Rebirth

One day, one of the trainers approached me and asked me if I was doing any flexibility or stretching exercises. She suggested adding a yoga class to my routine. I enrolled in the 7:00 A.M. class, which met six days a week. I used the class as a warmup for the weight workouts, adding about 45 minutes to my daily routine. I could do that, because other than counseling, the exercise program was my only activity that didn't involve sleeping, eating, or reading.

The weekday classes tended to attract women in their early twenties to early thirties, generally on their way to the offices where they worked. Saturdays were different. The women were older, mostly in their mid to late thirties and early forties. The instructor used to refer to the Saturday class as "the soccer mom class". I asked her one day what that meant. She explained that after class the Saturday crew generally would spend the balance of their day running kids to various sporting events and standing on the sidelines watching their kids play. Soccer was the sport of choice in this area, far surpassing football, baseball or basketball. Hence the term.

Most days, I was the only male in the yoga class. Initially, I sensed some concern and even a bit of hostility from some of the women, particularly those in the weekday classes. I made it a point to park myself in the front corner of the class so that none of them could complain that I was perving on them as they went through the various yoga poses. In fact, after the loss of my family and more than two decades of celibate living in an all-male environment, I had not begun to think about dating and certainly had no interest in trying to connect with a woman who was my daughter's age, no matter how attractive.

The soccer mom class became more welcoming in time. After it was clear that I was a regular, they began to greet me like they did one another as we entered class and say goodbye as we were leaving. Occasionally, one or another of the women would engage me in a short, casual conversation, with safe topics ranging from the weather to a bit of gossip about the gym staff or trainers. I was polite, but kept my distance, not wanting to offend but also not comfortable engaging. I noticed that some of the soccer moms wore wedding rings, but others did not, and I was particularly careful with those who were married.

There were generally about thirty women in the Saturday classes. Although attendees tended to line up based upon their order of arrival, there was a group of five women, all in their late thirties or early forties, who seemed to regularly position themselves so they were grouped around me. Most of them were attractive, not hard bodied like the younger women in the weekday classes, but carrying a few extra pounds generally distributed nicely between their chests and their hips. They tended to be well dressed, generally in brand name workout gear, and well-groomed. They often arrived and left together. As a result of the way they positioned themselves around me, I found myself talking to them far more often than I did to any of the other women in the various classes. Over the course of time, I noticed that all but one of them wore a wedding ring.

One rainy Saturday morning, after I'd been going to the class for about six months, two of the women approached me after class to tell me that their children's games had all been cancelled because of the weather. The group of five women was going out for coffee and wanted me join them. I must have gotten a "deer in the headlights" look at their invitation, because they laughed, told me that I'd be perfectly safe and that I had nothing to fear. They simply had enjoyed talking with me and were curious about me, particularly as the gym staff, which was usually the source of all sorts of insider information about members, had nothing to report other than that I spent an inordinate amount of time working out every day. They just wanted to get to know me a bit better.

I had not had a meaningful social conversation with a woman since my conviction. My interactions with women had either been professional (Maureen, my counselor, The Innocence Project staff assisting me in re-entering society), or casual (store clerks, the lady at the DMV, bank tellers, gym staff). I protested that I had run over to the gym and didn't have a car, whereupon they informed me that one of them would give me a ride and ensure that I got back to the gym in plenty of time to complete my daily routine. All they wanted was an hour of my time so they could get to know me better. Because it had been so long since I'd interacted with women, I missed all the warning signs. Had I been more attuned to what was going on, I'd ealized that they'd decihave rded I was a possible candidate to pair with their unmarried girlfriend. They were about to interview me to see if I had the qualifications to fill that role. The two of them grabbed me by the arms and dragged me to one of their cars, then headed off to the coffee shop.

When we arrived, the three women who had headed out before us were seated at a round table. I had been introduced to each of them at one time or another, but I'm not great with names, so I went around the table again to make sure I had all the names correct. The two women who had dragooned me into coming parked me next to their single girlfriend, who reintroduced herself as Antonia, but asked to be called Toni. Then the four married women started to grill me.

My counselor had been working hard at getting me to open up in conversations and I did my best to be open about my current life. When asked questions about my past, I deflected or answered the question with a question. They managed to establish that I was in my late 40s, single, not in a relationship, financially solvent and sufficiently well-educated and well-read to be acceptable in their social circle. Having accomplished their mission, they drifted off one by one, making excuses of appointments, chores, or childcare obligations, leaving me alone with Toni.

When the last one left, I rose to leave as well, telling Toni "I'm sure you have things to do today. I'll let you get on with them. I enjoyed this and want to thank you and your friends for dragging me out of my routine."

She reached out and touched my arm. It was the first time a woman had made a gesture like that to me in decades.

"Please stay for a few minutes. My friends can sometimes be pushy and overwhelming. I want to apologize for their behavior. It's really my fault. They've been trying to pair me off with someone since my divorce. I mentioned that I found you intriguing. The next thing I knew they had decided to kidnap you from the gym and force you to talk with me. My ex-husband has my kids for the weekend, so I really don't have any place I have to be. If you don't mind, I really would like to know more about you."

