Swim, Butterfly Ch. 22

Half-Cup of Cold Coffee

The STD panel I took at a lab far from home comes back negative, thank God. Paid cash for it, no credit card and certainly didn't use our insurance. What a way to wrap up a relationship. A relationship? An affair. I shake my head as I re-read the panel. Girl, work on your definitions.

I try to smile more than usual at home, even though it hurts. A cardboard cutout with a grimace pasted on. I never imagined life with someone like Jim, but now life without him seems gray and flat. Will I feel this way for the rest of my life? Come to think of it, a lot of my life before started to feel this way. To blame? Me.

Pete mentions the two of us making a trip to New York together, since I seem to like it so much. Hey, at least he's trying, but if he only knew.

"Sure, okay, sounds great," I tell him, and give him a pat on the shoulder as I leave the kitchen. How about Cleveland or Tarkio, instead?

But not New York. The odd state of Jimmy's apartment. His wacky marriage plan. My eardrums hurt thinking about it. My heart drops whenever the phone rings or chirps and it's not from Jimmy, followed by a wave of relief, making me want to sink to the floor and stay there, so the hard, cold tile can suck all the heartache and concern out of me.

As if I couldn't worry more, one day while rinsing bacon fat out of the frying pan, I burn my hand under the hot water faucet. Running cold water to cool the burn, it hits me--duh, he knows my address and what the kids look like,fool. Would he ever come around here? Unlikely, yet I should stay in touch to keep tabs on his whereabouts and mental health. If I can help him, great, as long as I can protect my family, too. And if my secret blows up, oh well, I'll have to deal with it. I put myself in this position.

Many afternoons, after clearing lunch and before hanging out the clothes, I sit at the kitchen table, thinking about the past year and things he's said or done. I thought he was just endearing in his quirky ways, but now I wonder if there's more to it. All this thinking has left me glum and quiet for the past few weeks, despite my paste-on smiles. Pete hasn't seemed to notice, but what do I know?

One day Pete surprises me by taking a day off from work. He isn't sick, and no one died. After the kids leave for school, he sits down across from me at the table,

"Caroline, what's going on?"

I jerk my head, "What do you mean, what's going on? Everything's fine," I rotate my half-cup of cold coffee.

Pete watches me for a moment, "You've always had your head in the clouds, but what tells me something isn't right is that you haven't complained about anything for weeks. Nothing. Used to be there wasn't a day I didn't come home and you weren't bitching about the dishes or yelling at the kids, or telling me we need to do this, we need to do that. It's like you're here in body but not in spirit. I dunno, it's like you up and flew away."

I pick up the cup, but numbness spreads through my fingers and I'm afraid I'll drop it. Noiselessly, I set the cup down, then force my stiffening fingers to wiggle so they don't freeze and shatter. I look up. Pete still stares at me. "So, what is it? What's up?"

Breath... breath.... "I have a friend who... who I think is in trouble."

"Who? Shayna again? I thought she was going to AA?"

I smile a little, shaking my head, "No--not Shayna. I haven't talked to her in years. Don't worry, you don't know him."

Pete leans forward, placing his thick hands palm-down on the table, "Him? Him who?"

"Just a friend," I shrug, "you don't know him. I don't think he's right in the head." A slab of granite weighs down, pushing me under the ocean, water filling my ears, my wiggling fingers trying to swim.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but that's really his family's problem. They'll take care of him. That's what families are..." Pete oh-so professionally pronounces, the rest of his speech garbled to my ears. A tightness rises inside me, from my stomach up to my head.

My wide, stinging eyes look up into Pete's, my head slowly, barely shakingno. He has nothing to say that I want to hear, and I'm sure he doesn't want to hear what I have to say. He slumps back in his chair, opens his mouth, then closes it.

