Another Love: Lost

It was a beautiful time with a beautiful family. Simone and Georges were truly in love, combining the passion of young romance and the maturity of established love. They trusted each other completely. Their children were bright, high-strung and lively, but well-behaved and loving. I could see how the stability of Simone and Georges' marriage gave them security to flourish. They were true to their word: they never mentioned Karen, although they must have seen her in Montreal.

Stephanie asked if we could "talk grownup" one morning when everyone else was somewhere else. She had always liked Aunt Karen, she said; she was so beautiful and sweet. She liked me, too, she said with a pretty blush, but she couldn't understand why I never came to Montreal with Aunt Karen and why I wasn't living in Albany with her and Grand-mère Du Monte. She had asked her Mama, who had told her that Aunt Karen had done something terrible to me, but if she wanted to know more she would have to ask me, and so she was.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," she responded to my sigh, looking at her hands folded in her lap. "But she still says she loves you," she looked in my eyes, "and I don't know how she could do something that terrible to you, if she loves you."

Well. I tried to give her a cleaned-up, Disney-ized version of things, but she wasn't having any.

"Uncle Rob, I know about sex. I know my birth mother cheated on Dad, and how badly it hurt him. Did Aunt Karen cheat on you? Was that the problem?" While I was trying to figure out how to handle that one, I saw something light-colored move in the darkness near the hall corner. Marie. Twelve years old. Yikes.

Stephanie saw it too. "Come on in, Marie, you might as well hear it first hand." I wasn't sure about this at all.

"I know she's only twelve, but she eavesdrops on Mom and me talking all the time. She's just as curious as I am, so I'll end up having to tell her anyway, so we might as well not sneak around about it." Marie wasn't embarrassed at all; she smiled as she plopped herself down on the other side of me from Stephanie.

"You were saying...?" Stephanie prodded.

I gave them the basics with as little emotion as I could: their grandfather had met Karen in Albany, seduced her, had an affair with her for twenty years, everyone had known but me, and I only found out a few months ago when I saw the painting. Their sweet young faces grew sad, then grim.

"That's horrible," Marie stated emphatically, her blue eyes flashing. "Horrible, horrible, horrible. How could she do that to you, and still tell us she loves you? She just doesn't, that's all. She can't. She's a liar and I don't want to see her ever again."

"She's family, Marie. We have to see her, and we have to be nice," Stephanie explained.

"All right, but someday I'm going to fall in love, and when I do, I'll never ever hurt him. I'll always be true, just like Mom is to Dad. And I'll be especially nice to Uncle Rob every chance I get." She leaned in and kissed me sweetly on the cheek, then retreated, blushing adorably. Stephanie wordlessly repeated the action on my other side. I put an arm around each of them and we snuggled for a few minutes.

That night, Simone apologized for her daughters asking about Karen. I told her there was no need; the world would be a far better place if more adults were like her girls. They were her daughters in every sense of the word, too, for all that she hadn't borne them.

"You and Georges are doing a fantastic job with them, far better than I did with my sons." It was only the truth.

"I hope you can still say that ten years from now," Simone laughed. "I think the hard part is yet to come."

I told her I was betting on them.

They were all sad to see me leave early New Year's morning; even Georgette whimpered a little. They all wanted me to promise to come back, sooner rather than later, and I knew I would. The weather was bitterly cold as I headed southwest, but my heart was warmer than it had been in months.

The next day was my first full day of work in Corporate America. It was a five mile drive instead of a ten-minute walk to work, but it wasn't too bad and I guessed I'd get used to it. Jim helped me get settled in, introduced me to the members of the design team I'd be leading, then we sat down in his office to set up a plan.

I saw no point in beating around the bush. There was no chance this team would ever design a leading edge jet engine. Most of them didn't seem to know about any of the advances made in the last 10 years; talking with them after working with my Persephone team made me feel like I should be looking for the propellers. A couple of them even offered to prove to me that it was impossible to build an engine with over 70,000 pounds thrust. There was one engineer I thought might have some promise, the only woman on the team, but before she would be useful, someone would have to break through the layers of cynicism she'd built up from years of being told to sit down and shut up. We kicked around some options without finding any good ones, and I was having serious second thoughts as I drove to my apartment.

