Six months later, we arrived in our new state, in our new neighborhood, in our new home—knowing not one single person outside his company. Of course, he had his job and the excitement of his new assignment. I had the task of transforming a house into a home and adjusting to retirement. Where my days and life had always felt complete, I struggled now to fill each one. I focused mostly on supporting and encouraging Jim in his new job, perhaps even at my own expense. I was always available when he felt lonely and wanted to meet for a last-minute lunch. I prepared home-cooked meals, which provided comfort when he returned home at the end of the day. I listened with patience and understanding as he aired concerns over the downturn in the economy and its impact on the new job. When he shared his worry that he would lose his job, I immediately suggested, “I can return to teaching.”
He offered a rare smile, gave me a gentle hug, and replied quietly, “There are many ways to contribute to a relationship. Working outside the home and bringing in a paycheck is only one. You contribute in so many more vital ways with your support, enthusiasm, and selfless love.”
Slowly and deliberately, I strove to fill the void of the loss I felt from the move. I joined the local fitness center, where the women in the classes helped me feel less lonely during my time there. I spent my afternoons watching cooking shows and happily prepared daily dinners at home now that I was not working full-time. We spent weekends dining out and exploring all that our new location had to offer. I worked diligently and eagerly in my new role, having committed to making the marriage even stronger and to creating a fresh start for us in a new place where we were known only as a couple. No skeletons, no past, only a future—together.
It was not always easy. Even planned and anticipated change never is. I no longer had my children, my home, my career, or my network of friends. However, I focused on positive tasks, such as arranging for painters—as well as painting the entire upstairs myself—scheduling deliveries, and following up on new home punch lists.
Each day after my trip to the fitness center, I explored different areas of our new community, attempting to learn my way around. I wanted nothing more than to provide an easy transition and a comfortable haven for my husband when he returned home each day from the grueling pressures of the new job. While the neighborhood and community were quite isolated and different from any of the places I had lived, the neighbors appeared open and friendly and soon embraced us as a couple at frequently occurring neighborhood gatherings. But mostly, we had each other. Until another change shifted our circumstances.
Amid a faltering economy, my husband’s situation at the new job site became less and less rosy. Movement of personnel became routine. Attitudes, both business and personal, grew less optimistic, and uncertainty and insecurity became the norm. When the project was completed, there was little need for a project manager. Staying busy and appearing indispensable became the new business model. We reviewed our financial situation and our long-term plans and determined it was undoubtedly a good time to sell my former home. We listed it with a recommended agent.
Eventually, yet another temporary assignment was mandated, three hours from where we had settled. The company would provide housing for him there during the week, and he would return to our home on weekends. He had no choice but to accept if he wanted to remain employed. We were filled with gratitude that the job was so close. It allowed Jim to continue to work at a stimulating assignment, at no additional cost to us, and enabled us to keep our new home—where we had decided to retire. We were becoming so established, we had even begun serious discussions about installing a backyard pool, using the proceeds from the sale of my home.
So the commuting began. Most weekends he would come home; many weekends I would go there. Either way, we made the best of the new situation and enjoyed the spontaneity and romance that long-distance living afforded. More than ever, we anticipated and appreciated cozy dinners on the town, weekend adventures, and quiet moments relaxing together. Until . . .
CHAPTER TWO
Why Are You Telling Me This Now?
“Betrayal—the worst level of hell.”
—DANTE
IT HAD FELT LIKE ANY OTHER WEEKEND. WHEN HE had come home Friday afternoon, there had been cocktails and conversation on the screened porch. Despite our frequent daily phone calls, we always seemed to have much to catch up on during the days that he was gone. The time we’d shared since his temporary assignment had begun had always seemed too brief. Still, we tried to pack each moment to the fullest and appreciate any togetherness we did have. I would remember that fateful early-April weekend as yet another in a long series of perfect visits, filled with relaxation, laughter, food, fun, and sex.
He seemed a bit more circumspect than usual, but communication had never been his strength. Our conversation centered on the following week’s visit to see his dying brother and the severe personnel cuts he was required to make on his new assignment. Although he continued to receive more than adequate pay raises and a substantial annual bonus and was still viewed as an important asset to the corporation, the stagnating economy and defense cutbacks continued to impact the company’s workforce and his sense of job security wherever he was located. Little did I know that when I asked at Sunday brunch about his quiet demeanor and he replied, “I’m just preoccupied with work things and planning the week,” those would be some of the last words I would ever hear from him.
Our calls and communication the following week were minimal. He no longer phoned each morning at eight to start his day or at lunch to see how I was doing. The calls I initiated to him went unanswered. He left no perky messages to make me smile during his absence or to fill my day while he was away. When I did get through to him, conversation was strained, and he told me, “We’ll have plenty of time to talk in the car on the trip to the lake this Friday.” I sensed something weighing heavily on his mind but was at a loss about what it was or how I might help.
