Room with a View

Her friends' get-togethers weren't nearly as fun. There was stuff to drink and the food was good, but I felt I should be walking around with a napkin tucked under my chin while I ate or drank. I guess what I'm really saying—everything and everyone were so damn civilized. They talked about current events and had large debates about this issue or that, usually stuff I had no interest in.

When someone asked me what I thought about the war in Iraq, I made a stupid statement that made everyone there look at me, and not in a good way.

"I think we should drop a nuke on Iraq and make one hell of a gas light that could even be seen from space." It was a joke. Apparently no one got my humor. My buddies would have laughed, but like I said, I didn't have a connection with hers.

Over the last two years, I don't know which one of us stopped asking the other to attend work, or university functions, but it happened. Looking back we were pulling away from each other, and I don't think either one of us noticed or cared.

When she was driven home a little hammered from one of her get-togethers I should have said something, but didn't. Then there was the time I forgot to tell her about a company dinner and came home very late, and she never even asked where I had been. As I said, looking back there were warning signs everywhere, but no one way paying attention.

The day after I gave Dr. Cohen my list, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't like what I saw. A middle aged, slightly overweight man with thinning hair, and when did I get those wrinkles? I had become sedentary and boring. The only thing Mandy and I discussed now were unimportant trivial items or the kids, never what each of us was thinking, or what was happening outside our four walls. We used to talk about the news, current events, our jobs, but I can't tell you the last time we asked each other about anything other than the kids. At night I would watch television for hours on end while she read. We were in a rut.

I had tried a couple of times to spice up our sex life. That didn't go as I'd expected or planned. I bought her a couple of sexy nighties for Christmas last year. She wore one of them that night, but I never saw her in any of them again.

"Steve, I'm a forty-seven year old woman, not some hot twenty year old babe. I look and feel stupid in those outfits." I think she gave them to our daughter. When I tried a few new things in bed, she sat up wanting to know where in the hell I'd learned them. When I told her I saw them in a video, she asked if I needed porn to make love to her now. I didn't try anything different again.

I remember a night about seven months ago, we had just gotten home from dinner and she wanted to talk. It came right after I had just given her a kiss and told her I loved her.

"What is it you love about me?" she asked. I stood there a little dumbfounded. "You always say you love me, and I don't doubt it for a second, but what is it about me that you love so much? I'm sure as hell not as good looking as I once was, and this forty-seven year old body started sagging years ago. We like the same foods, but I hate hunting and fishing, and camping isn't high on my list either. Even our views on a lot of issues differ. Like I said, I don't see what makes you love me so much?"

This was the first time I'd been asked a question like that since we first started going out. It caught me totally by surprise, setting me back on my heels. It took me a minute or two to think about my answer.

"Because, you're you. I disagree with you, I think you're beautiful and still have a hot body. It's not the body of a twenty-five year old, but I don't think my forty-eight year old body could keep up with a twenty-five year old, anyway. True, we don't see eye to eye on every issue, but we do on the ones that really matter. We raised two wonderful children, and I'm looking forward to being a grandfather one of these days. I think, though, the biggest reason is it's just so easy being with you. I can be me without worrying about being judged for what I am, or am not. When I look at you I see the woman I married all those years ago, and still feel lucky that you said yes. I want to grab you, kiss you, and make love to that forty-seven year old body because you still turn me on." I could see that she was somewhat surprised. "So, if this discussion is over, I think it's high time I show my wife just how much I do love her."

With that, I took her by the hand, led her to our bedroom and did everything in my power to show her what she truly meant to me. I'm not sure, but I think we reached new heights—I sure as hell did. We fell asleep together, before finally separating sometime during the night. I hoped I dispelled any fears she might have had that night, but I guess I was wrong. I don't think she was intentionally pulling away from me, but I did notice it even more now that I thought about it.

