Funeral Dirge for a Fairytale

At the hospital, I told them that Derek had gotten out of his car and thought it was in park. That it was still in gear and the engine was on, and he hadn’t noticed until his hand was between the wall and the front bumper. It was a dumb story, but the best I could come up with at short notice. They didn’t look like they believed me; the damage was far too extensive for that. But when they questioned him separately, he backed me up.

I left the hospital and called Dad to come pick me up. I had expected more of, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.” Oh no. No, not at all. He was furious. He spent the entire drive home and most of the next two days just laying into me. The details of what he said don’t matter, only the fact that he was right. I had ruined my life, destroyed the man I loved, left my child potentially without a father, and all for what? My writing? The ridiculous need to create things that I’d never show to anyone else? Hell, even if I saw them published to great acclaim, what I created didn’t even come close to what I’d lost.

The only reason he stopped after two days was because Andrea, his girlfriend, got him to ease off. She had met Dad through church. They were friends first, and Dad brought her to volunteer at the homeless outreach center as a way to occupy her time and mind after a bad divorce. She had been homeless as a teenager, and she found great peace in helping out there. She also helped to balance him out, getting him to stop trying to make up for his perceived failure with Gloria. Turned out they were each exactly what the other needed. Eventually, they fell in love and had been dating for about a year when I blew my fucking life up.

Andrea didn’t get him to stop because she was on my side; she had been cheated on by her ex-husband and absolutely detested what I had done. Detested me for a while, I think. No, she got him to stop so that he didn’t have a heart attack. He was still pretty brusque with me for another week or so, but eventually he thawed. I was his daughter, after all, and I was going to make him a grandfather.

I tried to communicate with Tim several times, in multiple ways: texts, phone calls, even showed up at the apartment once only to have him slam the door in my face. He texted me one time:
“Let me know if the baby is mine. Have Don bring proof over. You can keep using the car until we know one way or another; I’ll arrange to have it dropped off. Don’t bother me again until you know.”

Then he blocked me. He didn’t start divorce proceedings; I initially took that as a hopeful sign. But after Dad talked with him, I learned that it was only so I could stay on his insurance until he knew if the baby was his, and then we’d reassess. He was true to his word about the car, which I was beyond grateful for. It was more than I deserved. He sent it over packed up with everything that I owned that he could stuff into it. Among the belongings were my wedding dress and our wedding album, which set off a new wave of guilt and sadness.

I lost pretty much all of my friends. I didn’t tell anyone what I’d done; it’s not exactly the type of thing you trumpet about. I assume Tim did. I didn’t try to defend myself, because what I had done was indefensible. But I became a pariah in our social circles, for good reason.

I had a handful of people that were theoretically on my side, but they were all self-serving assholes of one stripe or another: a couple of guys that had always sniffed around me, a serial cheater who argued that I was just looking out for what I needed, a leftover radfem from college that said basically the same thing but couched it in long-since-discredited rhetoric. None of them actually supported me in any tangible way, of course; they just said that they did. I didn’t want their company, either, so they eventually drifted away.

A few weeks after the event’s at Derek’s apartment, I finally went to my first prenatal ob/gyn appointment, where I was presented with a fun surprise: I was actually almost three months pregnant, not two months. I asked how that could have happened, and the doctor told me that spotting in the first month or two of a pregnancy could be mistaken for a light period. There was no way it could be Derek’s. The ultrasound showed a beautiful, healthy girl. I cried for her. I cried for Tim. I cried for me.

On the way home, what Tim had said kept running through my head: “You would never have told me if you hadn’t gotten pregnant. You would never have told me if Derek had looked like us. If you could have hidden what you’d done.” I wanted to deny it was true, but I couldn’t. I would have done anything to keep my daughter safe, and if keeping my infidelity a secret was the price I had to pay, I would have done it. If I wasn’t pregnant, I would have crawled into a bottle about that time and probably never come back out.

I let Tim know the news through Dad. They’d stayed in pretty close contact; Tim was the son he’d always wanted, after all. His response was simple: “You can stay on my insurance and keep the car until the baby comes.” I was grateful. I was despondent. I had hoped against hope that maybe our daughter, our nameless child, would somehow bring us back together. It didn’t happen.