I look back down at my hands, now in my lap, turning them slowly over and back, over and over, warming up. A crashing wave passes through me, leaving behind relief and peace. I imagined the Day of Confession exploding with screams and flying objects, perhaps even death. But not now. Whatever drove me to cheat deserved identification and addressing much earlier, but I didn't realize how much I hurt and how lonely I felt, like a ghost in a living body, drifting in and out of lives, drifting in the wrong direction.

"Who is he?" Pete asks, his voice high and pinched, piercing my moment of peace.

"Someone I met in New York." I whisper.

"Huh. How long?" His fingers thrum on the table.

"A year."

Pete takes a deep breath. "A year?"

He slams his hands on the table and lurches up so fast his chair flies back and hits the floor with a crack. "Fucking New York!" He grabs his truck keys from the counter, but they slip through his fingers and hit the floor. He kicks the chair out of the way, grabs his keys again, and leaves, slamming the door.

I sit, frozen. Can't move, but to do what, anyway? Primp the bedsheets and leave an apology note on the pillow? The kids won't be home for another couple of hours. I don't know if Pete will be home at all.

***

Part I of Infidelity: The Secret, successfully blown apart by Part II: The Reveal. Can't wait for Part III. What should I even call it? The Fallout?

Pete's truck left tracks on the driveway when he left, and I can't help but stare at them. If I were a better woman, I would have pinpointed the boredom and unhappiness long before it imbedded in my heart. Too trivial? Perhaps that's what I thought, but now I know you should never discount the value of your happiness, and don't learn that lesson too late. I hurt Pete, and this'll hurt the kids, too, but in the long run, they'll survive. Will I? I think so, and I want to help Jimmy. Pete had a point that Jim's family will help him, but maybe they won't. I wonder if Jimmy's even told them about his marriage plan, and I have to consider everything he's ever told me with a grain of salt. I've never met his family and sometimes your own family takes worse care of you, if they take care of you at all, than anyone else.

Half of my family, June and Rudy, come home in one hour. Dishes and laundry still need doing. Dinner prep. Homework. As much as I hate chores, there's comfort in their ease and predictability. Life could have remained that way, full of ease and predictability. And brain-dead. And soul-killing.

My backside aches from sitting in the wooden chair for an hour and just before my foot falls asleep, I shake my head and stretch my back and I must get up. I clear the sticky, repulsive webbing I picture holding my backside to the chair, stand up, and dig my phone out of my pocketbook, sending Jimmy a text, I told Pete. Even if Jim replies immediately, I don't think I want to know his response just yet. Is he home? Is he sane? Is he in La-La Land?

Like a shot, my phone rings, and a lump knots in my throat. I wait, then look at the phone. Shit, it's my mother. Did Pete talk to her already? I never thought about the repercussions when word of my stepping out got around. Jesus, I hear my in-laws now, laughing at Pete for choosing such a whorish loser, Maureen's milky eyes fixed on me.

Just answer... everything is normal. Mom can't know yet. Pete hardly ever talks to her. I grip the back of the chair and answer the phone, "Hey, Mom, what's up?"

"Oh, just haven't heard from you in a while. I wanted to see how you were doing." She sounds cautiously chipper.

"Oh, I'm all right," my stomach tightens, "the usual, keeping busy with the kids and all."

"How was your latest trip to New York?"Stab.

"Oh, it was good, pretty unevent... uh, how did you know I went to New York again?"

"Pete told me. He called and talked to me a few weeks ago." Mom answers.

"Pete calledyou?" Ever tightening.

"Yes, he, uh, I think he's concerned about you."

"Oh, I'm okay. Winter blues, that's all. Just needed to get out of town for the day." Get off the phone. A flush from my neck combusts full force to my forehead.

"Hmm, yes, you seem to like it up there."

Was it the brevity of my answer? The higher pitch of my voice? She drops the topic of New York and chatters on with a few tidbits from home; Dad's sore knee, squirrel antics on the porch, the latest old folk to die in the neighborhood. A tang in my mouth and a sting in my eyes sharpen as she rambles on. Is it the calm, peaceful life she has, or so many years of dull living that's got me nearly crying again?