My mood wasn't improved by the large manila envelope that was waiting for me. It was my copy of the signed Petition for Dissolution of Marriage; the decree nisi was expected next week, the final in March. There was also a sealed envelope with my name on the front of it, in Karen's writing. I knew whatever was in it, I couldn't handle it on an empty stomach, so I ate, then busied myself with other chores until I ran out of excuses to put it off. I grabbed a beer and read.

"Dear Rob,

"There are several things I need to tell you. I wish I could do it face to face, but at least this way I know you will hear me out.

"The day before Christmas, I sat down with Sara-Marie to apologize for your overreaction to her toast to Philippe. She stunned me by waving off my apology and saying she respected you for what you did, though she didn't apologize for her toast, either.

"I told her you had filed for divorce, and that I hadn't responded yet. I still wanted to find some way to convince you that Philippe hadn't taken me away from you, that you were still, and had always been, first in my heart. She said I would never succeed because it wasn't true. 'That was always the way with Philippe,' she said; 'any woman he took, he took completely, including, especially, you. Robert is a good man in his way, but against my son, he never had a chance.'

"She said that I loved Philippe absolutely, and always will. We argued it out, but I finally had to admit that she, and you, were right. I do.

"Despite that, I still believe I was a good and loving wife to you. I tried to see that your needs were met, not just to keep you from finding out about Philippe and me, but because I love you. I now realize I didn't completely succeed, and I'm sorry for those failures. I am not sorry for deceiving you: your knowing about us would only have hurt you, and wouldn't have changed anything. I would never have given him up. I was never ashamed of loving Philippe, and am not now.

"Sara-Marie told me that everyone knew I had been a good wife to you, and said that you were foolish to let me go. Many good wives do not keep their husbands first in their hearts, she said. It isn't always a lover, sometimes it's a career or a favorite child. She said I had such a beautiful and loving heart (her words, not mine, and yes, I blushed) that your foolish need to be first in my heart would cost you far more than it would me, but you weren't wise enough to see it that way.

"I'm not so sure about that. She is very perceptive, and she's right about many things, but she doesn't understand you as well as I do. You and I were both very lonely people when we met, and for both of us, finding someone to trust was almost as important as finding someone to love. I have always loved you, and always will, but I think I understand why you feel so terribly wronged: I broke your trust. I wish you could accept my love for you as it is, and always has been. I am sad that you can't, but I think I understand, even though no one else here does. You need to be able to trust where you love, and you don't believe you can trust me.

"That is why, when I get home tomorrow, I will sign the divorce petition. It is my recognition that you need something that I cannot offer you. Would I have done anything differently if I had known that loving Philippe would end our marriage? Probably not. Sara-Marie and Avril say it doesn't matter, that when Philippe decided to pursue me, the rest was inevitable. I would like to think I had more self-control than that, but the truth is that I was vulnerable and I gave in to Philippe very easily, and without much thought about you, except how to hide it from you. So perhaps they're right about that, as well.

"Before I close, I must thank you for being a good man, a good father, and a good husband. Over twenty-five years, you have never given me cause to mistrust you. I realize many wives, including Avril, can't say that, and I'm grateful to you. I'm glad we talked about your going to Iraq. It was the only thing you did in all those years that caused me to doubt your love for me; I'm glad I understand it better now.

"I really can't repine. For twenty years, until Philippe died, I had a great life, as did you. I still believe that what I did was the best for all three of us. There was only one thing I wanted that I didn't have. Many times I wished I could tell you my second great love story, and fully share my happiness with you, my first love. Avril thought I had, and I let her think so, but I was sure that would end our marriage. Now we know that I was right, to all of our sorrow.

"I will always love you and wish you well. I hope you find what you need; I am very sorry that it cannot be with me.

"Love always,

"Karen.