Waiting for my session with Dr. Cohen I regressed back to that fateful night for the umpteenth time. I don't know how many times I replayed Mandy's confession in my mind. Some days it seemed to consume my every waking moment. I thought about my initial shock and anger, thinking I shouldn't be too surprised over their intensity, considering I'd been blindsided. Maybe she was tired of our humdrum life style and wanted a change. More than a few things she said that night cut me to the core. I probably could have handled it better, but at the time I felt hurt, betrayed, and most of all angry—I still am.

I hoped Dr. Cohen got what he wanted out of it. I know I did. Writing it all down sure as hell opened my eyes, and believe it or not once I wrote it, it made me feel a little better. What do the professionals call it—a cathartic experience?

We talked about my family, especially my father, and my other relationships growing up and in my teens. I waited for almost forty minutes before finally saying something.

"Doc, how about what I wrote? My list, what did you think?"

"Steve, what do you think about it?" Another damn question being answered with a question.

"You had me write it all down: my issues, my feelings, the whole ball of wax. Don't you have anything to say about it?" He looked at me for a couple of moments.

"It was done to give you insight into yourself. We can't solve anything until you understand what your real issues and problems are, and I think you now are starting to do that. I want you to keep a journal of your life. Put down your emotions, thoughts, anything else that affects your life. We can review them, or not, it's your choice. I'll see you again in two weeks." That how that session ended. I was dazed and confused. I took his advice.

The next two weeks were a blur. I worked, I ate once in a while, but mostly what I did was pound on that frigging keyboard. I poured my guts out on that stupid screen. My wife and kids were still on me to talk to them, but I was on a mission. My understanding is that Mandy was now seeing Dr. Cohen too, and according to Dawn never in a million years thought it would have gone this far. How stupid does she think I am?

Finally, we got to it. Finally, we talked about my list of issues and my journal. He asked me what I had learned.

"A lot," was my quick reply. "I realized that there had been cracks in our relationship for years only I never saw it. Looking back on our life I was happy, but can see now she couldn't have been. I guess it was just a matter of time before she started to spread her wings."

"The issue now is, what do you want to do? Do you want to reconcile with your wife, or go in a different direction?"

"Doc, if she isn't happy with me now, what's going to change six months down the road?"

"Couples counseling can be very effective in cases like yours, especially since it hadn't reached the sexual level. Also, considering the number of years the two of you have been together, it may be just what is needed at this point."

"Even with that being the case, there are issues and things that happened I still haven't been able to get over."

"Steve, healing takes time. You can't expect to wake up one day and find every one of your problems have been solved. However, with both of you working at it, I'm pretty confident you can resolve your differences." I wasn't so sure. "Steve, write Mandy a letter explaining all your concerns and issues, tell her why you're not together. Maybe in that way you both can see where the real problems lie. It just might give the two of you a starting point in which to begin the healing process."

Over the next couple of weeks I tried to take his advice. I wrote the letter to Mandy and kept adding and changing it. I never sent it to her, but in retrospect probably should have.

Once a week I got an e-mail from Mandy asking if and when we could talk.

"Hopefully soon," is the only reply she got from me. Our lives went on.

Work was almost back to normal. The people there had stopped asking about Mandy. I went stag to the company summer picnic, staying long enough to get something to eat and make the social rounds before leaving.

Mandy e-mailed and asked me if I wanted to go with her to a social function at the college president's house.

My quick response to her was, "What do you think?" To myself I thought, "What was she thinking?"

At our next session I handed it to him.

"It took me almost five weeks and cost me a hundred dollars to get it professionally edited but I think it was worth it."

"Steve, what is this?"

"It's why Mandy and I are not together." He looked down at the papers I had given to him. "I'm also working on two other things that have been bouncing around in my head." He looked a little surprised.

"I never expected... I guess you took to heart what I said." He smiled and for the first time in a while, I did also. It was all down in black and white. In print no less!

You see, a good friend, Carla, had gotten me in contact with a professional editor after I sucked it up and let her read what I'd written. I had to have someone read it because I was busting at the seams and needed some type of feedback.

"You wrote this?" Carla asked, after finishing it.

"Every last word."

