Nancy Thompson - Out With The Old, In With The New

The memory seems ancient, as though it happened years ago, but it still shakes me to the core. I move up three car lengths, edging closer, but not too close, to the Volvo station wagon in front of me, then pull the lapels of my navy-blue peacoat closed at my neck and wait in stone-cold silence for the pickup line to inch its way around to Caitlin. The radio’s off because every time I turned it on they were playing songs like “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,” and “How am I Supposed to Live Without You.” When was the last time I heard those ditties?

I glance in the rearview mirror. The line of cars stretches back to infinity.

I’m gridlocked.

Even if I wanted to get out of this line, I couldn’t. If I were in a better mood I might make a wry comparison about how gridlock reminds me of marriage.

I can’t leave him. I mean, my God, we’ve been married for twenty years.

Half my life.

Whoa. I will not waste my energy by contemplating divorce. Corbin’s not having an affair. Period.

Last night he caved in over the note, as if someone punched him in the stomach. He held his head in his hands and said, “What the hell…? This is bullshit. Kate? You don’t think—?”

“I don’t know what to think, Corbin.”

I stood there with my hands on my hips acting like such a bitch—for about thirty seconds. Then all I wanted to do was beg him, Tell me it isn’t true, Corbin. Make me believe this isn’t true.

But I couldn’t say it because I knew I should either believe in him…or leave him. Asking him to tell me it isn’t true is like admitting I don’t trust him.

Feeling the sinkhole rumble underneath me, I sit in the midst of pickup line gridlock, stuck in my own personal gridlock because I can’t write off the letter as a hoax. I won’t let myself slide down into the what-ifs of extramarital affair investigation.

You know—A plus B plus C equals Corbin’s opportunity to cheat. Oh, and remember that time that he should have been home at six, but didn’t get in until eleven-thirty—

La! La! La! La! La! La! La! I can’t hear me! Don’t want to hear me because my husband is not having an affair.

That’s better. I lean my head against the cool window. Try on the words for size: I believe him.

I want to believe in the way he reached out last night, took my arm and pulled me down next to him on the bed.

“Kate, look at me.”

He tried to lace his fingers through mine, but I jerked away and traced the burnished gold-on-gold woven into the raw silk of our duvet cover. Until he pounded the bed. “Goddamn it, Kate. Come on. This is fucking bullshit.”

I pounded the bed, too. “Don’t yell at me, Corbin! This is not my fault.”

Tell me it isn’t true. Make me believe this isn’t true.

He held up a hand. Squeezed his eyes shut. Drew in a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I’m sorry, let’s just start over. From the beginning. Where’s the envelope?”

The plain white rectangle lay kitty-corner, half on the hardwood floor, half on the Persian rug next to the bed. The white stood out like a surrender flag against a blood-orange sunset.

Corbin picked up the envelope. Flipped it from one side to the other. Snorted. “Nothing.”

A quick flick of his wrist, sent the envelope skimming across the polished wood until it dead-ended into the baseboard.

Then we sat side-by-side in silence. Him—crumpling the letter as if the words would disappear into the black hole of his fist. Me—needing him to say, “I love you. I haven’t been unfaithful.”

He never said it. When I finally summoned the strength to ask, big, fat, hot tears—bottled up all day—slipped from my eyes, slid down my face and washed away the words.

He held me until I stopped crying, until I murmured, “Who would do this to us?”

“I don’t know, Kate, but I’ll sure as hell get to the bottom of it.”

The Ford Excursion behind me beep-beep-beeps, and I realize the line has moved ahead at least five car lengths. I’m still sitting in the same spot. I give a little wave and pull up. I have to get a hold of myself.

To keep my mind from falling backward into the sinkhole of doubt and fear, I focus on my breathing, the way they teach us in yoga class.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Believe him. Or leave him. Believe him. Or leave him.

No! Stay present.

I drum my nails on the steering wheel. Outside my window the sun is shining through barren trees; the Volvo is still in front of me, the Ford Excursion still behind. Bundled-up children cling to their parents’ hands as they dash between cars toward the sidewalk ready for a brisk walk home; the faint warble of the three-fifteen school bell sounds, dismissing the bus riders—car riders leave at first bell.

The bell sounds remarkably similar to “Ode to Joy.” Oh. No, wait—that’s my cell phone. Caitlin probably changed the ring again. It’s one of her favorite pranks.

I grab my purse from the passenger seat. Fumble for the phone. Press Talk just before it switches to voice mail.

“Hello?”

“Are your bags packed?”

It’s Alex.

“Noooooo—”

“Well get ready, I’ve booked us a room at The Breakers for the weekend of February seventh.”

“That’s only two weeks from now.”

“Right. One of the weekends we all agreed on.”

Breath in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Kate? Are you there?”

“Yes. I—I just thought you’d choose one of the other options we agreed on.”

“The Breakers is offering a fabulous spa package that weekend—you know, so close to Valentine’s Day. We’d be crazy not to take advantage of it.”

A knot the size of Texas moves into my stomach.

“You’re still going, right?” she asks.

If I believe in my husband—if I trust him—I should have no reservations whatsoever. Just as I never had any doubt about going away with Rainey and Alex the nine previous years we’ve carried on this tradition.

“Of course I’m going. I have to let Corbin know.” I hear myself saying the words, but they sound foreign. My heart’s instinct is to protest, but I won’t let it.

“This is going to be so much fun,” says Alex.

More awkward silence crackles over the phone waves. I sense Alex searching for the words to ask what my problem is. But there is no problem. No siree. Not with my marriage. So I say, “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good. Me, too. I’m going to call Rainey now.”

I hang up. Slide up two more spaces in the queue. Perform another rapid-fire cadence of steering wheel nail drumming, but it threatens to set my nerves on edge. So I turn on the radio to drown out the silence and pull from my purse the paint chips I selected today for the living room.

Five shades of beige for Corbin. One perfect blood-red sample called Scarlett O’Hara for me. He’ll never go for it, but I like it. I fan them out as if I’m ready for a hand of six-card draw, study the subtle differences of the beiges, and absently sing along with the radio until it registers that Toni Braxton is wailing about the sadness of the word goodbye and having no joy in her life after her man walked out the door.

“Unbreak My Heart.”

Ugggggggh. I used to love that song.

I swat at the radio as if it’s a hornet about to sting me. The paint chips fly, but the scan button lands on a classic rock station playing a gritty guitar riff. A song I don’t recognize.

Perfect.

I ease the car forward. Now, I can see the children waiting on the covered walkway. I bend down and retrieve the color chips.

Beige.

Beige.

Beige.

Scarlett O’Hara. Nope. He’ll never go for it, despite how he always says, “You’re the designer. Work your magic.”