by Heidi Lowe
"What's so funny?" he asks with a nervous laugh.
"Nothing. There's nothing funny about any of this," I say. And suddenly I don't feel like laughing anymore, through spite or otherwise. Staring at his clueless expression, into eyes still buoyant and filled with hope for his future, I can't bring myself to laugh. Because I was him once, not too long ago. I was the one who'd ignored every possible sign that my wife was cheating. I was the one so caught up in my marital bliss that I didn't realize she'd been sleeping with another woman.
He doesn't deserve to be laughed at.
"Are you all right, love?" he asks, now showing real concern.
"I'm fine," I mumble dismissively. "My wife has left me, but I'm fine."
And now there's real concern. "Is this some kind of joke?"
I shake my head, trying to act nonchalant. "Nope. Just up and left. I haven't heard from her in ten days. So if you're looking for her, I can't help you."
"But...why? She just leaves her family out of the blue? What the hell is that about? Did she give a reason?"
"I don't want to talk about it, Bernie. If you find her, she can tell you everything." I decide then that I won't be the one to break this man's heart. The cowards that did this to him – to us – can handle this.
"Okay, but how are you really doing?" He sits down with me. He's a stranger, really, and it's awkward. Nikki's the only thing that connects us, and without her here he might as well be some guy off the street. It also doesn't help that every time I look at him I feel guilty for not coming clean.
"I'm doing okay. You have to pick yourself up and carry on, right?" I shrug.
He rubs my shoulder in support. My father used to do that to me. For a second, just a second, if I close my eyes I can imagine that the great General William Everett is comforting me the way he used to. In that way that ex-military men do: Too macho and broken for real hugs, yet the loving, paternal instinct always kicks in. For the first time in a long time, I miss him so badly my stomach hurts. He would have had some choice words for Nikki, I'm sure. Maybe even hunted her down and dragged her back, kicking and screaming, just so I could get some answers.
"Where's the sprite?" Bernie says. "She didn't take her, did she?"
"No, she's at a play date." A three-year-old would cramp Nikki's style, surely. Taking Emily with her, something I never would have allowed, would have gotten in the way of her plans to spend the rest of her days screwing her bimbo. Emily would be too much of a reminder that she has responsibilities.
"I don't understand any of this." He shakes his head, looking disturbed. "She worships the ground you walk on, anyone can see that. This is just so out of character."
"You think you know someone..." I'm not saying it to him, but to myself. The more time that goes by, the longer Nikki stays away, the more I realize how little I actually know about what's in her heart. It calls into question our entire marriage, friendship, everything. It makes me wonder how happy she really was with me, if at all.
"This disappoints me. I apologize for her. What she's done is cowardly and despicable, and when I do get hold of her, we're going to have a serious talk."
You certainly will. I almost want to be in the room when that conversation goes down.
"Chin up," he says moments later, when his visit comes to an end and I walk him to the door. I'm glad it wasn't a long stay. He pecks me on the cheek and leaves, promising to call by again soon. I'm sure that the next time he shows up, if ever, he'll be well-informed.
I haven't masturbated in years. Even before meeting Nikki I'd never really partaken in such activities. I've always had reservations about exploring my sexuality. The whole repressed Catholic thing growing up made me believe that every time I worked on myself, the Lord would be watching and judging me. So naturally, with that in the back of your mind, it's pretty hard to reach climax.
It's close to midnight when I switch off the lamp and settle down to sleep. The house is eerily quiet, though outside the wind rattles the window. There's a storm coming.
I try to get to sleep, but I can't drift off. Funny, because I hate being awake these days. Being awake keeps me in the present, in my gruesome reality. Being awake reminds me how alone I am.
I stretch my arm languidly across her side of the bed. I know it's empty, that she isn't there, but my heart sinks when I feel nothing but air where she should be. For six years my bed and arms weren't empty. Now both are.
I don't know what it is that comes over me in that moment, but all I can think about is her touch, her caress, her kiss. My hand makes its journey beneath the covers, creeps into my panties. I touch myself the way she would, as though she's exploring me for the first time. That was her technique. Start off slow and gentle, get me to a point of maximum moistness, then apply more pressure and speed. I'm mirroring her moves as best I can, my eyes closed, imagining her between my legs instead of myself.
The tiny moans that I let out are contained, whispered in the dark, with only me to hear them. It embarrasses me to hear myself whine like that, alone. When she was here, I never got embarrassed.
I bite down on my lower lip, my breathing heavy now. It's the point where she would slow down again, before adding her tongue to the mix, taking me to the finish line.
I open my eyes, remember where I am and who's really doing this to me, and it's too much to bear. The moaning has stopped, replaced by muffled sobs. My fingers are wet with my own sap, still tucked into my panties. And I'm sobbing in the darkness, feeling pathetic and perverted for touching myself.
My wife knew my body better than I did. I don't know how to climax without her anymore.
THREE
My blog followers are worried about me because I haven't posted anything new in two weeks. Usually it's every other day.