"Bullshit, Steve, I've know you most of my life and there's no way you could have done this, at least not by yourself." I proved her wrong. She took it two steps further. She had it edited, then sent it to a magazine.

When I got the letter three weeks later, I knew that none of my friends would ever see it unless they were bored to tears sitting in a doctor's or dentist's office. I sure as hell weren't going to bring it to their attention. I was more than a little proud of myself considering what it contained and the number of hours I had spent on it. I wanted to submit it under another name or just 'anonymous', but was told that wasn't allowed, so I used my first initial and last name.

The first call I received was from a teacher friend who I hadn't seen in a couple of years. It was one of Mandy's former co-workers.

"Steve, this is Becky, Becky Sanders. I know it's been a while, but I'm holding a magazine in my hand and I want to verify something, if you don't mind?"

"No problem, but I already know what you're going to ask, and the answer is yes."

"I told my husband it was you. I guess congratulations are in order." I listened for a minute or two before telling her I had to leave and thanked her for the call. I took my phone off the hook.

What I had given Dr. Cohen was a short story I'd written about my life, starting with the night of Mandy's confession. I must have rewritten it fifty times, and by the time I'd read and reread it a thousand times I could repeat it word for word. I thought it was perfect, it had to be, but the editor still made a dozen or so changes before he were satisfied.

Thursday night just before eight o'clock I turned my cell phone back on and saw I had fifteen messages, four of them were from Mandy. Maybe tomorrow I'll answer them. I'd like to say I slept peacefully that night, but I didn't. My mind wouldn't shut down. Every time I closed my eyes I thought about something else, or in most cases Mandy. I finally got up, watched a little television, then climbed back into bed. It worked this time, except it was now two forty-five in the morning.

All I wanted to do was to get through Friday afternoon without any crisis. I planned on spending a quiet evening home alone, with my grill, a sixteen-ounce porterhouse steak, and a bottle of wine. I almost made it.

"Not bad, not bad at all," was all Barry said on his way out. "Has Mandy read it yet?" I tried to play dumb. "Steve, I'm not an idiot, besides my wife gets every magazine known to man."

"Considering the multitudinous amount of messages I've received from her, I have to say yes."

"I'd love to be a fly on the wall when the two of you finally talk. You make any decisions yet?" I shook my head, no. "Well, keep me posted, and get the hell out of here before anyone else finds out." He didn't have to ask me twice. I picked up a bottle of wine on my way home.

It wasn't the New Yorker, rather a well-known local literary magazine. They didn't pay me a million dollars to print it. Just them telling me it was good enough to publish made it all worthwhile. My soul, my life, and my very being, were laid out on those pages. People would read it for its literary value, but a select few, those who actually knew me, would see it for what it really was, my blueprint towards reconciliation between Mandy and me. I felt a little twinge of guilt, airing our dirty laundry out there for the world to see, but everyone who knew us already knew there was a problem, if not exactly what it was—now they did.

I unplugged my house phone because I didn't want to be disturbed that night. I had my copy of the magazine opened on the table next my plate. I constantly glanced down at it while I ate dinner. I could probably have made it a bit shorter if I had wanted. Most of the story was just background and supporting details. Hell, there were only a few paragraphs that told the story of the events of that awful night. Here is what I could have written in one short essay—or should I say exposé.

******** I had heard it all that night. The half-truths and what she hadn't bothered to share with me all those months. There were no real reasons given, just excuses for what and why it happened. There were regrets, maybe even a few tears thrown in for effect, before she eventually told me it really wasn't as bad as it appeared, well, from her perspective anyway.

It wasn't a young jock that had swept her off her forty-seven year old feet. More so a middle aged, married man, with too much spare time on his hands, and an itch to do something about it. They just talked. She said he was intelligent and genuinely interested in what she was teaching. They talked, they laughed, they developed an emotional bond, thus giving him something that was by rights mine.