I needed to face facts: Tim wasn’t coming back. He had no reason to. I knew he was a good man, and he’d be a good co-parent. I doubted he’d try to take her away from me, especially because I had a pretty strong support structure in Dad and Andrea. And I knew he’d never try to take Dad’s granddaughter away. I resigned myself to being his adulterous and soon-to-be-divorced baby mama. At least I’d get to see him a little, maybe eventually become friends again.

Thus resolved, I wrote him a letter detailing everything I could: why I’d cheated, when I’d started, how I felt about both him and Derek, my regrets, my hatred of myself. I didn’t ask for his forgiveness, because I knew I didn’t deserve it. I only asked that he not take out his justifiable anger on our daughter, or on my Dad, or on whoever he eventually fell in love with again. I told him that I’d always love him, that he was the best man that I’d ever met, and I hoped he’d find a way past my monstrous actions. I wanted him to move on and be happy. I sealed the twenty page letter with a tearstained kiss and had Dad deliver it. Tim never contacted me about it.

My life became an almost unbroken series of the same day over and over again: wake up, cry, try to have breakfast for the baby’s sake, drive to work, try to have lunch for the baby’s sake, work some more, drive home, try to have dinner for the baby’s sake, cry in the shower, fall asleep praying I’d wake up and it had all been a dream. On my days off, the only change was that I had ten uninterrupted hours to brood instead of working and driving.

Every night, I looked at the boxes that held all of my writing journals in it. They sat in my room like a barrel of toxic waste, radiating invisible waves of sickness and pain. One Saturday, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I took them all out into the backyard and burnt them. Almost everything I’d written since grade school went up in a roaring fire. I hoped it would feel cathartic, but instead it just felt pathetic. What I’d written wasn’t the problem, why I’d done it was.

I started seeing a therapist. I figured, as long as I still had the insurance, I might as well. I tried to let Tim know ahead of time, but I was still blocked. Whatever. If he didn’t want me to do it, it would be the very least of the betrayals I’d piled on his shoulders; I’d figure out a way to pay him back later. It made me feel a little better, but my therapist mostly helped me reach the same conclusions that I was already drifting towards: my past may have helped to explain some of my actions, but it came nowhere near excusing them.

It didn’t really help me move forward, either. I knew what I’d done and why I’d done it. I knew that I’d never do it again. That wasn’t just because of moral outrage at myself. It was because I’d never been inspired to write like I had been with Derek, and the thought of seeing him again made me physically ill.

This deep depression is probably why I didn’t notice at first that something felt wrong. I was six months pregnant at the time. Dad and Andrea had left the country two weeks before, headed to Peru for a church missionary trip, feeding the poor and preaching the gospel. They were treating it like a vacation, even though I knew they’d be working the whole time. Whatever, it’s not like I could throw stones about what worked in other peoples’ relationships. They were supposed to be back in about a month, well before the baby was born.

I was at work, daydreaming. Moping, really. I had been feeling even more tired than usual, and I was going to take an early coffee break when I suddenly felt a stabbing pain in my abdomen, almost enough to blind me. A co-worker saw me clutching my stomach and started to walk towards me. I only got out “He– help–” before things went black.

Tim was there. In a chair, looking at his phone. I… had it all been a dream? My voice croaked, “Cuddlebug?”

He looked up with a start, then smiled gently. With a soft voice, he said “Hey, El. How’re you feeling?”

My head felt like it was full of cotton. “Where…?”

He slid his phone into his pocket and came to stand next to me. His hand stroked my hair, and I made a little content sound. “You’re okay, El, and so is the baby, but you’re in the hospital right now.”

Baby? Oh, no, it wasn’t a dream. I had… Oh no, oh god. “What? Why?”

Tim pulled the rolling stool up and sat down, looking in my eyes. I was starting to focus better, coming out of my daze. I was in a hospital bed, with monitoring leads coming out from under my gown and an IV in my arm. He tried to soothe me with both his voice and expression. “There was a… a scare. The baby… the doctors said she tried to come early. They stopped it, but it was close. You passed out from the pain and exhaustion.” His face was grim, not quite angry, but on its way. “You need to take better care of yourself, Ellie.”