It's lunch time when I log in again after my agonizing eleven days, and there are dozens of comments and emails from fans. That's one of the drawbacks of being famous, I guess. People expect you to be "on" all the time, sharing every facet of your life. Perhaps everything that has happened to me is punishment for not being humble and private about my "perfect" marriage and life. Last year, my followers nominated me for the Happiest Woman of the Year Award – a made up accolade that a bunch of them thought I deserved. I won it hands down despite the stiff competition. I could never qualify now, though I reckon I'd be a contender for the Most Miserable Woman of the Year Award!
As the cursor blinks, waiting for me to write something, I think about how much I should tell everyone. I'm ashamed to write anything. But, more importantly, I don't want to prematurely post that my marriage is over without being certain that it is. The second I post, that will make it real.
Just as I'm about to type hello, I hear a noise downstairs. It could be Emily waking up from her nap. No, that's not what it is. I hear the door open and close.
It's her. It's Nikki.
My heart pounds in my chest, my throat grows tight, and my legs feel numb. I get up from the desk and leave the study. She's waiting at the bottom of the steps.
There's something different about her, I notice it straightaway. Is it her hair? No, it's the pallid hue to her skin and a weariness about her eyes. It angers me to see her like this, because I immediately assume she's spent the last eleven days having sex and tiring herself out, instead of being a wife and mother.
I stand at the top of the stairs, glaring down at her, my eyes burning with rage. This is all so I won't burst into tears.
She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again. What do you say to your wife after you've left her for another woman?
Is she waiting for me to start? I could, but this is her mess, and she needs to do the talking. If she ever wants us to work things out, she'd better make this damn good.
"I know I shouldn't have used the key just now," is the first thing she says, avoiding my gaze.
I make my way down the stairs, step past her, glowering the whole time. She follows me into the kitchen, hangs back, keeping the distance be
tween us. I can look at her, but by God she's finding it impossible to look at me. My wife, who would stare into my eyes daily and tell me how much she loved me, how happy I made her, can't even look at me for two seconds.
"Where's Emily?"
"What do you care?" Despite my attempts to keep a neutral tone, it comes out aggressive.
"Faye, come on. Of course I care. She's my daughter."
I snort a derisive laugh, pour myself a glass of water. "So you've suddenly remembered that you have a family, huh? Bravo!"
She lets out a long sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you or our daughter. If you believe nothing else, believe that."
"I guess that makes it all right, does it? That you didn't mean to hurt us?"
"No, of course it doesn't. I just need you to know that I hate that I've done this to you."
"Tell me something. And you'd better be honest; it's the least you can do."
She sighs again. "What?"
"When did you stop loving me?" It kills me to ask, and I'm fearful of the answer. I know what I want her to say – that she hasn't. If I know my wife at all, even slightly, I know she hasn't stopped. Because right up to the day she left, that very same morning, she told me she loved me. It wasn't empty, it wasn't a fabrication. I have to believe that. Yet, what if I'm wrong?
"I never stopped," she says. "I'll always love you."
It's what I wanted to hear, so why has it failed to calm my nerves? It's the truth, I can feel it. But there's something wrong with it. Something off about the way she's said it.
"So it must be that I can't fuck you the way she can," I say. Using profanities is for ill-mannered people, and so unlike me, but I haven't been myself in eleven days, and I'm too upset to hold back. I see her wince when the word flies at her.
"Faye, please..."
"What?" I explode. "You don't want to talk about it? Well, I don't want to live it, but I have to. I have to wake up every morning knowing that, despite all the love you say you have for me, despite our family, you were willing to jeopardize that for an easy piece of ass! What are you, a man? Do you have a penis that's doing the thinking for you?"
She bows her head in shame, but not before I see her cheeks burn up. I just hope my shouting doesn't wake Emily. This conversation needs to happen without the interruption.
"This isn't you," she mumbles.
"No, this is me. You've just never hurt me like this before." Goddammit, the tears are falling again.
When she looks at me, her eyes are doleful, filled with remorse. She takes a few steps towards me but doesn't advance any closer after that. She wants to hold me; I want her to. But there's too much standing between us right now.
It's a relief to see the tears glistening on her cheeks, too. At least now I know she isn't a complete monster, that she's not indifferent to my pain.
"I'm so sorry." The words get choked in her throat.
"Do you want to know the worst part about all of this? It's that it's taken you so long to come here and face me. In the past you found it hard to stay away just one day, yet it's been eleven."
"How could I come here, Faye, after what I did? Seeing you like this is killing me."
"You still should have, instead of being a coward and leaving me to explain to our daughter why her mama isn't here to tuck her in at night." I know what effect these words will have on her; at this point I'm sending her on a guilt trip. I'm going to make her suffer before I let her back into this family. I want her to truly appreciate the repercussions of her actions.
"What did you tell her?"
"That you were away on business and that you would be home soon."
She looks down again and is silent for a beat. I watch her carefully. My eyes are fixed on her when she says, in a small voice, "You shouldn't have told her that."
"I know we'll need a lot of counseling before you move back home–"
And now she's looking at me. Not with the same pained, melancholy look from before, but one of pity.