I continued to busy myself with preparations for the trip while playing out a variety of scenarios in my mind. After all, his last remaining brother was dying of cancer. His had never been a family of outward emotion or open communication, and perhaps the combination of the job assignment, which kept him away from me during the workweek, and the realization that this was indeed the end for his brother was more than he could express or bear.
Friday morning arrived, and it was time for the drive to the lake. This was a trip that, for weeks on end, I had been diligently planning and preparing. It was to be a mini-reunion with his two siblings and their spouses. I had never understood how he could allow so much time to pass without seeing his family. We were routinely in their vicinity when visiting with our children, and I would often suggest we add another day to our trip to visit his brother and sister. However, those were his choices. I had been the one to initiate this time with loved ones unseen in two years, as a last celebration of a life together before the arrival of the death we all knew we were about to confront.
He arrived home early with his weekend bag packed and a distant look on his face. After a quick kiss and a brief exchange of ordinary words about the weather and the distance, I sensed the unsettled feeling I had been experiencing all week descending upon me once again. What could be bothering him? I wondered. Why won’t he talk?
I had already packed my bags and loaded coolers full of the meals I had carefully made for the entire weekend. As we settled into the car and drove to pick up additional ice to keep the food cold, I could see him watching me in my shorts and bare legs—always a bonus for him on a long car trip. Once again, I felt hopeful that, despite the gravity of the situation and the reason for the trip, we would, as we always did, find a way in the hours ahead to discuss the concerns looming over us. We would determine a plan of action and would together overcome whatever this obstacle was and come out on top. After all, during our eight years of marriage, we had faced our share of challenges. We had navigated our way through blending our families, births and deaths, surgeries, a ca
ncer diagnosis, and relocation. Yet we had always found a way to prioritize our relationship as we determined solutions, and always seemed to be even stronger afterward.
Ice purchased, coolers securely in place, and safely on the interstate, heading toward our destination, I knew it was time for me to ask what was wrong. I had learned from years of experience with this man that he would not be the first to speak, and the building tension was as oppressive as the approaching summer heat. Coming directly to the point, I asked, “What’s been on your mind?”
It was then, with seven hours of driving ahead of us, that I heard the devastating words that, under any circumstances or in any situation, I never would have expected. The man who had routinely assured me that I could quit waiting for the other shoe to drop, that he was in it for life, and that he loved me more than he loved his next breath declared, “I’m done with our marriage.”
Without pause, he went on to tell me that I was mean and he was tired of telling me that I was mean. He stated that I could find an attorney and he didn’t want to talk about his decision. “There’s no use talking about it because it’s over, things aren’t as they were, and never will be, and mean and despicable people can’t be changed by talk, no matter who’s doing the talking.”
Where all of that came from, I hadn’t a clue. I felt my head spin, and all the oxygen seemed to escape from the vehicle. Had I thought he meant any part of what he was saying, I would have demanded that he either stop the car or take me home. No, I was certain he was striking out at me over fear of his brother’s imminent death. After all, we had our “state of the union” discussions, awoke each day with gratitude for the life we shared, and were closer than ever to full retirement for him and a leisurely life of enjoying each other, our children, and our grandchildren. Just weeks before, we had shared our annual beach trip to celebrate our birthdays at our favorite resort. During that time away from responsibilities, he had lavished thoughtful and sentimental gifts upon me and we had experienced many special moments to add to our collection of memories: leisurely walks on the beach, cocktails on the balcony, and meals out at new restaurants. Only the week before, while I’d been in Austin with my friend Robbie for a long weekend, he had called even more frequently than usual to connect and tell me how much he missed me. He was excited to hear of the sights we were visiting and eagerly asked how we were enjoying our trip. The descriptor “mean” had never been any part of those conversations.
My mind raced to review past situations, as I wondered what could possibly have caused such a shift. I had mentioned to him that the huge varicose vein on his leg looked ugly and threatening. When he had checked with his physician, he had been assured it was not a health risk. We had often discussed that his legs were his most distinctive physical attribute. They were naturally sculpted and effortlessly strong as steel. Wondering why he would want to detract from his finest feature, I went a step further. I told him, “I shouldn’t have to look at it.” And yes, there had been an occasion or two when we had been partying in the neighborhood and I had consumed too much wine. My razor-sharp tongue had reportedly said hurtful, and unremembered, things. Even less forgivable, on those same occasions, I had somehow fallen asleep during sex. Whether from the wine or from lack of interest, I had not provided the outcome for which he had hoped. However, when I had offered to set the wine aside so that no hurt would be inflicted, he had insisted that was unnecessary. He preferred to continue to play the odds. Most times, the wine drinking loosened inhibitions and made me more docile and accepting of any bedroom games he might want to play later in the evening. The gain was apparently worth the risk.
