Half-Cup of Cold Coffee
The STD panel I took at a lab far from home comes back negative, thank God. Paid cash for it, no credit card and certainly didn't use our insurance. What a way to wrap up a relationship. A relationship? An affair. I shake my head as I re-read the panel.
Girl, work on your definitions.
I try to smile more than usual at home, even though it hurts. A cardboard cutout with a grimace pasted on. I never imagined life with someone like Jim, but now life without him seems gray and flat. Will I feel this way for the rest of my life? Come to think of it, a lot of my life before started to feel this way. To blame? Me.
Pete mentions the two of us making a trip to New York together, since I seem to like it so much. Hey, at least he's trying, but if he only knew.
"Sure, okay, sounds great," I tell him, and give him a pat on the shoulder as I leave the kitchen. How about Cleveland or Tarkio, instead?
But not New York. The odd state of Jimmy's apartment. His wacky marriage plan. My eardrums hurt thinking about it. My heart drops whenever the phone rings or chirps and it's not from Jimmy, followed by a wave of relief, making me want to sink to the floor and stay there, so the hard, cold tile can suck all the heartache and concern out of me.
As if I couldn't worry more, one day while rinsing bacon fat out of the frying pan, I burn my hand under the hot water faucet. Running cold water to cool the burn, it hits me--duh, he knows my address and what the kids look like,
fool
. Would he ever come around here? Unlikely, yet I should stay in touch to keep tabs on his whereabouts and mental health. If I can help him, great, as long as I can protect my family, too. And if my secret blows up, oh well, I'll have to deal with it. I put myself in this position.
Many afternoons, after clearing lunch and before hanging out the clothes, I sit at the kitchen table, thinking about the past year and things he's said or done. I thought he was just endearing in his quirky ways, but now I wonder if there's more to it. All this thinking has left me glum and quiet for the past few weeks, despite my paste-on smiles. Pete hasn't seemed to notice, but what do I know?
One day Pete surprises me by taking a day off from work. He isn't sick, and no one died. After the kids leave for school, he sits down across from me at the table,
"Caroline, what's going on?"
I jerk my head, "What do you mean,
what's going on
? Everything's fine," I rotate my half-cup of cold coffee.
Pete watches me for a moment, "You've always had your head in the clouds, but what tells me something isn't right is that you haven't complained about anything for weeks. Nothing. Used to be there wasn't a day I didn't come home and you weren't bitching about the dishes or yelling at the kids, or telling me we need to do this, we need to do that. It's like you're here in body but not in spirit. I dunno, it's like you up and flew away."
I pick up the cup, but numbness spreads through my fingers and I'm afraid I'll drop it. Noiselessly, I set the cup down, then force my stiffening fingers to wiggle so they don't freeze and shatter. I look up. Pete still stares at me. "So, what is it? What's up?"
Breath... breath.... "I have a friend who... who I think is in trouble."
"Who? Shayna again? I thought she was going to AA?"
I smile a little, shaking my head, "No--not Shayna. I haven't talked to her in years. Don't worry, you don't know him."
Pete leans forward, placing his thick hands palm-down on the table, "Him? Him who?"
"Just a friend," I shrug, "you don't know him. I don't think he's right in the head." A slab of granite weighs down, pushing me under the ocean, water filling my ears, my wiggling fingers trying to swim.
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but that's really his family's problem. They'll take care of him. That's what families are..." Pete oh-so professionally pronounces, the rest of his speech garbled to my ears. A tightness rises inside me, from my stomach up to my head.
My wide, stinging eyes look up into Pete's, my head slowly, barely shaking
no
. He has nothing to say that I want to hear, and I'm sure he doesn't want to hear what I have to say. He slumps back in his chair, opens his mouth, then closes it.
I look back down at my hands, now in my lap, turning them slowly over and back, over and over, warming up. A crashing wave passes through me, leaving behind relief and peace. I imagined the Day of Confession exploding with screams and flying objects, perhaps even death. But not now. Whatever drove me to cheat deserved identification and addressing much earlier, but I didn't realize how much I hurt and how lonely I felt, like a ghost in a living body, drifting in and out of lives, drifting in the wrong direction.
"Who is he?" Pete asks, his voice high and pinched, piercing my moment of peace.
"Someone I met in New York." I whisper.
"Huh. How long?" His fingers thrum on the table.