With that, she released my arm and looked up imploringly at me, a bit teary-eyed.

"Sure, I can stay. The gym is open until 8:00 P.M. tonight and I can get my workout in later, or even do it on Sunday." And with that, we began a conversation that lasted almost three hours.

Since I'd been in the crosshairs of the group for an hour, I focused our discussion on Toni. She had already told me that she was divorced. I learned that she had two children, an eight-year-old girl (Bobbi) and a five-year-old boy (James). She was a physician's assistant, working in a medical practice owned by the local hospital. Her ex-husband was a lawyer in a large Philadelphia law firm. Their marriage had ended when she discovered he was having an affair with one of his associates, whom he had married following the divorce. He had custody of the children on alternate weekends and for half of the summer, but frequently pawned them off on his parents or his new wife, who was expecting their first child. He paid a generous amount of alimony and child support, allowing Toni and the children to continue living in what had been the marital home in an upscale development I had passed through a couple of times when out running. She liked the outdoors, particularly hiking and biking.

Toni then asked me why I was still single at this stage of my life. I told her that it was a long and involved story, which I was reluctant to get into until I knew her better. I promised her that it didn't mean I was trying to hide something terrible about me from her, but only that it was quite painful to revisit. I preferred not to do so unless we were to become more than just one-time coffee buddies. She looked at me and asked, "Does this mean you might consider doing this again?"

"I might," I replied, "if you would be interested. But you need to understand that I'm a mess right now emotionally. I'm seeing a counselor several times a week. I'm not prepared to have a relationship with anybody until I get the issues in my life sorted. It could take quite a while. I wouldn't want to keep you from moving on if you were to find someone you were interested in because I can't promise you that I'll ever put the pieces of my life together in an acceptable fashion."

She looked at me for what seemed a long while, then said, "How about we do this again in two weeks. My kids will be with my ex again and I'll arrange my schedule so we can talk. IF the weather is good, we could go up to New Hope and walk the canal towpath. Perhaps have lunch?"

I told her that sounded like a plan. We exchanged telephone numbers. Then she briefly hugged me and we walked out to her car so she could return me to the gym for my long-deferred workout.

CHAPTER SIX

We were about fifteen minutes into the first counseling session following my coffee with the group when my counselor stopped the conversation, looked at me and asked, "Did something happen to you this weekend? You seem different. More relaxed. Less prickly. And you are partially responding instead of completely avoiding discussing issues that you've been uncomfortable talking about."

I told her about having been dragged from the gym by the group of five and the long discussion with Toni.

"You like her," she said. "This is the first woman you've mentioned encountering in a social setting since we began meeting. Are you going to see her again?"

"Whoa! I see her most Saturdays at the gym yoga class. We had coffee as part of a group and she had some more free time than the rest. That's all."

"You shouldn't ever play poker. You have a tell when you're trying to divert the conversation from something you don't want to talk about. There's more to this than just coffee and yoga, isn't there? So, I repeat, are you going to see her again?"

"Well, we did discuss possibly meeting for coffee the next weekend she doesn't have her kids. Maybe go up to New Hope and walk the canal towpath for a while. She likes to hike. We might have lunch while we're there."

"Does she know anything about your history?"

"No. I just told her I had some serious emotional issues and was in counseling for them."

"When are you going to tell her?"

"That depends. Maybe never. I'd only share that with a woman if I were trying to form a committed relationship. I have no idea whether she and I will go anywhere at this point. You, of all people, know what a mess I am. Would you want your sister or daughter dating me in the shape I'm in right now?"

"Fair point. We'll revisit this in a couple of weeks. Now let's talk about the other major issue you're avoiding." And with that, she once again launched into the question of my finding and reconnecting with my children and my siblings.

It took several sessions of somewhat acrimonious back and forth, along with a phone call from Maureen, before I finally agreed to hire a private detective to locate my parents' graves, my siblings, and my children. I asked him to prepare three separate reports, one for each search, so I could decide what to do about the search results for each separately. I was sure I'd visit my parents' graves, less sure whether I'd contact my siblings, and quite unsure whether I'd contact my children. For the search results on my children, I asked him to give me a report on how they were doing but put their location and contact information in a sealed envelope so I could take my time in deciding what to do about outreach to them. He agreed to do so and went off to begin his searches.

The Saturday spent in New Hope with Toni was delightful right up until the last two minutes. She had me pick her up at her house. We walked along the tow path for several hours, then wandered through the town watching the show that is the hippy haven of Pennsylvania. Lunch was excellent, which was to be expected as most of the restaurants in town were quite good. By mid-afternoon she was clearly beginning to flag. I suggested that it might be time to call it a day and take her home. Toni seemed reluctant for the day to end, but agreed and we headed off to her house.

When we got to her house, I got out, opened her car door, and extended my hand to help her out of the car. She stood, then placed her hand on my chest. "Would you like to come in for a few minutes?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Just for a few. I've enjoyed today so much. I really hate to see it end. We could have a glass of wine and just sit and talk for a while longer."