I concluded that something else must be going on. I was still certain it was his brother’s illness. Anyone who knew me would scoff at the suggestion of my being mean. Whatever the circumstances, this could not be happening to us—and not on a road trip. Hours remained in the drive, and a deepening silence surrounded us.
At last, we pulled onto the property of the lake house. Although we were both beach lovers and had frequently discussed buying out his siblings and living in one of his beach properties upon retirement, I had always loved this home. It sat on a lovely piece of real estate, unpretentious and rustic, well appointed and warm. The builder who had designed it had lived there himself before selling, and the stone fireplaces, expansive screened porch leading to an upper deck, and spacious bedrooms were always inviting and relaxing. With a large dock and every water toy imaginable, it was an escape beyond our means, but one we always relished when we were invited to spend time there. His brother and sister-in-law stood there, waiting, smiling, and waving. Taking a deep breath, I looked at him and said, “This weekend is not about me or about you. This is about your brother, and it will likely be the last time we see him. We must both set this aside, put on a brave front, and act the part.” A noncommittal shrug from him was the only acknowledgment that he had even heard me. Stepping out of the car, we embraced our family, unloaded the supplies, and walked into the house.
The afternoon moved into evening, and his sister and brother-in-law arrived. Again, I had to dig deep for the strength required to engage once more in perfunctory pleasantries, when all I really wanted was to sneak off to a space by myself. I settled uneasily into the group cadence that was the norm for a gathering of the siblings: a discussion of current events (the bombings of the Boston Marathon and the search for those responsible) and beach properties, as well as the typical banter of our family get-togethers. I was praised for my salad and lasagna, and all were comfortably full as we cleaned up the dinner mess and transitioned to the family room and porch to plan for the next day. I excused myself as soon as possible and headed upstairs to hastily end the evening and try to sort through my jumbled feelings and racing thoughts.
Searching for my phone, I texted my dear friend Robbie to share that I had been told my marriage was over. Reflecting thoughts similar to mine, she responded, “It’s a weekend of emotion, and much discussion will ensue as those emotions settle.”
As I prepared for bed, my tears began to flow. I wondered how and where I would sleep. How would I be able to survive another two days pretending that all was well with my world? Suddenly, he appeared and began to get ready for bed himself. Probing gently, lest I set off another episode of hostility, yet hoping the first had been a huge misunderstanding, I tried again for conversation.
I soon received confirmation that not only was he done, he was “fucking damn done” with our marriage. My tears began to fall uncontrollably and in earnest. Again, reaching for the security of the anchor of the friendship I had known for more than thirty years, I attempted to call Robbie, hoping she could talk me down from the ledge upon which I found myself. But fate was not kind—cell service at the lake was dicey at best. My call did not go through.
My husband took my phone outside to make the call for me. There was still no reception. Suddenly, he was back, getting into bed beside me and reaching for my hand. I cringed and exclaimed, “How can you reach for me when you’ve just told me you’re through with me? Are you hoping everything will change?” As expected, I received no reply.
Once he was asleep, I slid from the bed. Not wanting to move into one of any number of available bedrooms, lest someone else have a difficult night and search for an unoccupied spot, only to find me, like Goldilocks, asleep in a strange bed, I spent the night on the floor of the bedroom closet. Unable to sleep, I watched the sky as it changed from dark to dawn. I replayed again and again what he had said to me in the car and wondered how I had missed the signs.
Showering and peering at myself in the mirror the next morning, I saw the reminders of the night before. I had redrimmed, puffy eyes, still heavy from lack of sleep, and a nose crusty from crying. Shrugging and knowing I had no alternative but to descend the stairs and blend into the cheerful conversation I was hearing below me, I slowly turned the knob and opened the bathroom door. I was hoping somehow that coffee would help and that no one would notice how I looked, while
still wondering how I had possibly arrived at the current hell I was experiencing and how on earth I would ever survive.
Still now, it remains unclear how the remaining two days passed. Meals were eaten, and there was a dinner out. We all worked together to finish a puzzle, and I advanced my sudoku skills with guidance from his brother. There was time on the dock with conversation and adult beverages that only my husband and I consumed. He and I had a moment alone when he spoke to me candidly, telling me, “I don’t know how I’ll be able to make it through the end of this marriage without you and my brother for support.”
Wanting to respond with the cutting remark “Don’t do it,” I instead hoped this was an opening for explanation. I reminded him, “Our relationship needn’t end. I have supported you to new heights personally and professionally over the last eight years; together we’ve been an unstoppable pair; I know we can work through this together.”
I had no luck. He reiterated his determination to terminate our marriage. We each poured a large glass of wine. Side by side, we returned to the family on the dock. It was such a beautiful, storybook setting for the unraveling of our fairy-tale life.
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