms I heard them both stirring. I peeked into Gracie's room. Her face poked out from under the covers.
"Merry Christmas," I whisper. "It's time to get up."
Without a word, she throws back the covers to reveal that she's wearing a beautiful red and green holiday dress.