"P.S. I understand you're visiting Simone and Georges. Please be careful not to drive a wedge between Simone and her family. Sara-Marie is far more upset with her granddaughter than she is with you; please don't separate them farther. Her sons need their relationships with their Du Monte kin.

"Karen."

Well, that was just what I needed to put the cap on a truly lousy day. I guess I was relieved that she didn't continue with the "it's all in the past" nonsense. I wondered if the old bird was proud of all the marriages her son wrecked: children estranged from fathers, once-happy homes left desolate, all so that he could enjoy one more conquest. Then there was the final irony: it was fine for Karen to poison my relationship with our sons by making them keep her secret as they grew up, but I shouldn't come between young Philippe and Andre and their scuzzball of a grandfather? I just shook my head. Lisa's words from weeks ago came back to me again, as they had so often: "That's not what she said to you, and it's not what she tells herself, but it's what she did."

"Love always," Karen had written. I was sure she believed it; Avril and even old Sara-Marie said so, too. But none of them had a problem with her humiliating me by flaunting her affair to the world by displaying that painting. Heck, I could imagine her making me dress up and go to some stuffed-shirt reception and listen while she told everyone what a great guy her lover was. How could she do that, if she loved me?

"She just doesn't. She can't." Remembering Marie's emphatic words brought a smile to my face. No one in their family had said they loved me, but they had reached out to me, welcomed me to their hearts and their home, and shown me in a hundred little ways that they cared. I knew, I just knew, that none of them, right down to Georgette, would ever treat me as Karen had, and still did. They loved me.

I had loved Karen with everything I had. If she had shown any willingness to leave her lover in his grave and return to our marriage, I would have tried to make it work. I'll never know whether I would have succeeded, but I loved her enough that I would have tried, if she would try with me. She would not: hot make-up sex and threesomes with Avril were as far as she was willing to go. We loved each other deeply, but she didn't love me enough to choose me over Philippe, even after his death, and I didn't love her enough to accept that.

The next day was spent at work hashing out some plans with Jim Leverett, and getting to know the one engineer who showed promise. Andy took a while to open up to me, but I could tell she had the same jet engine bug that I did. I told her about Persephone in broad outline; she was enthralled, and I had to watch myself to keep from spilling too much to her. I didn't want that 6'6" MP coming after me. I felt we connected, and she would be a good person to build a team around.

It was Lisa who sent me the link, though I still don't know who did the dirty work. I wish I did; I'd like to shake their hand. It was a New York Times article headlined, "Vets To Boycott MoMA Show." The Philippe Du Monte exhibition hadn't formally opened yet, but there had been a few private showings. It seems that during one of them, someone had placed a placard onto the painting of Karen which read, "This was posed for and painted while the subject's then-husband was serving in combat aboard USS Eisenhower in the Persian Gulf." The placard was promptly removed, but not before a picture had been taken and posted on social media, where it went viral. All sorts of veterans' groups started calling for a boycott of the entire exhibition, since the "subject" had helped organize it and stood to benefit from it financially. The exhibit's organizers, Ms. Avril Du Monte and Ms. Karen McDonald, the artist's widow and paramour respectively, did not respond to requests for comment.

Did I smile? Well, yes, I did. I wasn't surprised to find an express letter from my attorney when I came home a couple of days later. Karen begged me to issue a statement that I had seen the painting and approved of its display. I thought of several possible replies, and sent her the most succinct of them. No.

The dispute was finally resolved hours before the opening. The offensive painting was removed from the exhibition and from the catalogue cover, Ms. McDonald agreed not to accept proceeds from the sale of any exhibited work, and the veterans' groups withdrew their boycott. In spite of which, reviews described interest in the exhibition as 'tepid' and 'disappointing.' I was quite sure Avril felt that her late husband did not receive the respect he deserved. The exhibition closed early, and its planned tour was cancelled. I received an angry message from Avril and Karen through my attorney, to the effect that they hoped I was happy now.

