"I was living in terror of that moment," I said to the Doctors Lewis. "But it seemed natural to hold her. I never did tell Cynthia that I suspected her of sandbagging me."
Dr. Ms. Lewis wrote something on her pad. "Meeting the affair child can be a major roadblock to a relationship recovering from infidelity."
"With all due respect," I replied. "I have never and will never define that beautiful baby as an affair child. And our relationship is not recovering. I told you -- Becky and Cynthia are a couple. They want to get married. And it wasn't infidelity. I was totally responsible for her actions."
They both looked at me trying to be impassive, but I knew by now when they were skeptical.
"Michael, do you intend to go forward with the divorce?"
I nodded like I had been found out.
"Have you filed?"
I shook my head.
"Let me ask you that hackneyed question from unimaginative job interviews. Pretend for us you have never heard it before and try to answer truthfully. Where do you see yourself in five years? Imagine traveling into the future and looking back at the past five years. What has happened to you in that time?"
I started to laugh, then stopped. Dead cold.
On the drive back to the Cape I hit heavy traffic. Inching along, I was thinking. Thinking so hard and so fruitfully that the radio annoyed me. I turned it off.
I started telling myself a story. A story about myself five years from now. I spoke it out loud so the thoughts that were building the story would fall together and fit properly. I had to backtrack and tear out parts of the story when they conflicted with later additions and reshape words and images so they clicked into empty spaces in my growing story.
By the time I pulled into my driveway. I had it. It had come together.
I am admittedly a fool. The facts supporting that hypothesis are enclosed. You may also call me foolish for supposing that the relatively tiny bit of education I had absorbed so far in my psychology studies allowed me to diagnose my problem, let alone propose a workable solution. I admit to that, but you forget to factor in that I have twenty plus years of data and observations on my beautiful brown-eyed subject.
Fast forward to the holidays. I will spare you for now the details of my story, of my plan. Suffice it to say that I organized a holiday family reunion in Boston, hired a personal trainer, worked my dragging ass into exhaustion, lost some flab, gained some muscle, let my hair grow out. Got a nice tan. And I grew a beard. Not a flowing mountain man, just a trim statement beard with a mustache. I looked pretty fierce when it was all done, I must say. I think I sold more and larger policies that fall than I had ever done. Was it my confidence? Was it my determination fueled by what Christmas promised? Was it the beard?
The week before Christmas, my two daughters, their husbands, and their total of three children were checked into the Park Plaza. I had a room on the next floor up. Only the suite I had booked for Cynthia, Becky, and Amelia remained empty. I was worried that Becky would have second thoughts. Even though I dearly loved and wanted to see my kids and their families, I was also unrepentantly using them as bait to make sure my wife showed up.
Cynthia texted that they were on the highway. They arrived in the early evening. I was pacing my room. Becky was in the same building! I could run down the stairs and see her. How long had it been? Days. Months. Years! My god -- I tried the math in my head, but the numbers slipped from my greasy brain cells. I put the do not disturb sign on my door and forced myself to sleep.
Early the next morning, I checked and rechecked the schedule. Zoe and Leah and families were going to see the Nutcracker in the afternoon, taking Amelia along to give Becky and Cynthia a break. I had arranged for Cynthia to be singled out for a complimentary spa visit. Becky did not particularly like spas. Would she go along to watch and keep her girlfriend company? Would she pay for a spa herself anyway? Or would she take advantage of the break from childcare to just relax in her room? I would know in a while.
Thus, we have returned to the beginning.
Naked and the fittest I have ever been in my life; I was contemplating my bearded face in the mirror. My erection was astounding. 100 milligrams of Viagra was probably not even needed, but boy was it a comfort. I dressed in loose slacks and a short-sleeved T shirt and picked up the house phone.
Turning point. I asked for Becky's room.
She answered. I wanted to shout YES! But throttled it back. Tone of voice was critical. I did not greet her or wish her a good day. That would have been the daddy figure, Father Michael. The man who spoke to her was instead Lover Mike. Dangerous Button Pushing Mike. Assertive I Will Not Ask Mike.
"Come to my room" that Mike said. And hung up.
Turning point. I stood by the door trying to calm myself. Would she come up or would she dial my room to ask me what the hell I thought I was doing? There was a timid single knock on the door. I didn't have to look through the peephole.
I opened the door and there she was. At last. How long had it been? I never did finish my calculation, the sum of time too large. She looked incredible. My heart tried to shove its way out of my chest. She had cut her hair, the long curly flowing hair that had been her pride for years, into a pixie. It looked fantastic on her. Her enchanting eyes the ones I fell in love with long ago. Her face was more worn than I recall, and she looked tired. But all I saw was my Becky, 20 years old and smiling her goofy smile up at me on the altar.
I wanted to take her into my arms and say how sorry I was and promise her everything would be all right. But I could not make the past all right. I could only influence the future.
She gasped when she saw me. The beard, the eyes I had trained to be hard, the newly defined arms. None of that matched her memories of Father Michael. I tried to read her eyes. I tossed the information into a pie chart. 90% confusion, 9% happiness, and 1% of something I couldn't pin down.
"Come in," I commanded and stepped back to let her past without taking my eyes, hard and knowing, from hers. I escorted her through the sitting area and near to the bed where she turned and faced me.
She was wearing a red blouse and a long white skirt. Her eyes were shifting over my face, the confusion still dominant. 80% confusion. 18% alarm, 2% that same indefinable.
I loomed over her. She instinctively inched backward until her legs were against the bed.