All her friends and colleagues were highly educated, and without sounding crass, also condescending snobs to all those without a Ph.D. behind their name. I had tried for years to fit in, if only for the sake of my wife. Having them continually talk down to me, only made me despise their arrogance that much more. When she had made mention that her new friend was highly intelligent and interesting, I felt the knife slip silently in between my fifth and sixth rib. A piece of me died that night. She had become like them, her dear friends, her fellow Ph.D.'s.

For months I waited. The word 'love' was still thrown out there along with the phrase, 'I really miss you,' but never once did I hear what I was looking for. Phone calls were replaced with text messages. Lastly e-mails became our only form of contact. We had become uncoupled, disconnected from one another. Through her actions, I became disengaged from my own marriage.

My marital needs had been simple, I just wanted her. My wife's needs, on the other hand, had become categorized, sorted, and prioritized. Did they ever include the real me?

We weren't clones of one another. We were never joined at the hip, but I believed what we did have was special. We connected on all levels, or so I thought. Silly me, maybe I was wrong and never saw it. Still, I waited. It never came. A highly educated woman, teaching communication skills, and she had overlooked it. How, I'm not sure, but she had.

So, I put it to paper. Maybe, just maybe she would see it and finally realize what she had missed all these months.

Is it too late for us? I'm not sure. It will be harder than it would have been, say eight months ago, but the pilot light is still glowing, though growing dimmer by the day. And if and when it finally goes out, I will regret it, even if she doesn't.

You see, I'm not the unemotional type of person who can make the statement, 'we had a good run while it lasted' and go on my merry way. I will grieve and bury what we once had. Then I will get up in the morning, take a deep breath, put one foot in front of the other, and go on if for no other reason to prove to myself that I'm still alive. It doesn't have to end this way, though it probably will.

I must not have meant that much to her, because in the end, like the title of this little story... She Never Said She Was Sorry.

'****************

I felt my stomach tighten. Every time I read it I felt the same way, lost and empty. I still wanted Mandy with me, but on my terms now. I didn't use our real names in my story, in fact I didn't use any names, but those who intimately knew us wouldn't need names. As I said, my friends would never read it, not that they weren't educated, only that no one I knew subscribed to any literary magazines. Mandy's on the other hand, probably either subscribed to it, or would regularly read a college copy.

Saturday I slept in late, until almost ten thirty, which for me was practically a new record. After a leisurely breakfast on the patio I called my two kids. They both lambasted into me for not returning their calls and wanted a full update. They didn't like what I had to say.

"Dad, you and Mom belong together. I can't imagine the two of you not together." Dawn badgered me until I promised her I would call Mandy this week. Ronnie continued to insist I was being pig-headed, agreeing with his sister that his mom and I belonged together. In my heart I agreed with both of them. I told them I would try do better in the future returning their calls, but what did or didn't happen between their mother and me, was up to the two of us only. On one hand they understood where I was coming from. On the other they let me know, in no uncertain terms, that any decisions made still affected them—they were right on the mark with that. It was apparent they hadn't seen the article.

I puttered around the house, watched a Netflix movie, and about seven o'clock went to Tony's for dinner. I was bored. I was used to having a partner, my bride, with me. Even if we didn't talk, she was still there and I missed that. In bed at night I would watch her silently read, I could touch her, watch her lips turn up when she told me it was too late, and to go to sleep, before returning to her book. A peck on the lips would signify the end of our evening, wherein I would drift off to sleep still facing her. Sometimes I would wake up, look over at my clock and ask her why she was still up.

"I just have a few pages left," was her normal reply. I would fall back to sleep. I missed that and so much more.

Sunday I took my mom to brunch. She was talkative and wanted to know absolutely everything. She told me I'd lost weight, and that I should stop over more often. She never mentioned Mandy by name, but kept referring to my situation, which she hoped would soon be resolved. Knowing my mother, it must have been killing her on the inside. I took her home and asked if there was anything around the house that needed attention, she said no. We talked, or should I say, she talked for another hour and then with a kiss I was gone. Now what? I spent the rest of Sunday on the computer adding to and correcting another story I'd started, which I thought was pretty good.