I nodded. “I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to get enough to eat and sleep, but… but…” I trailed off. It was the first time I’d seen him in months, and I just wanted to enjoy this quiet time a little longer, before we had to resume the lives I’d ruined. Just a little longer, I wanted to pretend he still loved me.

His words came out in a long sigh, “I understand.” Looking at him now, I could see he was tired, too. He’d lost weight, and he hadn’t had a lot to lose in the first place.

I could feel the tears coming in. “I’m so sorry, Tim, I– “

“Shh shh shh don’t. Don’t, okay? You need to rest. Please don’t get upset. We can talk some other time, but you need to just get some rest, for the baby’s sake, okay?”

Even I could hear the resigned tone in my voice. I had hoped maybe some of his care, even just a tiny sliver, was for me. But I had no right to ask for that. “Okay. I will.” I was so tired again. I felt him smoothing my hair as I closed my eyes, and then I nodded off.

When I woke again, Tim was still there. In hospitals, you can never tell how long you’ve been asleep, unless there’s a window in your room. There wasn’t one in mine. His clothes were still the same, but he was curled up on the little couch with a blanket. I didn’t want to wake him, so I looked around the room. On the little tray table next to my bed, I found my phone and opened it. Three days had passed; it was morning on a Friday now. I decided to let Tim sleep a little longer while I caught up on what few emails and texts I had, plus any news. I felt a lot better than I had when I passed out in the store, that was for sure.

Maybe half an hour, I heard him stir on the couch. I waited for him to say something, not wanting to disturb him. “Hey, El. Feeling better?”

I looked over and saw him slowly rise to a seated position, stretching and popping his back. “Much, thank you. Did you… did you stay with me the whole time? Wait, why are you here?” Elegantly put, Ellie. “I mean…”

He waved me off. “I know. I’m still your emergency contact at the bookstore.”

“Oh.” I paused. “I– I’m sorry. I shouldn’t– I’ll get that fixed.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I mean… yeah, eventually, but it’s not something we need to worry about right now. We actually need to talk about that.” He was tiptoeing around something. “You… the doctors say you can’t go back to work, El. At least not until after the baby is born. It’s not complete bedrest, but you need to stay in bed or sit most of the day.”

“Oh.” I was living with Dad, and he wasn’t charging me rent. He and Andrea were going to be back in a few weeks, so I’d probably be okay until then. I’d need to figure something out for food, but–

“I want you to stay with me.”

“What?!”

“El, I… look, I know it isn’t ideal. I doubt– “ He looked away from me. “I doubt this is something you want, either. But Don’s going to be gone for another month and if you have another… incident, I don’t want you to be alone. And I know that– well, I know you don’t really have anyone else you can be with.”

I shook my head. “Tim, I don’t want to do that to you. You’ve already been so generous, and–”

“I just want to make sure the baby’s safe, Ellie. I don’t want to be worrying about her all day every day for the next three months. I’ve already talked with my boss, and he agreed that, at least for a few months, I can work remotely. I’m going to get everything set up today, and then you can come home– I mean, you can come to the apartment tomorrow, when the doctors give the go ahead.”

I tried very hard not to cry. Very, very hard. I failed. “Thank you, Tim.”

His expression grew somber. “I– I don’t want you reading anything into this, El. I’m not– this is for our daughter. Not you. I’m not– this isn’t– “

“No! No, I get it.” I wiped the tears away. “I know. I know. But… even if it’s just for her, I… just, thank you, Tim.”

He nodded. “Okay. I’m going to go get things ready. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I spent the rest of the day watching bad TV, eating bad hospital food, doomscrolling on social media, and doing everything else I could to distract myself from the fact that I’d be moving back in with my husband. I knew that wasn’t how I should think about it, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to not be giddy. I tried to not be scared. I tried to not read anything into it. I failed on all counts.

Sleep that night was elusive. I did everything I could, from breathing exercises to putting on white noise to counting sheep. But thoughts and emotions just kept whirling in my head. I was certain that I'd never be with him again, not really with him. But maybe this could be the first step towards our being friends and good co-parents. I’d take that.

True to his word, Tim showed up the next morning ready to roll. The hospital staff promptly released me in the late afternoon. I felt better, but still a little weak. I got the feeling that Tim had underplayed, just a bit, how serious things had gotten.