I agreed and we walked to the front door and then into the house.

I had barely entered her house when I realized that I'd made a terrible mistake. Her entrance hallway was decorated with a collection of pictures of her children. There were more than a dozen photos and photo montages, arranged more or less chronologically. I hadn't been confronted with children's pictures since leaving prison. A tidal wave of emotions washed over me. All I could think about was my loss. I began to cry, then said to her, "I'm so sorry. This was a mistake. I really must leave now. Thank you for the day." And I bolted from the house, got in my car, and drove off.

At my next counseling session, my counselor asked me, "So how did it go? Did you see her on Saturday like you planned?

"I did. It was fine until I took her home. Then I blew it completely."

"What happened?"

"We walked into her front hall and it was covered with pictures of her kids. I just imploded. I broke down completely, pretty much just ran out of there and drove off. I don't think she'll want to see me again after that."

"Have you talked with her since?"

"No."

"But you have her number?"

"Yes."

"So why won't you call her. What are you afraid of?"

"She has a family. I don't. I can't begin to explain how much it would hurt to be reminded of that every day if I were to be with her in some fashion."

"What's the worst that would happen if you called her? That she might not want to see you again? You've already concluded that she won't. What if she will? Isn't there a potential upside benefit with no downside risk at this point?"

As it turned out, I didn't have to call Toni. She called me that evening.

"What did I do?", she asked.

"Nothing. It was all my fault, I said. I told you I had emotional issues. When I saw your entrance hallway, with all the photos of your children, I just lost it."

"Do you have children?"

"I did, but not anymore. It's a part of that past I don't like to talk about. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but seeing your children's pictures just reminded me of what I'd lost. I couldn't deal with it. I understand that you won't want to see me again. I'll transfer to another yoga class if it makes you uncomfortable."

She was quiet for quite a long time after that. Then she said, "Look, I like you. You are the first man I've been attracted to since my divorce. I'm willing to take this as slowly as you need to. I don't want you to change classes and I definitely want to see you again. If you're willing, we'll limit our meetings to public places that don't trigger you. I've had some patients with PTSD and other, similar, trauma related issues. I don't know what you are going through specifically, but I recognize the symptoms generally. I'd like to help you get through this and see if we might develop into something. Could we at least try it this way?"

Now I was quiet for a very long time. Toni finally asked, "Are you still there or did we get disconnected?"

I replied. "I'm still here. I think I'd be willing to at least try your approach. My counselor was pushing me to call you. She said there was upside potential in making the call and no downside to speak of. I think she was right. You called first, but I was planning on calling you when I worked up the nerve. Do you think we might meet for dinner some night?"

"We could. I have a regular babysitter and I'm sure I can arrange for her to watch the children while we meet. Would Wednesday evening be too soon? I'll meet you at the Italian place in the strip center next to the gym."

"That would be fine." And with that, I began the very slow process of rebirth.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I began seeing Toni about once a week, aside from the Saturday morning yoga classes. We always met at the destination or left from my apartment parking lot. As I got to know her better, I began to experience feelings I hadn't had since my divorce. We were never intimate, although in time we did begin holding hands when we walked. Most evenings ended with a light hug and a chaste kiss. Toni's girlfriends kept encouraging her to move the relationship along physically, but she sensed I wasn't ready for intimacy and continued to allow me to move at my own snail's pace. I had not met her kids, nor had she told them who I was. They were aware she was going out with someone but didn't feel it necessary to push her for details. In their minds, I was just someone mommy knew who wouldn't ever be important to them.

The progress in what I was beginning to accept was the start of a relationship might have continued at its glacial pace but for the internet. When I'd begun my prison sentence, the internet was something primarily business related and worked at the speed of a dial-up connection. I rarely had reason to use it at work, except for emails, and never used it at home. When I'd settled into my apartment, I had not bothered to get a landline, cable TV or the internet. I didn't own a computer and used my cell phone only for making telephone calls. When I needed to access something that I couldn't find locally, I usually used a computer in the public library, a place I visited regularly to feed my reading habit.

As I've noted, my speech to the judge had made the local news and ended up on social media. I really didn't know what that meant and hadn't bothered to ask Maureen or anyone else. It turned out that my blasting of the various news media from the courthouse steps had also worked its way onto social media, courtesy of a bystander who had recorded the entire thing on his phone. I had no idea such a thing was possible at the time I teed off on the newspeople.

I had been Matthew Houston up until I went to prison. When I was released, to further protect my anonymity, I'd begun using the name M. Thomas Houston and most people who knew me in my new world called me Tommy. I'd occasionally went out to coffee on Saturdays with Toni after class and sometimes her friends would tag along. I usually put the tab on my credit card, which read Matthew T. Houston, my legal name, which the bank had required me to use. I thought nothing of it at the time.

One Saturday, Toni and I were out with two of her girlfriends when the waitress brought the bill. I laid my credit card on the bill holder and got up to go to the bathroom while the waitress processed the charge. Toni's friend Molly looked at the card and then said to her, "So Tommy's real name is Matthew? Have your ever Googled him?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Just to see what you can find out about him."