Pacing the kitchen, I let Mom tell me a few more tales before I interrupt, "Mom, sorry, but I have to finish something before the kids get home," my voice cracks.

"Oh, okay, tell Peterhi for me. We'll talk again soon."

"Okay, bye."

I sprint to the bathroom and puke.

***

I barely make it. The cold, smooth white porcelain bowl cools my hands as I hug it for dear life. It's not so pure on the inside at the moment, but with an easy flush, all the ugliness goes away.

If only it were that easy, idiot.

Huffing and puffing through the post-puke tremors, I must get up. The oh-no-I'm-late trot to the bus stop will do, and just hover nearby. I don't need the other moms to catch that whiff of puke on my breath, or note how pale I must look. I'll employ the same approach I used on days I was really hung-over, or guilty of day-drinking.

While washing up and gargling with water, the fucking phone rings again. No, I don't have time! I should ignore it, but I can't. I answer it without looking at who's calling, "What?"

"Caroline? I just read your text. What the fuck happened?" Jimmy asks.

Propped against the sink, I answer, "I told you in the text."

"I know you told him, but how did it happen? You get drunk and lose it?"

Wow, deep breath, Caroline, "No, I was not drunk! He kept asking me what was wrong, kept asking, and...," I choke up, laughing and crying, "this time it was the lack of complaining that had him worried!" I laugh until my stomach hurts, snot flies, and I'm really late for the bus stop.

"Go on."

"So," I continue, "I told him I was worried about a friend, and that... and that I was worried that he wasn't right in the head, and then Pete said, and then, well...it just came out."

Huh, wait a minute--I didn't actually tell Pete that I cheated, only inferred.

I hear Jimmy exhale long and loud, "Wow! Wow. And you left me! You just left the other day without saying a word. I just figured you were scared or something, so, I mean, why do you think something's wrong withme? I know I took off for a few months, but I told you why."

"Yeah, I know, but your apartment was a mess, and you have this crazy marriage story..."

"So do you! You tell me all the time that you're a lousy housekeeper and you bitch about your marriage..."

"... and... okay. You know what, Jimmy? I really do have to get to the bus stop. I'll talk to you later." Hang up and push hard to the next task. Just keep going.

I shove the phone hard into my pocket. I know I'm late to the bus stop and probably have a broken phone. Wish the phone did break, disconnecting me from my life, which now really is broken, for which I want to blame the phone, but of course I can't blame a phone for a situation that was in my hands the whole time.

I step outside, the fresh air and sunlight reminding me that I'm still alive and breathing. Even though I've done something terrible and unnecessary, I am still here and it's comforting. The world will still go 'round; the sun will rise and set. My infidelity doesn't affect the world at large, and I can use that in my defense, right? And I wonder if maybe what I didwas necessary. I just have to make everything work again.

The school bus stops when I'm about two hundred feet away. Good! I'm close enough to look responsible, far enough to dodge inspection. June and Rudy hop down the stairs, running to me with bags and backpacks and coats slapping haphazardly against their little bodies. They break out in smiles when they see me, making me want to cry all over again, but I crack a smile instead. I'm still Mom, their mom. Always. They don't care what I do in my free time, as long as I'm around to make them dinner and tuck them into bed at night, absorbing their anxieties and hearing out their hopes at the end of the day.

June picks dandelions and horsemint along the walk home and Rudy regales me with school stories of spilled milk and clogged toilets. I smile despite the lingering soreness from puking, grateful for the distraction of their chatter.

"Mommy?" June turns her petite face up to mine, offering me a tiny weed bouquet, "When are we going to see that man Drew again?" Fuck! Really, June? I'd like to see him right now, but who knows? I may not even live beyond today.

I sniff the random nosegay. "I don't know, dear." Leave it at that.