Tim was in a new place, a nicer, larger apartment in a newer complex. He’d gotten a promotion shortly before everything fell apart, and we’d been talking about getting a bigger space so that our then-theoretical child could have their own room. It was nice to see he’d been able to follow through on that.

He’d swung by Dad’s house and gotten some of my stuff; some clothes, a few of my favorite books, toiletries, and a few other odds and ends. It was all in the main bedroom’s closet. He’d gotten everything prepared ahead of time, as promised. “I’m going to sleep on the couch. You’re going to take the bed.”

“What? No! I’m not going to kick you out of your bed.”

He sighed. “Yes, you are, El. Or rather, our daughter is. You need to get the most rest you can, which means you need the most comfortable place to sleep. That’s our– my bed. You’re sleeping there. Period..”

I agreed, reluctantly. The doctor’s orders said I needed to stay seated or lying down for most of the day; I could do some very light housework, like cooking, but even that should be limited. I knew Tim. “Limited” would mean “don’t you fucking dare.”

I tried to stay out of his way. He was working at home and staying there during his off hours and trying to keep an eye on me. It was hard to not feel like I was underfoot, especially since I had kicked him out of his bed and couldn’t actually do anything useful. I tried to take up as little space as possible and do a little light work while I could. Small things, like cleaning up papers that he left scattered around, maybe making us sandwiches here and there, that kind of thing. And that’s how I found the letter.

In his bedroom, there was a stack of stuff on the bedside table. There were a lot of things in the stack, a lot of things I didn’t want to see. I wasn’t trying to snoop, just to make a place to put my book and phone, so I was straightening them up. But I saw that there were some do-it-yourself divorce forms that had been abandoned once he found out my daughter was his. Printed out research on custody laws, alimony, child support. A book on coping with infidelity, either as a single person or a married couple trying to work through it.

And right on top, the letter, still in its envelope. It had been opened; a number of times, from the look of it. The paper had that regularly-handled quality to it, the slight fuzziness where it had been folded and unfolded repeatedly. Inside, each page had tearstains on it. There were passages highlighted, others circled. Notes in the margin. I didn’t want to pry more than I already had, so I was putting the letter back in when I heard his voice, filled with irritation.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I jumped. “Tim! I’m– I’m sorry, I was just trying to make some space and I found the letter and I looked and I didn’t mean to– “

He snatched it from my hands as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Sorry. I’ll clear all this out. Didn’t mean to be a bad host.” He grabbed all of the stuff from the bedside table and stomped out. Fuck. I couldn’t even be a good houseguest.

Things were tense that evening and into the following day. My attempts to stay out of his way, already difficult given the size of the apartment and our constant occupancy of it, became impossible with the tension that filled the rooms now. I knew that it had always been a fragile peace, but it had been nice while it lasted.

At dinner that night, thankfully, Tim was conciliatory. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I should have cleaned all of that up before you got here. I just– “He shook his head. “ – I dunno. I hadn’t exactly forgotten about it; I guess I just didn’t want to think about it for now, so I forgot to clean it up.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should have… even if I wanted to clean it up, I shouldn’t have looked through it. It wasn’t any of my business.” I poked at my food, not sure if I should say anything else. But then I realized I was going to be here for at least another month, and we were going to have the rest of at least the next eighteen years tied together, so we were going to have to do this eventually. “We never…” I looked up at him. “We never talked after that morning. Really talked, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m… I know you read my letter. I’m so sorry for everything I did to you. I would do anything to take all of it back. I know I can’t, but if there’s– I don’t know, if there’s anything I can do to make– make all of this easier on you. I know…” My voice broke a little bit, having to admit it out loud for the first time to him. “I know you’ll– we’ll– that we’ll never be able to–” I couldn’t. I just couldn’t say it.

The best man in the world saved me again. “Yeah.”

I nodded sadly, grateful that I wouldn’t have to say it. “But we– we still have to raise our daughter together. I– maybe some day, I’d like us to even be friends. I don’t know if you can do that. But I’ll do anything you need to– if–” I stopped, casting around for anything concrete to say, anything that didn’t sound like platitudes or empty promises. I found something, and almost wished I hadn’t.