Дуглас Кеннеди - Five Days

‘I have never made love like that before,’ I whispered to him as we clung to each other after that first wondrous time.

‘Nor have I,’ he whispered back.

I read the note a second time. This time I tried to negotiate with it, attempting to unearth some sort of affirmative subtext in its language:

I love you more than anything. But I can’t do this. I have to go home.

The fact that he declared his love for me so absolutely. The fact that this was the first thing he wrote. Surely that was the complete and utter truth; the veritable heart of the matter. All right, something had happened. Maybe he had to call his wife and she played some guilt card, which panicked him into thinking he had to go home. That’s why he wrote: ‘But I can’t do this.’ Because she knew she was about to lose him, and had to reel him in. I wouldn’t be surprised if she used their poor tragic son as a ploy. And my Richard — who’s always been susceptible to familial pressure — felt stricken by this and decided he should simply get home and face the problem. But once he was back with the woman he described as arctic, removed, physically rejecting of him. surely he’d run for his car and find me. All would be restored between us. We’d be us again

I read the note a third time. And started to cry. Because I was replaying the absurd interpretation of his words that had just raced through my head. I realized that I was sounding like one of the many patients I have seen who — knowing that their cancer is probably Stage Four — still try to assure themselves they’re going to beat the terminal diagnosis that is sure to follow.

How can you sugarcoat the unbearable? It’s impossible. Read the note again. It couldn’t be more direct or to the point. Whatever about his declaration of love, the fact is that something has made him run off back home. And he is telling you: This is truly over.

Yet, just three hours ago, in that restaurant on Newbury Street, everything had been so loving, so forward looking, so happy. We’d even agreed how we’d tell our respective spouses, how we’d move to Boston, how we’d spend six weeks in Paris, how we’d go to concerts and interesting plays and.

I started to cry again. The initial shock of it all had kept me muffled, constrained. Perhaps that was my way of not allowing the actual terrible reality of all this to be given credence. But all such efforts at restraint proved futile. The sobs were now something akin to keening. Me the original tight-lipped stoic — who, in recent time, was unnerved by even the slightest choked whimper emerging from my once ruthlessly rational self — was now weeping uncontrollably. I made no effort to bring it under control. Life is littered with disappointments. Life is strewn with setbacks. We all learn how to weather the small defeats, the nagging reversals of fortune, those interregnums where quiet desperation seems to be the ongoing order of the day. But even in these difficult passages, the majority of us still travel hopefully. Because hope is the one true commodity we all desire. But when hope is destroyed in such a way that it is not simply dashed, but actually murdered.

Outside of the death of a child, is there any death more terrible than the death of hope?

I sat on the edge of the bed, crying for a very long time. A moment came when I was so spent I felt like crawling under the covers and shutting out the world and telling myself that when I woke with the dawn this entire nightmarish tribulation would be behind me, and I would stir into consciousness to find Richard beside me and all would be right again with our life, with us.

Us.

I stood up, pacing the room, thinking, thinking. Telling myself that all I had to do was talk with him — a good long loving talk, in which I would reassure him that he could do this, that what we had was magical. As he said to me just a few hours ago: ‘How often does this — us — happen in a lifetime?’

He meant that. I know he meant that. Just as I know he adores me. Love at its most authentic, its most veritable, its most unquestionable.

Richard told me he loved me. That was no projection. That was the truth.

My hands shaking, I dug into my bag and found my phone. The quasi-rational side of my brain proclaimed:

Don’t you dare call him. He told you it’s over. Why look for further desperate grief when you know there’s no hope here.

But another, seemingly logical, part of my psyche insisted that I make the call.

I hit Richard’s number, and sat down again on the bed, my free hand reaching for one of the metal slats in the headboard: a way of steadying me, of keeping me somehow grounded.

The phone rang and rang and rang. Oh God, he’s turned it off. To ensure there’s no contact, no conversation, no chance of any reconsideration of his decision to flee. Please, please, please, give me a chance to—

Click. He came on the line.

‘My love. ’ I said.

I could hear traffic noises in the background. And little else.

‘My love, my love? Richard? You there?’

Finally:

‘Yeah, I’m here.’

The voice was flat, denuded. There was a slight echo when he spoke. Coupled with all the ambient highway sounds it was clear he had me on speaker phone in his car.

‘I love you,’ I said. ‘I so love you and I know how huge this all is, how having to end a marriage — even a hugely unhappy one — is such a vast—’

‘Please, Laura. Stop.’

His tone chilled me. It was so emotionless, so vacant, with such a discernible sadness behind the void.

‘If you just turn back and meet me somewhere, I know we could—’

He cut me off.

‘I can’t.’

‘But you know that what we have is—’

‘I know that. And I still can’t. ’

‘But my love, after everything we said to each other. ’

‘Yes, I remember everything we said.’

‘Was it all one big lie on your part?’

I could hear what I thought was a sob, and one choked back quickly.

‘Hardly,’ he finally said.

‘Then you know that this, us. ’

‘Us,’ he said, his voice so quiet, so toneless.

‘Us. As we said, the most important pronoun. ’

Silence.

‘Richard, please. ’

Silence. I said:

‘Certainty. You talked about certainty.’

‘I know.’

‘Surely then you also know—’

‘That I just can’t. ’

‘But why, why, when you know how this sort of love only happens once, maybe twice?’

‘I know all that. I know everything. But. ’

Silence.

‘Richard?’

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Do you love me?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘Then please, please, turn around and come back here. We can—’

‘We can’t. Because I can’t. That’s all I can say.’

Silence. I could hear another choked sob. Then:

‘Goodbye.’

And the line went dead.

I immediately hit ‘redial’. And got a generic recorded voice:

‘The person on the other line is not answering the phone right now. Please try back at a later time.’

I tried back one minute later, then five minutes later, then every five minutes after that until it was almost six p.m., and sunlight had been supplanted by the darkest night imaginable. During that hour when I relentlessly kept ringing him back — and kept getting that generic message (had he done something to turn off his voicemail, so I couldn’t leave him a plea to reconsider?) — I kept running through our conversation, kept hearing the sob that choked his voice, kept trying to fathom why, when he all but declared his love for me, he had to keep saying: ‘I can’t.’

But the answer to that question was already there. He couldn’t start a new life with me because he just couldn’t.