Was I happy now? That was the question, wasn't it? I admit I gloated a bit over the failure of the exhibition, even though I hadn't caused it. I am not better than other men. I also had to admit 'happy' didn't exactly describe me just then, but I was improving, and happiness seemed like a real possibility again, if a somewhat distant one.

Georges and Simone's family were my rocks. Knowing that someone, anyone, really cares about you, makes a huge difference. I don't think I'd have survived without them.

Georges suggested I celebrate my divorce being final with a trip to Ottawa. I didn't need much pressure to agree. Spring was coming to the Ohio Valley, but was quickly left behind as I drove north. The rigors of the winter drive kept me from dwelling on the final end of my marriage, and the enthusiastic welcome at journey's end wiped everything else from my mind. They fed me to bursting, kept me occupied with tales of all their doings, and generally made me feel like I had a family again. I wallowed happily and unashamedly.

We talked about forgiveness one evening. It didn't mean forgetting or accepting what the other person did, it just meant deciding that you weren't going to punish them for it. It was deciding that they no longer owed you anything.

"How can I forgive them, especially Karen, when she doesn't think she did anything wrong?"

"You know what she did was wrong," Georges answered, "so you need to forgive her to get past it. I think you should write and tell her, too. You'll want to take back your forgiveness when the hurt comes again, and if it's in writing, it will be harder to do that." I knew he spoke from experience, and I respected that.

"I think Karen does know how badly she hurt you," Simone said gently. "I think she's sorry for that, even if she isn't sorry for what she did to cause it. Still, even if she just rips up your letter, you need to forgive her for your own sake."

We talked a little more and when I got home, I wrote a brief note to Karen. I gave her my address in Cincinnati, and told her simply that I forgave her and Philippe. I never received a reply. Georges was right: having put it into writing helped those times when I wanted to take back my forgiveness and see Karen properly punished, perhaps with a scarlet "A" branded onto her forehead. Those occasions became less frequent, though, and I thought of her less and less, and Georges and Simone's family more and more. I was moving on, and learning to trust again.

I'd been working a couple of Saturdays a month at the Salvation Army, helping Carly get the warehouse organized, as she called it. What she meant was getting it to the point that even the most obsessive compulsive petty officer in the Navy (and I had known some) couldn't find anything wrong with it. The other guys who had been coming in for a while welcomed me to their group, and we became friends. It was another step in my healing: Karen had been the only real friend I had, until Lisa. We went together to UC and Xavier basketball games, and the married ones had us single guys over to dinner from time to time.

Carly wasn't a friend. We invited her sometimes, especially when wives were along, but she always turned us down. She wasn't rude, but she was decisive as always, and never gave a reason.

We were trying to finish up early one Saturday because a bunch of us were going to a game. One of the things you learn very quickly on a flight deck is to be aware of anything moving anywhere near you, so I knew exactly where the fork lift was as it approached the aisle I was working in. Something disturbed my peripheral vision: something red, near the floor, where nothing red should be. I was already turning to see what it was when it turned into a little flame-haired girl running right into the path of the fork lift as it turned into my aisle.

I didn't think; I just reacted. I leaped from my ladder, dove on the girl, clutched her to me, rolled us over until I could get my feet under me, then stood and ran for the far end of the aisle. I heard the fork lift stop, its driver using language that really shouldn't be used in the Salvation Army, but I kept going until it was out of sight. I leaned up against the wall, panting and shaking, as I usually did after a crisis.

Taking stock of the situation, I found I was indeed holding a little girl, seven or so, I guessed, with fair skin and flame-red hair tied into a pony tail that hung past her shoulders. Her wide blue-green eyes were staring at me. She hadn't made a sound. I set her on the window sill.

"Are you okay?" She nodded. I was still shaking; she seemed fine.

"I'm Mr. McDonald." I held out my hand to her.

"I'm Randi." She dodged my hand, threw her thin little arms around my neck, and softly kissed my cheek.

"Down, please?" I held her under her arms as she jumped off the window sill, just like a normal kid, not one who had just almost gotten run over by a fork lift. We found the toy she'd been chasing under one of the shelving units; I dusted it off and handed it to her.