"Faye, you shouldn't have said that to her," she says again. "I can't come home."
"Not immediately, no. I need more time. But eventually–"
"No, you don't understand. I'm not coming home...to you. To us..."
She's right, I don't understand.
Perplexed, my throat dry, my temple throbbing, I shake my head in confusion. "But, but you came back. Isn't that why you're here, to work things out?" It has to be. We're forever, aren't we?
She shakes her head slowly, that pitying look in her green eyes immobilizing me. This can't be happening. "I came back because my daughter is here, and because we need closure."
I grip on to the counter top to steady myself, a sudden dizziness sweeping over me. She hurries over, tries to steady me, but I shove her away.
"Get the hell off me!" I scream. She backs off. "Why are you doing this? Do you hate me this much?" I don't know which emotion is stronger – the anger or the pain. My body feels heavy; it's as if I've lost control of it.
"It's not about that, Faye. This isn't about anything you've done. Don't blame yourself."
The look I shoot her could kill. A part of me wishes it would.
"You son of a bitch! I don't blame myself. You're the one with her face between another woman's legs. You're the one destroying five years of marriage for a whore that's engaged to your father!"
I'm screaming and thrashing out at her, something I've never done before. And she isn't fighting back. I don't know where all of this rage is coming from.
"Don't you remember our vows?" I say, tears streaming down my face, making my vision blurry and watery. "You said we were everlasting. Till death. Those were your fucking words."
"I said my love for you would be everlasting. It is. But I can't help how I feel. I tried, I really did."
"Try harder," I plead. I'm begging her. That's about as pathetic as it gets. But I don't care. "I'll forgive you in time. I know we can work it out. Just...don't do this."
When her head bows again, I know there's no hope. She made her decision the day she left – it's obvious. I didn't stand a chance. This whole time I'd been under the misconception that this affair was merely a fling, and that once she got it out of her system, she would come home to me. And I always knew that I would forgive her. As despicable as infidelity is, love trumps that every time.
"I love her, Faye. I don't think I ever stopped. I need to do this."
This is the thing that finally breaks me. Those words were mine alone for six years: I love you. And now they're Angelique's. Now I realize that they've always been Angelique's. I'm the other woman.
"Mommy, what's wrong?" Emily's arrival only causes me to bawl harder. She has that just-woken-up look, and her brown locks are messy. She doesn't go to Nikki, which surprises me, as she's been asking for her the whole time. Instead she comes to me and wraps her little arms around my legs. I crouch down to her level and embrace her, crying into her hair. She doesn't know that my world has fallen apart, that our lives have been altered forever. She doesn't know that I feel like dying.
"Emily, honey, Mommy's just a little upset at the moment," Nikki says. "She'll be all right. You have to take really good care of her, all right?"
"Okay," Emily says in her sweet, childish voice.
"That's not her job, that's yours," I say bitterly, sniffling. I'm trying to pull myself together for my daughter. It must be upsetting for her to see me like this.
When I let go of her, she finally runs to Nikki, and Nikki picks her up, tells her she's missed her, and they disappear into the living room while I pick myself up off the floor.
My hands are shaking when I twist the faucet to pour myself another glass of water. They're still shaking when I take sips from the glass. I hear Emily's childish laughter from the living room, and Nikki's animated chatter as she entertains her. How can she be so cool when only a couple of minutes ago she was ruining my life?
She's only in there for five minutes or so, before she calls from the hallway t
o inform that she'll be back again in a few days. She doesn't come back in to see me, to see the damage she's caused.
I collapse into a chair, and rest my head on the table. Crying again won't solve anything, even though it's what I desperately want to do. Now I need to decide how to go on, if in fact I can. I need to learn to live without her.
FOUR
"If you say you're sorry one more time, I'm kicking you out," I say to Sandra. She's sitting at the kitchen table while I make coffee. Four times, that's my limit for hearing I'm sorry from the same person, especially when that person isn't to blame for my bad luck.
"All right, I'm s–. God, I was about to say it again. I just don't know what else to say. I want to knock some sense into her. I mean, she's done some fucked up shit over the years, but this...this is about as stupid as it gets."
"She doesn't seem to think so." I hand her a coffee, sit down across the table from her with my own. "She's in love. Apparently always has been. These past six years have been filler while she waited for her true love to return." It turns my stomach to say it, and the acrid tone is easily detected.
"You don't believe that garbage, do you? She never once mentioned that crazy bitch in all the time you've been together. It's a midlife crisis, that's all. She's temporarily lost her mind and forgotten how toxic Angel is."
"I wish she'd just bought a sports car instead..." I try to laugh but I can't even fake one. The pain from the confrontation a few days ago is still too fresh, too present. I'm still in the denial stage of my grief.
"She won't talk to me about it, you know. I shut that down immediately. I don't want to hear about this sordid thing she's got going on."
"Does she know you come here?" A part of me takes pleasure in the knowledge that Angelique will never be accepted by those closest to Nikki. Sandra's my friend, too, and this disgusts her almost as much as it does me.
"Yep. She's not happy that I've chosen a side." She shrugs and sips her coffee.
